when, occasionally, it condescends to enter into minute and personal narrative. And it is this very thing which renders works of imagination, the party tales, and particularly the historical romance, so delightful to the young, to the gay, and to the studious; and acceptable even to the philosopher and the divine. They supply, in a natural manner, the thing we long after. The minute detail, the family scenes, the mental labours, the gradual formation of character, the shadings, the frailties of those whose deeds and actings on the grand arena of human life, we contemplate on the sober and chastened pages of history. History exhibits them in the dimness and obscurity of distance. In the minute and personal narrative, we are brought near to the actors; we are introduced to them, and hold communion with their souls and feelings.

And he who has studied the human heart; and the various forms of character brought out on the arena of life, may give a delineation of the character of the patriotmartyr, his sorrows, and enjoyments, and motives, in a manner, we doubt not, quite as faithfully according to the truth, as are most of the historian's details of the events, and personages, of what he is pleased to call the history of real life.

There is a period in the Scottish History to which my mind turns always with an irrepressible and holy enthusiasm;-a period when more of the Scottish character was brought out and set in bold relief, than in any other period before it or since.

The bright days of happiness and peace, the singular prosperity of the nation, and unparalleled progress of the sciences, have changed the face of Scotland, since her union with England. Every body now, is content with

the sacrifice of the nation's Independence. The sacrifice, merely of feeling or national pride, which made the high-minded Scottish patriot sigh for a season, has been amply rewarded by its Union with England. But those bright days were immediately preceded by a wintry storm, which has not its equal in the records of Scotland, or perhaps any other nation's story. During that winter of her year, the boldest, and the best, and the worst of her characters were exhibited in their full-length portraits. The enthusiasm of the WHIG came into fierce collision with the enthusiasm of the TORY.

In the present enlightened and liberal-minded age, when charity throws, playfully, around each rival, a chivalrous generosity; the more liberal Tory renders justice to the fierce rival of his forefathers. And even the Whig lets down the stern features of olden times, and is softened down into a smile of forbearance and even gratulation. And, side by side, they look back over the KILLING TIMES with a rare combination of pity, goodwill, and forgiveness! But no patriot, no politician, will permit the remembrance of these times to pass away from his heart.-Nor can they: that dignity in the hour of sufferings; that purity of sentiment, and of Christian doctrine; that enthusiastic love of liberty, and of truth; that spirit of fearless investigation, and manly resistance, which raised its voice and its hand, in the palaces of the great, and the thatched cottages of the peasantry of Scotland, against the gigantic efforts of a civil and religious fanaticism, which aimed at no less than the dragooning of a nation into the belief of the divine right of kings, and the divine right of prelates, to rule in absolute supremacy over men's souls and estates;-that effectual and glorious overthrow of this tyranny and priest

craft; and that ushering in of the happiest and brightest days of Scotland,—can never be forgotten. And, more

over, it can never be forgotten that these were the fruits of the toils and sufferings of the WHIGS OF SCOTLAND! Thence does the Christian patriot derive a holy and impressive lesson which he ceases not to imprint on the memories of his children, that civil and religious liberty will ultimately triumph over every conspiracy to put it down ;—were it plotted by a Leo of Medici, by a Laud of England, and by a Sharp of Scotland; and were it executed by the sword of a Stuart, the bayonet of a Bourbon, and the scimetar of a Mahomet!

On a bright winter evening in February, A.D. 1678, a solitary student was pacing, with hurried step, the stone pavement of the inner court of the College of Glasgow. He had lingered behind his jocund associates, after the close of the serious business of the day, and the amusements of the evening. He was a tall and manly figure, wrapt in the ample foldings of the scarlet cloak, the badge of the studious youth of that ancient and famous University. His yellow hair fell in a rich profusion of curls on his shoulders; and his slouched hat shaded a face, on whose features the hand of nature had stamped the noble image of greatness, lighted up by manly beauty, and softened, withal, by a gentle and pensive melancholy, which quenched something of its original and natural vivacity, but added greatly to its interest in the eyes of the beholder.

"I keep tryst," said he, starting from his profound reverie, and raising his eyes to the lofty spire, as the deep-toned bell tolled the hour of nine. And with struggling emotions, he glanced over the venerable pile which surrounded him, as if taking his final leave of them. The moon's clear beams illumined the ancient steep roofs, whose grey-coloured slates had resisted the storms of more than eleven score

craft; and that ushering in of the happiest and brightest days of Scotland, can never be forgotten. And, moreover, it can never be forgotten that these were the fruits of the toils and sufferings of the WHIGS OF SCOTLAND! Thence does the Christian patriot derive a holy and impressive lesson which he ceases not to imprint on the memories of his children, that civil and religious liberty will ultimately triumph over every conspiracy to put it down; were it plotted by a Leo of Medici, by a Laud of England, and by a Sharp of Scotland; and were it executed by the sword of a Stuart, the bayonet of a Bourbon, and the scimetar of a Mahomet!