In 1661, Taylor again experienced the hand of providence, weighing heavily on his domestic comforts. On the 10th of March his son Edward was buried at Lisburn.

Taylor's varied and studious life closed in August, 1667. He was attacked by a fever at Lisburn, and concluded his mortal career, ten days afterwards, in the fifty-fifth year of his age, and the seventh of his episcopacy. His remains were removed to Dromore, to which church he had been a liberal benefactor, and his funeral sermon was preached by a friend, who thus speaks of this great man; "he had the good humour of a gentleman, the eloquence of an orator, the fancy of a poet, the acuteness of a schoolman, the profoundness of a philosopher, the piety of a saint, and the reason of an angel."

The prose works of Taylor will always command admiration, although in not a few instances injured, by pedantry and affectation. Doubtless, he in some measure adapted his orations to the prevailing taste of the day; and his long quotations, from Greek and Latin authors, may be accounted for by the fact, that the simplicity and admirable plainness of the learned Pocock, was regarded by the rustics of his parish, as a proof, that, "though a kind and neighbourly man, he was no Latinist."

The poetry of Taylor, although praised by both Heber and Montgomery, cannot command approbation. It has indeed the form of verse, but wants its soul, that of touching appeal to the heart. It would be foolish to compare his poetry with that of Cowley or of Milton, his contemporaries; but even names of far inferior note to his own, are associated with much better verses than he ever composed. Marvel, Vaughan, and K. Phillips, wrote poetry infinitely better than Taylor. His selection of a model, from the spurious Pindaric, which was fashionable when he wrote, was a disadvantage, to which his want of ear for the music of verse, only added greater difficulty, and with many splendid images at command, his use of them is not only unimpressive, but at times absurd. We own that there is abundance of brilliancy in his metrical composition, but it is the brilliancy of ice-his are pearls at random strung, but they fail to produce a pleasing ornament-an ill arranged garland, offensive to the eye. One specimen of these compositions, will satisfy our readers, and with it we take leave of Jeremy Taylor. It is entitled a dialogue between three shepherds:

harmony arose out of the dark and shapeless chaos, time first began to measure its periods, and we are informed by the inspired author of the apocalypse that, when all God's purposes of grace and mercy towards our race shall have received their final accomplishment, a mighty angel, standing on the earth and on the sea, shall lift his hand to heaven, and swear by the Great Creator of all things, that time shall be no longer. To individuals, time begins with their introduction into being, and ends with their departure for another world. Of all the talents with which we have been entrusted by the Father of our spirits, time justly claims to be regarded as the most important. In dispensing his other gifts, the beneficent ruler of the universe is often pleased to confer a longer supply than the exigencies of the present moment demand, thus providing at once for the time that now is, and anticipating, by his gracious communications, our future wants. Time, on the contrary, is dealt out to us with a parsimonious hand. The term of our earthly existence is extended by the addition of the smallest possible fractions of time, to the aggregate amount of the months and years of our life, that have passed away to return no more. For the comfort and encouragement of the friends of religion, in their passage through this changing and deceitful world to the realms of undecaying bliss, numerous promises of temporal support have been scattered throughout the sacred volume. But, respecting the duration of our natural lives, no definite information has been afforded us. The time and manner of our dissolution are, doubtless, written with unerring precision in the book of fate, but o'er the pages of that volume no mortal eye has ever wandered. The present moment, therefore, is all that we can call our own: of the next, we may not boast. When, at stated seasons, the Christian retires from the bustle and business of the world to commune with his God, a portion of the hallowed time is generally spent in reviewing the part of his existence that has passed away, in meditating on the duties and privileges of that part of it which is then present, and in anticipating that portion of it to which he fondly looks forward as yet to come. is not to be wondered at, that constituted as man is, he should thus employ himself; nor would such a course be found unattended with serious advantages, did prudence and discretion direct its indulgence. But, how frequently on these occasions, is time mis-spent, by our occupying our thoughts with incidents in our past history, from which we can draw no useful lesson, or by our endeavouring to penetrate farther than we are permitted, into the dark and unknown regions of futurity. We forget that it is with the present moment we are principally concerned that the value of our recollections of the past, is to be estimated by the amount of instruction they afford, for the wise and faithful improvement of the present, and that in our anticipations of the future, we ought ever to discriminate between what is sure and certain, and therefore confidently to be expected, and what we can regard only as contingent. In performing the journey of life, we find ourselves in circumstances resembling those of the midnight traveller, who, under the frowning darkness of a starless sky, pursues his weary way, by the aid of the lamp he carries in his hand, which, although it irradiates the particular spot on which he stands, penetrates not with its cheering beams the fearful gloom that lies before him. We rarely revert to past scenes, without experiencing some pleasurable sensations; for, though a review of our history must necessarily bring to mind many painful providences, and many unpleasant occurrences, which had for a time disturbed our equanimity, the effect of such recollections is generally neutralized by the vast number of joy-exciting events that pass in succession before us. On these latter the memory loves to linger. In seasons of distress, we seek from them the happiness which the present moment denies us, and when carried along on the stream

It

of prosperity, an additional zest is given to our pleasures, by the fond recollection of past sources of enjoyment.

unwelcome light, and tells a tale of moral turpitude, that might make angels weep. In nothing perhaps do we offend more, than in thinking of ourselves more highly than we ought to think. The most effectual method we can take to moderate our opinions of our own excellencies, is calmly to review our past history. Do we feel inclined to entertain extravagant notions of our intellectual powers, let us think for a little of the various individuals with whom we have had intercourse, and despite of our self-complacency, candour will compel us to acknowledge, that many of them far outshone us. Conscience whispers we have often envied, and envy rises not, till by the surest methods of induction, we have reached the pride-abusing conclusion, that we are inferior. The same remarks apply with equal force, to other points of comparison. It may be, that our attainments in the divine life, possess no striking features to distinguish us from the generality of professing christians, whereas the holiness of some of our contemporaries, has shown with such heavenly lustre, as not only to raise them to an enviable elevation in the eyes of the wise and the good, but to extort, from the sceptical and the profane, expressions of admiration and astonishment. However much we have contributed to the improvement and happiness of those around us, it will cost us little labour to discover individuals whose usefulness in society has far exceeded our own, and whose names will be cherished in grateful remembrance, long after our memory shall have perished from the earth. A review of past life will present to our minds many powerful reasons for distrusting ourselves. We are ever prone to lean to our own understanding, and to despise the counsel and advice of others. Yet how often, in the failure of our best matured plans, have we reaped the bitter fruits of disappointment, and proved our boasted wisdom, foolishness. How often, depending on our own strength, have we girded ourselves for conflict with our spiritual foes, and, as might have been expected, fallen at the onset, an easy prey to their superior power and subtlety. Under the influence of the same mistaken apprehension, as to our real strength, we have often attempted the discharge of arduous duties, and in our after incapacity for their performance, we have as often proved that, without divine assistance, we are indeed "unstable as water, and unable to excel." In some future paper, we may perhaps pursue our enquiries on this subject.

Of the vast variety of pursuits, in which we have been engaged, and feelings of mind of which we have been conscious during the portion of our life that has passed away, there are comparatively few that we can at pleasure call vividly to mind, or which, if we could, would be found to interest us in any high degree. But so far as the purposes of edification are concerned, it is not necessary that we bring under review every past event of which we can form a distinct conception. In ordinary cases, it will be sufficient to confine ourselves to such incidents as have made an unusually deep impression on our mind, or exercised a powerful influence on our opinions or our practices. As no man's external circumstances resemble, in all points, those of his neighbour, and as an equal dissimilarity is observable in the constitution of our minds, it cannot be expected that any two individuals, in narrating to themselves their little history, will make exactly the same practical deductions. It may be useful, however, to survey, for a short space, the common ground on which all men, in reviewing life, are likely to meet. And, in pursuance of this, it may safely be asserted, that deep humility before God is almost invariably the result of such an employment. Whether we have lived for a longer or a shorter period in the world, our consciences must know that, in innumerable instances, we have transgressed that law which is "holy, just and good." Often have we trampled under our feet the prohibitions of our rightful Lord, and lifted up our feeble arm in fruitless opposition to that all-powerful Being by whom we are preserved in life. Can any one lay his hand upon his heart, and affirm that, with the numerous requirements of the author of the Scriptures, he has cheerfully and unhesitatingly complied? Have the moral principles of the Bible been continually acted on by us? Have the positive institutions of religion, in their letter and in their spirit, been regularly and faithfully observed by us? Have we uniformly demeaned ourselves towards our Creator, as became the relations in which we stand to him? Have all the duties that we owe our fellowmen, whether with reference to their temporal or their spiritual interests, been religiously performed? Or are we not, on the contrary, constrained to acknowledge that, in all these matters, we have often and grievously offended. Although exalted unto heaven in the number and value of our spiritual privileges, we have debased ourselves to hell in our perversion and abuse of them. The choicest temporal blessings which heaven has to bestow, have been rejected by us with thankless hearts, whilst the powers of mind with which we have been favoured, have not been dedicated by us to the best and noblest of purposes, the advancement of the honour and glory of creation's lord. Our influence in society we have not exerted as we might have done, in the suppression of vice, and in the establishment of pure morality, nor have we been careful, at all times, to keep our hearts from being contaminated by unholy thoughts. Passions, altogether at variance with the Christian character, have, frequently, been unwarrantably indulged by us, and excursions of the imagination on forbidden ground have oftener been encouraged than repressed. The place in our affections, that ought to have been reserved for the supreme Being, has oft-times been occupied by earthly objects, which, however, amiable or lovely, should have had only a subordinate degree of our esteem. But why should I attempt an enumeration of our crimes? Do they not surpass, in multitude, the particles of sand on the shores of the mighty deep, and in aggravation the darkest deeds of demons. The twilight of time, but partially reveals their number and enormity. In comparative ignorance of these we must remain, till the dawn of an eternal morn sheds on them an

ORIGINAL POETRY.

WHAT IS GLORY? WHAT IS FAME?
What is Glory? What is Fame?
The echo of a long lost name;

A breath, an idle hour's brief talk ;
The shadow of an arrant nought;
A flower, that blossoms for a day;
Dying next morrow;

A stream that hurries on its way;
Singing of sorrow.
The last drop of a bootless shower,
Shed on a sere and leafless bower;
A rose, stuck in a dead man's breast-
This is the World's fame at the best!
What is Fame? and what is Glory?
A dream-a jester's lying story;
To tickle fools withal, or be

A theme for second infancy;

A joke scrawled on an epitaph;
A grin at Death's own ghastly laugh;
A visioning that tempts the eye,
But mocks the touch-nonentity;
A rainbow, substanceless as bright,
Flitting for ever

O'er hill-top to more distant height,
Nearing us never.
A bubble, blown by fond conceit,
In very sooth itself to cheat;

The witch-fire of a frenzied brain;
A fortune, that, to lose were gain;
A word of praise, perchance of blame;
The wreck of a time-bandied name.
Aye, This is Glory! This is Fame!

Feeble and brief as the narrow limits of our commentary necessarily compel us to be, we are unwiling to postpone any longer, such insufficient tribute as circumstances permit us, to pay to the memory of so much worth and piety, as adorned the character and writings of Robert Hall, the late dissenting minister of Bristol. The character of his pulpit discourses, so far as we feel ourselves capable of criticising them, was that of mild and uniformly sustained sublimity. A meek and holy, but yet most dignified grandeur lifts at once, both the preacher and the hearer up to the third heaven of pensive contemplative piety. There is not only grace, but gracefulness, in every part of his sermons. They put forward above all, that calm happiness, that rest, that peace, which passeth all understanding, and which is the peculiar portion of God's chosen people. The beauty and excellency of holiness, as the reflection of that divine image in which man was originally formed, and as the only meet preparation, through faith, for attaining and enjoying the everlasting happiness of heaven.-These were the themes on which he loved to dwell, and after which, the mind takes time, and the unwelcome bustle of world, to bring it down again to the ordinary feelings and duties of human life and action.

The high and holy doctrines, the tenets upon which all christianity hinges, were the wells of salvation, in which his delighted spirit loved to bathe. Yet, never does he outstep the modesty and humility so requisite in a frail and finite being, like man, inquiring into mysteries, which even angels trembling desire to look into. There is no prying with unhallowed curiosity, and startling rashness into the inscrutable purposes of the Deity; no worse than idle effort to anticipate the tardy foot of time, by dogmatic explanation of the dark prediction of the sacred text. There is no pretension to an insolent repulsive blasphemous familiarity with the Almighty; no madly rushing in where angels fear to tread.

His style, like his conceptions, is luminous and clear; it is also purely English and unaffected; it has been selected by so admirable a judge as Dugald Stewart, as the very model and perfection of English composition. It is elegant without effort, full without redundance. The result of this happy combination of all attainable excellences, only not genius, not the creative power, has naturally been to place Hall high, and far above all other preachers of his class, perhaps of any class in his day. The brightness of his well-earned fame, too, has reflected some portion of its lustre upon all his brother seceders. That the mantle of the ascended saint, may descend upon some no less gifted successor, that the church of God may continue to be served by intellects as piercing, and piety as purely fervent, as that which he consecrated to the service of the sanctuary, is a prayer in which all good men will willingly unite.

The sermon on modern infidelity has, we observe, been recently reprinted, in a cheap form, for general circulation. It is generally considered Mr. Hall's best single work, and we think justly. It is full of piercing thought, close argument, and elevated views. There is no aiming at that picturesque phraseology, that landscape style of oratory, in which the preachers commonly called popular, are so apt to indulge; but, there is a forcible good sense, and a luminous flow of real eloquence throughout it, that makes us almost repent of having questioned the author's claim to the uncertain honours of what men call genius.

Friar Mariano di Ghinazzano signalized himself by his zeal in opposing Savonarola: he presented to the Pope, Friar Francis of Apulia, of the order of minor observantines, who was sent to Florence to preach against the Florentine monk, in the church of Santa Croce. This preacher declared to his audience, that he knew Savonarola pretended to support his doctrine by a miracle. "For me," said he, "I am a sinner; I have not the presumption to perform miracles; nevertheless, let a fire be lighted, and I am ready to enter it with him. I am certain of perishing, but Christian charity teaches me not to withhold my life, if in sacrificing it I might precipitate into hell a heresiarch, who has already drawn into it so many souls." This strange proposition was rejected by Savonarola; but his friend and disciple, Friar Dominic Buonvicino, eagerly accepted it. Francis of Apulia declared that he would risk his life against Savonarola only. Meanwhile, a

crowd of monks, of the Dominican and Franciscan orders, rivalled each other in their offers to prove by the ordeal of fire, on one side the truth, on the other the falsehood of the new doctrine. Enthusiasm spread beyond the two convents; many priests and seculars, and even women and children, more especially on the side of Savonarola, earnestly requested to be admitted to the proof. The Pope warmly testified his gratitude to the Franciscans for their devotion. The signoria of Florence consented that two monks only should devote themselves for their respective orders, and directed the pile to be prepared. The whole population of the town and country, to which a signal miracle was promised, received the announcement with transports of joy.

On the 17th of April, 1498, a scaffold, dreadful to look on, was erected in the public square of Florence. Two piles of large pieces of wood, mixed with faggots and broom which should quickly take fire, extended each eighty feet long, four feet thick, and five feet high; they were separated by a narrow space of two feet, to serve as a passage by which the two priests were to enter and pass the whole length of the piles during the fire. Every window was full; every roof was covered with spectators-almost the whole population of the republic was collected round the place. The portico called the Loggia de' Lanzi, divided in two by a partition, was assigned to the two orders of monks. The Domini. cans arrived at their station chaunting canticles, and bearing the holy sacrament. The Franciscans immediately declared that they would not permit the host to be carried amidst flames. They insisted that the Friar Buon vicino should enter the fire, as their own champion was prepared to do, without this divine safeguard. The Dominicans answered, that "they would not separate them. selves from their god at the moment when they implored his aid." The dispute upon this point grew warm-several hours passed away the multitude, which had waited long, and begun to feel hunger and thirst, lost patience-a deluge of rain suddenly fell upon the city, and descended in torrents from the roofs of the houses-all present were drenched. The piles were so wet that they could no longer be lighted; and the crowd, disappointed of a miracle so impatiently looked for, separated with the notion of having been unworthily trifled with. Savonarola lost all his credit; he was henceforth rather looked on as an impostor. Next day his convent was besieged by the Arabbiati, eager to profit by the inconstancy of the multitude; he was arrested with his two friends, Dominico Buonvicino and Silvestro Marruffi, and led to prison. The Piagnoni, his partisans, were exposed to every outrage from the populace-two of them were killed; their rivals and old enemies exciting the general ferment for their destruction. Even in the Signoria, the majority was against them, and yielded to the pressing demands of the pope. The three imprisoned monks were subjected to a criminal prosecution. Alexander VI. despatched judges from Rome, with orders to condemn the accused to death. Conformably with the laws of the church, the trial opened with the torture. Savonarola was too weak and nervous to support it; he avowed in his agony all that was imputed to him; and, with his two disciples, was condemned to death. The three monks were burnt alive, on the 23d of May, 1498, in the same square where, six weeks before, a pile had been raised to prepare them a triumph.

PUBLISHED, every Morning, Sunday excepted, by JOHN FINLAY, at No. 9, Miller Street; and Sold by JOHN WYLIE, 97, Argyle Street; DAVID ROBERTSON, and W. R. MPHUN, Glasgow, THOMAS STEVENSON, and the other Booksellers, Edinburgh: DaVID DICK, Bookseller, Paisley: THOMSON, Greenock; and J. GLASS, Bookseller, Rothsay.

PRINTED BY JOHN GRAHAM, MELVILLE PLACE.

on

Of all my school-boy years, which were spent in my native city," Modern Athens," memory dwells none of them, with such real pleasure, as on my first twelve months at a Latin academy. Not that I recall any particular delight imparted to me from the declining of penna, dominus and regnum, or the committing to memory of rules in Latin hexameters, which I did not understand, or the translating of "Salve preceptor," but because we had a very facetious, or as in those days we would have said a very funny, teacher. He was a capital scholar; but, being very young, he had not too much of the gravity and sternness expected in a schoolmaster, a profession, which, indeed he very soon relinquished, for the more glorious one of arms. He could teach well too-otherwise, his father an excellent man, and an admirable teacher, having an academy of first respectability, would not have taken him as his own assistant; and our parents or guardians, never, I am certain, had any reason to complain of our want of progress, so far, at least, as the teacher was concerned. But he was exceedingly fond of telling us comical stories, and playing queer tricks, to make us laugh, an exercise that was far more pleasing to us than the "grammatical exercises," or "the gratts," as we entitled the book, in the plenitude of our detestation of it. His stories, to be sure, were mostly culled from "Joe Miller," "The Wit's Album," or some such laughter-stirring repository of good things. They never failed to produce universal shouts of laughter from us little chaps, who very likely never heard them before, and were at any rate in duty bound to fall into absolute convulsions at all "the maister's" jokes. One of his stories, in particular, I recollect, tickled our juvenile fancies, as containing, in our opinion, the very quintessence of humour and ready repartee. It was the story of the Highlander purchasing tartan for a kilt, and it was Donald's answer to the clothier, on being asked by him what quantity he needed, that "set the benches in a roar."

Our teacher's funny tricks were a source of infinite amusement to us-childish as they seem now, that many years, and perhaps, many sorrows, have gone over us, to make us grave. A favourite trick was stretching out his left arm horizontally, with the hand extended and the palm up-then on the tip of his forefinger he placed a sixpence, or other small coin, which he made to jerk up a foot or so from his finger, by giving the wrist of the extended arm a smart rap with his right hand. His mouth received the coin, which was either retained there, or dexterously slipped away somewhere about his dress- and then the fun was to make every boy in the class guess where the sixpence was. In like manner, he would throw little paper bullets, made for the purpose, nearly up to the roof, and catch them in his mouth in their descent, and so on, hiding and guessing, as with the sixpence. He was almost unrivalled at ornamental hand-writing, and

of course, had often a saucer, with prepared china ink, lying on his desk. Now, nothing was so delightful to him, as slyly to give one of us a whisker or mustachio, with a slake of this ink, from the tip of his finger, to the unbounded satisfaction of the whole class, whose irrepressible laughter seemed quite unacountable to the unwitting laughing-stock. One of our school exercises, was the turning up of words in the Latin Dictionary, the first finder of the given word getting to the top of the class. This gave room for the display of a capital (so it seemed then) and oft repeated joke. In the midst of a strive, our worthy instructor would whisper to a boy well down in the class, what word he next meant to give out, and that boy, of course, leaving the word immediately on hand to its fate, was ready with the next, almost as soon as it was announced, and thus got to the top of the class, to the great chagrin of his fellows. But, in justice, I must say that, in this case, the boy was always sent back to his own place, after the master got his laugh out.

Our preceptor, too, was the most ingenious fellow in the world for finding nick-names for us. One boy, who spoke thick, was called Gobbling-goose, because he once happened to throw too much of the guttural into the word "hobbling," while reading the Fable of the Goose and the Swans, and the name stuck to him as long as he remained at school. Another he called the Tammy Norie," which is the Scotch name of a species of sea fowl. A third was titled Cornu, and a fourth Regnum, both for reasons quite obvious to any body who can render these (their real names) into plain English. A fifth, for no fault of his own, was christened "Betty," because an older brother, before the junior's coming to school, won this poetic female name by mis-spelling the word "beauty" in his copybook, and so there were little Betty and muckle Betty to the end of the chapter. Where all these, my old and well remembered school-fellows now are, I know not -scattered, perhaps, over the wide world: and my esteemed teacher himself, has been laid in a lonely grave in the land of strangers.

Let it not be thought that it is my wish to cast any thing like ridicule on the memory of one whom I shall remember with fondness, to the last hour of my life. He was, indeed, full of humour and glee-more than many may think befitting a public teacher-but I have often thought that, were teachers generally, like him, to descend a little from that stern stateliness which they assume, and, like him, give in to the mirthful dispositions of their pupils, the task of teaching would be easier and more pleasant to themselves, and, at the same time, the task of learning, by being mingled with amusement, would be far more delightful to the pupils. At least I am sure of this, that none of us made greater comparative progress during any other year we were at school, than we did during the year I refer to.

It is now above twenty years since my fondly remembered instructor left his father's academy to join the army, and I never saw him again; but, methinks, I still recellect every feature of his face, his happy smile especially, though I was but one year under his tuition, and then very young-and I have cherished a more affectionate remembrance of him than of any other teacher I ever had. In speaking of him, ew

used familiarly to call him "Sandy Laing," but few will know who he was by that appellation. But who has not heard of, and who has not bewailed the unhappy and untimely fate of the intrepid Major Alexander Laing, who was barbarously murdered by African savages, while on a scientific expedition with a view of tracing the course of the Niger. Yes! my once loved instructor and the lamented Major Laing were one and the same individual; and, though the little incidents I have mentioned, are, doubtless, trifling in themselves, I cannot help thinking they acquire some interest by being associated with the memory of one, who was alike esteemed as a man qualified for the arduous task he undertook, and haplessly unfortunate in the prosecution of it.

LARGS REGATTA-No. V.

SUNDAY morning being serene and beautiful, I walked forth to enjoy the tranquil quiet of a Sabbath at Largs. All nature was rejoicing in the still solemnity of the day of rest. The sheep were bleating from the glen, the green trees were sparkling in the dews of the morning, the mountain stream was holding a loud and musical contest with the stones and pebbles that obstructed its course, the lark was singing far in the sky, and my soul delighted in her melody. I passed a rustic bridge, and ascended a natural terrace, called the Broomfield, a thousand times more beautiful, but still forcibly recalling to my remembrance the sea-shore at Brighton. There are many houses erected upon it, and all commanding the most beautiful view in the world. Most of them are fashioned after the ancient and orthodox style, a window on each side of the door, and three windows on the upper story; but there was one very beautiful exception: it is built, although not too decidedly, after the fashion of the English Elizabethian style; and, when its trees and shrubberies shall have grown, will be one of the most delightful resi dences in Scotland.*

I had all along determined to go to church, and requested young Reef to accompany me; but he pleaded an important engagement at Greenock early on Monday morning, and his intention of leaving Largs in an hour. He begged, also, I would take the sole charge of his yacht, the Warbler, a command for which I now thought myself well adapted.

I enquired of my landlord what clergyman was expected to preach in the parish church; but, as he informed me the pulpit was to be occupied by a stranger, I determined to have recourse to the dissenting meeting-house. I found there also the clergyman who generally preached was absent. If the sermon of his substitute was good, the music was better; and, altogether, the service was conducted in a solemn and impressive manner. Towards the end of the discourse, my thoughts wandered a good deal; for I was seated in the front of the gallery, almost the whole range of which was occupied by the charming girls I had seen at the ball the other evening. During the sermon, I had some very agreeable looks, and I thought how pleasant it would be to invite them all to sail on the following day.

Monday morning, the 12th of July, 1830, rose heavily in clouds, which, racked and torn, lay in broken masses upon the opposite hills. It now blew hard from the north-west, and the yachts that were to start at ten o'clock, had already got to their moorings. Contrary to my expectations, I found Reef at the Inn, he had considered it unnecessary to go to Greenock, and was preparing for another day's sail. It will scarcely be believed, that I, who until the previous week, did not know the stem from the stern of a boat, from sheer anxiety about the second race, could not eat one

• We believe our correspondent alludes to the residence of Mr. D—, erected after elevations by David Hamilton, Esq. of this city.-ED.

morsel of breakfast. I started, walked about the room, looked out at the window, rose up and sat down, and appeared a living instance of the perpetual motion; and even my friend, who was accustomed to such scenes, evinced considerable agitation. We embarked as soon as possible. I found our crew was increased, by the addition of a little ragged boy, to whom Reef had taken the opportunity of giving a breakfast, and a lesson in yacht sailing. We did not leave Largs bay until the first race had commenced, and therefore we had only had only an indistinct view of it, especially as about twenty minutes after it began, the weather became showery, and we lost sight of the vessels in a squall, accompanied with a dense cloud and rain. This cloud reached us, obscuring the land on all sides, and making me very uneasy. I thanked my stars I had not the command of the vessel, and expected to find a comforter in the little ragged boy, who, without a cap, and drenched with rain, was looking wistfully in the direction of the shore we had left.

"Ah," said I to the boy, "little do your friends and mine know where we are just now!" When the urchin tartly replid

"Indeed, Sir, I wish we kent oursel's."

At

But Boreas proved our friend; the cloud passed away, and we again saw the vessels in the race. that moment Reef was obliged to allow that the Sylph, one of our Glasgow yachts, was first, and appeared to be winning the race, a circumstance which enlivened me exceedingly; but, if agreeable as other pleasures, it was also as fleeting, for, in ten minutes afterwards, we saw her pitching heavily astern of the others, with her mainsail half lowered, evidently showing that some of her blocks or haulyards had given way. Reef and myself, however, felt that the interest of the day depended on the next race, in which the Fanny, Ganymede and Paddy from Cork, were to sail for the cup.

In

Our little vessel now stood over to Cumbraes, and near the ferry-house, like the three Horatii, lay the three yachts, ready for the combat. Reef's account of them was as follows:-"The Paddy is an experiment on a large scale, for which her spirited proprietor deserves the highest praise: the Ganymede is as smart a vessel as ever swam; but the Fanny is perfect proportion and beauty! I could wish to take her by the mast-head, and hang her in our drawing-room." wardly delighted that Glasgow would at last do itself honour, yet, provoked by the former conduct of Reef, I drew a bow at a venture, and said "Five guineas to eight the Paddy will gain the race!" I knew my native city would win the honour, although I should lose the guineas; but, for the honour of Glasgow, I would give twice as much any day. "Done!" cried Reef: "I bet upon the Fanny. Yet, with all her good qualities, I should be glad to see her crew pumping water on her sails, an advantage which both her rivals have very properly adopted."

As the moment for starting drew nigh, I watched, with anxiety, for the signal gun. My mouth was parched with thirst, and an uncommon nervous excitement pervaded my whole frame. At length we saw a flash, and, e'er the report reached us, the crews of the three yachts were hauling on their quarter lines, but the vessels were in a greater hurry than their crews, and the Fanny went off quite pleasantly, dragging her mooring after her for some minutes. Notwithstanding such a disadvantage, this charming vessel kept alongside of her compeers, and, when freed from its incumbrance, sprang forward, as on eagle wing, soon distancing her rivals. "The Fanny has beat them all at the start," cried Reef, "stand by when rounding the buoy, and shift your large jib," and indeed the Fanny rounded the buoy three boat's length before her rivals, but the large jib continued set. Reef was now foaming," that big jib, only half hoisted, is dragging her to leeward, Paddy will be down upon her immediately, why had you not your other jib ready to hoist ?" but all his exclamations were