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he returns the archbishop's compliment to his successors, by very dexterously converting a good fat benefice into a pair of most delectable and convenient nose-pinchers, within the blades of which he finds no priest, of whatever persuasion, demur about entrusting bis proboscis. Even in our Scottish church, which is held up as the pink of disinterested purity, we have known a professorship hammered into a very taking pair of tongs, and an able advocate of the truth, who had been making rapid inroads on the kingdom of darkness, led off, with all the docility of a lamb, to where the carnal extinguisher of filthy lucre and worldly-mindedness could be very conveniently clapped upon

his usefulness. We have also heard of an aug. mentation,” with the advantage of a residence in Edinburgh, transmugrified into the blades of a pair of nose-catchers, and the poor heart-broken shepherd led off from his weeping and disconsolate flock, while the devil, (no doubt,) ensconced behind the pulpit, stood grinning, with bis ugly fore claw on the side of his no less ugly snout, enjoying, with malicious glee, the heart-rending scene that was going on in this house of mourning, where “not a dry eye” was to be found but his own filthy looker*, with which he had winked away their dearly beloved spiritual instructor. In short, it is believed that there are few of our modern “ Scottish worthies," but, if old Belzie chose, (provided he always changed his tongs for a better pair,) he might lead by the nose from Maiden Kirk to Johnny Groats and back again, without a tithe of the rumpus and caterwauling he made in his trifling affair with St. Dunstan.

Having made these few remarks on noseology, we shall hazard a guess or two at the reason why the present codicil happens to be now added to the original deed. In the first place, we suspect that the rapid approach of cholera may have alarmed the testator, as being conscious of belonging to that low dissipated class, who are said to be most liable to infection.

Or, what is more probable, the almost certainty of the Reform Bill being passed, may have brought on a touch of his old complaint; be that as it may, the document was slipped under our study door at midnight, while the last flash of our candle was glimmering in the socket. We shall therefore give it in a future number, for the information of all those who may feel themselves interested as to the manner old horney has disposed of his gear.

• Lucre ? Query by Printer's Devil.

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canvas of thirty feet, which to him was one of only ordinary dimensions, and this expense ruined him for six months. But then the picture would be excellent !

“ In less than a month this immense canvass was covered, parts were nearly finished, and the work promised to be worthy of the artist. Theodebert touched it no more.

He returned from a solitary walk in deep affliction ; he bad not yet earned one shilling by his labours. His bead was burning, and his right hand thrust into his bosom. He cast a wild glance at his huge picture, which the yellow and vacillating tlame of the taper and the surrounding darkness made appear still more gigautic. "I shall never finish it,' he exclained.

The next morning every trace of it was effaced.

“ Excited by I know not what caprice-labouring under I know not what fever of impatience, he had effaced the work, intending to begin another ; then the disheartening conviction came upon him that none regarded his talents-nay, a doubt if he had talent. He had smarted under so much criticism-suffered so many rude insults, that hope bad fled from him. Darkness overshadowed all his anticipations-an icy coldness checked the palpitating heart of the enthusiast—hypochondria fixed her fangs upon the victim she was never more to quit. In vain did Theodebert struggle on with all the stubborness of genius, and all the fury of his ardent pencil-in vain did be heap design upon design, and sketch upon sketch ; he was wasting life in unsuccessful efforts. The harpy knawed pitilessly on; and the poor artist, harassed and discouraged, fell at length exhausted before that cold and sinooth canvas which his genius would have glorified, but his pencil could no longer touch.

“I went to see him. He had passed a horrible night. friend,' said he, sitting up in his bed, I have had a vision. I was scarcely asleep when everything around me appeared to increase in size.

The walls of my painting room vere covered with marble - the windows lengthened into porticos-columns and pilasters arose, and shot up to meet a vaulted roof, which seemed curving to receive them.

In the midst of this magni. ficence I was alone, lost, trembling, crushed, annihilated! I was at Rome, in a palace which I never saw, but yet recognized well. On a sudden, enormous beams appeared to shoot out from between 80 many columns, to cross each other in all directions, and at length formed a solid scaffolding, upon which I was placed, palette in hand, without having had time to desire it, and before I had spoken a word, or advanced a single step. In vain did I struggle against the invisible hand which had raised me by the hair of the head, and held my slender body at such a marvellous height from the ground. I was to paint the cupola ; and the time allowed me for tbis work was till the end the day. Night came before I had half completed my task—the fatal term was past-the scaffolding cracked, gave way, and I fell to the ground !

“ • I found myself once more upon my bed, bruised and breathless. My dream continued. This time I distinctly saw my canvas of thirty feet rise through the floor, like the aulaa of the ancients, or the curtain at the Odéon, in measured time, slowly and solemnly. When it touched the ceiling, I heard a shrill whistle. An extraordinary exhibition now took place. It was like a representation of ombres chinoises, At first, there was a grotesque collection of noses of every dimension, from Odry to Pelligrini. The devil was there, in propria persona, and, with the aid of a wand, explained to me each subject as it appeared and filed off in procession before my eyes.

He then showed me a dis. tribution of medals and crosses to be made at the salon 1831. M. Dubufe was reported painter of the first class, and Johannot turned back to the second : M. Lancrenon pamphletizing about it.

«« On a sudden the canvass darkened, and was turned upside down. It was now no longer a simple canvass, but a magnificent picturemine-the one I intend to paint the work I have spoken to you about. It was finished, and a fat English lord offered me six hundred thousand francs for it.

“I refused this sum-my demand was a million of francs.

« • The lord raised his offer, by degrees, to nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine francs.

"I still refused, and the devil-for it was heburst into a loud fit of laughter, and disappeared.

" • Scarcely had I lost sight of him, when the brilliant colours of the painting faded, mingled with each other, and ran down the


From the French of Delanou. THEODEBERT MUNIER was an ordinary young man, about five feet four inches in height, and a bit of a sloven, There was a wild. ness in his look, and a strangeness in his manner, which repelled all advances towards intimacy. He was such an artist as might be expected from a young enthusiast who was almost born in the Sistine Chapel—who played there when a child before the wonders of Michael Angelo-drew there, upon his knees, and stood erect in manhood with confidence in himself and the power of genius. Rome opened to him a brilliant prospect,

wben a letter from Bayonne announced that his mother was dangerously ill. Adieu to art! In a transport of apprehension he fled from Rome like a madman. + • On his arrival at Bayonne he found his mother recovered; but his career was closed at Rome, and he came to Paris.

“ Alas! what was he to do at Paris !--none knew him, or suspected his talents. What was he to do in a city where there is a Museum for fools, portraits instead of pictures, and amateurs instead of artists! He saw nothing here of his beloved art. He inquired for it, but found it not. He hired, in a remote part of the city, and far from the Museum, a spacious painting-room, in which he could place the largest pictures, and converse face to face with Da Vinci, with Raphael, Michael Angelo, and the Caraccis. • He purchased, at Haro's, for ready money, a



canvass in streams, like the sweat on the skin of a quoit player. The figures grinned horribly, and moved about with a hideous variety of strange attitudes and contortions, so strange, indeed, as to exhaust my patience.

« • My lords !' I exclaimed, bitterly, and with a loud voice, to the cardinals-whose purple was fast disappearing, and to the bishops, whose faces were already of the same colour as their stockings and camails--- My lords ! in mercy, tell me whether you are perspiring blood or wine?'

"• They replied by a monotonous plain chant, which seemed to become faiuter and fainter as the colours vanished from the canrass. This strange sound continued a short time, and then ceased with a noise like the last hiccup of a drunkard, or the last sob of a drowning man.

« « On awaking, I looked towards the middle of the room for the picture of my dream ;—it was gone. I felt under my pillow for the nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine bundred and ninety-nine francs of the English lord—they were not there.

• In despair I jumped out of bed, and ran to my paintingroom. The canvass was where I bad left it the night before vast, white, cold, and untouched ! Ah! my friend ! that dream -it is the coup de grace, I feel doubly discouraged.'

“I tried to console poor Theodebert, but in vain. He quitted Paris the same day.

“ He has now been gone two months; and a letter from Bayonne, with a black seal, has just been brought me. It is not to announce the death of his mother, but that of my unhappy friend himself, who has committed suicide !"


oyager, passant sa vie,
Certain vieillard, nommé le Tems,
Près d'un fleuve arrive, et sécrie,

Ayez pitié de mes vieux ans,
He, quoi ! sur ces bords on m'oublie,

Moi qui comptes tous les instans,
Mes chères amis, je vous supplie,

Venez, venez, passer le Tems." De l'autre coté, sur la plage,

Plus d'une fille regardait, Voulant aider à son passage

Sur un bateau qu' Amour guidait. Mais une d'elles, bien plus sage,

Lui répétait ces mots prudens, “ Bien souvent on a fait naufrage,

En cherchant à passer le Tems." L'Amour gasement pousse au rivage,

Il aborde tous près du Tems; Et lui propose le voyage

L'embrasse et l'abandonne aux vents, Agitant ses râines légères,

Il dit et redit dans ses chants, “ Vous voyez bien, belles bergères,

Que l'Amour fait passer le Tems." Mais, tout-à-coup, l'Amour se lasse,

Ce fut toujours là, son défaut, Le Tems prend la râme à sa place,

Et lui redit aussitôt, “ Pauvre enfant !-Quelle est ta faiblesse ?

Tu dors, et je chante à mon tour, Le beau refrain de la viellesse,

Que le Tems fait passer l'Amour."

HINDOSTANEE FASHIONS. The following interesting picture of the Fashions of Hindostan is extracted from Mrs. Meer Hassan Ali's newly published work on the Mussulmans of India :

The ladies' pyjaamabs are formed of rich satin, or cloth gold, goolbudden, or mussheroo, (striped washing silks manufactured at Benares,) fine chintz-English manufacture having the preference-silk or cotton ginghams--in short, all such materials are used for this article of feinale dress as are of sufficiently firm texture, down to the white calico of the country, suited to the means of the wearer. By the most fashionable females they are worn very full below the knee, and reach to the feet, which are partially covered by the fulness, the extremity finished and the seams are bound with silver riband; a very broad silver riband binds the top of the pyjaamah ; this being double has a zarbund (a silk net cord) run through, by which this part of the dress is confined at tbe waist. The ends of the zarbund are finished with rich tassels of gold and silver, curiously and expressly made for this purpose, which extend below the knees; for full dress, these tassels are rendered magnificent with pearls and jewels.

“ One universal shape is adopted in the form of the ungeea, (bodice,) which is, however, much varied in the material and ornamental part; some are of gauze or net, muslin, &c., the more transparent in texture the more agreeable to taste, and all are more or less ornamented with spangles and silver trimmings. It is made to fit the bust with great exactness, and to fasten behind with strong cotton cords; the sleeves are very short and tight, and finished with some fanciful embroidery or silver riband. Even the women servants pride themselves on pretty ungeeahs, and all will strive to have a little finery about them, however coarse the material it is formed of may happen to be. They are never removed at night, but continue to be worn a week together, unless its beauty fades earlier, or the ornamental parts tarnish through extreme heat.

With the ungeeah is worn a transparent courtie (literally translated shirt) of thread net ; this covers the waistband of the pyjaamah, but does not screen it; the seams and hems are trimmed with silver or gold ribands.

The deputtab is a useful envelope, and the most graceful part of the whole female costume. In shape and size, a large sheet will convey an idea of the deputtah's dimensions ; the quality depends on choice or circumstances; the preference is given to our light English manufacture of leno or muslin, for every-day wear by gentlewomen ; but on gala days, gold and silver gauze tissues are in great request, as is also fine India muslin manufactured at Decca-transparent and soft as the web of the gossamer spider ;this is called shubnum (night dew), from its delicate texture, and is procured at a great expense, even in India ; some deputtahs are formed of gold-worked muslin, English crape, coloured gauze, &c. On ordinary occasions ladies wear them simply bound with silver riband, but for dress they are richly trimmed with embroidery and bullion fringes, which add much to the splendour of the scene, when two or three hundred females are collected together in their assemblies. The deputtah is worn with much original taste on the back of the head, and falls in graceful folds over the person ; when standing, it is crossed in front, one end partially screening the figure, the other thrown over the opposite shoulder.

LOVE AND TIME-TRANSLATION. This life's dreary road, as alone he did wander,

Old Time, a grey vet'ran in lowly attire, Approach'd a fair stream, that with gentle meander

Did flow in soft murmurs, and pleasure inspire. Oppress'd with fatigue, and by age sore brought under,

That aid be thus craved—which his years did demandAh! why on these banks I'm forgot, I do wonder,

Since each sportive hour is the gift of my hand ? Come, help, my kind friends, an old man to pass over,"

He said to some nymphs on the still further shore, Who wished to assist him--when, lo! they discover

A piunace the signal of Cupid that bore. But one whom Experience had taught more discretion,

Thus wisely retorts, on behalf of the fair, “ Too many, good Sir, in this short navigation,

Are lost, as examples for us to beware." Young Cupid, alone, does encounter the danger ;

He straightway accosts the grave monarch of years ; Avd gaily proposing his bark to the stranger,

Love's tender embrace soon dispels all his fears. As dimples the wave that his light oars are cleaving,

This feat of bis prowess he boasts in his song“ Behold, beauteous maids, there is here no deceiving

When Love is the pilot, how Time glides along !" But soon does the urchin grow tired of his station :

This trick he has ever been known to practise. Well pleased to observe Cupid's new inclination,

Old Time grasps the oar, and thus, jeeringly cries“ Poor child !--what, so feeble ! - can’st labour no longer ?

Is't thus that the force of thine armn thou didst prove? Then trust now th' old adage which calls me the stronger,

Since Time, thou may'st sce, gets the better of Love."


“ Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate !"


CONUNDRUM. - Why are we, when read by snatches, like the morning dawn ?--Ans. Because it's peep o' Day!

AN ANOMALY.- -How many “Days" are in the week ?-Ans. Six only." The Day" is not published on Sunday!

ANOTHER ANOMALY.-How often do we entertain the public? --Ans. Every “ Day !"

An Enigma.—Why are we (when bound) an especial favourite with men of business ?--Ans. Because it's their Day-Book !

A RIDDLE.- What is the nightly wish of our readers, on resigning themselves to sleep?--Ans. That they may see the light of anotber“ Day !"

A-DIVERTISEMENT !_Why does our Publisher look forward to a good old age ?-Ans. Because he has many “ Days" before him !



A THOUSAND singular reports bave reached us regarding the supposed characters wbo figured in our paper of the Assembly; and, strange to say, not one of them is correct. The fact is, our Spectacles belong to the knot of blind men who generally patronize our Assembly-Rooms, and hence his delineation of character cannot be expected to be so graphic as if he had been really one whose optics are more perfect. We shall endeavour to have a personage with a vitreous lens more convex, and a retina more acute, tu attend the Gælic Ball, for the purpose of reporting its proceedings.

WEST COUNTRY REMINISCENCES. The following anecdote used to be related by an old gentleman, who died at the age of 97, shortly before the commencement of the present century. He was a youth of 15 at the time of the rebel. lion in 1715, and had a very distinct recollection of seeing the Highlanders ride through Glasgow at that period. He was then an apprentice with a cabinet-maker in the Westergate, (now Argyle Street,) and the attention of journeymen and apprentices was one day arrested by a woman cry “wha'll buy my Ruglen ream?" The cream was in a jar, covered over with a cloth. One of the workmen offered to bet five shillings that he would cause her to break her jar, without touching either it or its owner, or being seen by, or having any communication whatever with her. The bet was instantly taken up by a wondering comrade, when the sly rogue slips out, takes his station behind the maid, and lets fall a jar similar to her own. The girl exclaiming “ Ou! my ream's a' gane !" catches the cloth, thinking to save her jar, which, thus freed from her grasp, is broken in a hundred pieces, to ber utter discomtiture, and the fulfilment of our friend's bet, who sent his less cunning work-feilow to discharge his debt, by relieving her calamity.

Polish Women.–The Polish women are beautiful--they are exquisitely beautiful. I am almost convinced that Eve must have been a Pole. My travelling companion told me of a gentleman, who, after losing his heart in Germany, his soul in France, his understanding in Italy, was made bankrupt of bis sense in Poland; and when thus reduced to the condition of a moral skele. ton, he retired, for the enjoyment of matrimonial happiness, to Russia.-—Poland under Dominion of Russia.

A Hint to Husbands.—The story of the widow who was won by a lover, even when watching the dead body of ber husbaud, is not improbable. The silence, the solitude, the darkness, the dismal paraphernalia of death--all were points in his favour; for all affected her with horror, and predisposed her mind to seek relief in images of joy. The mourning of Jane, mother of the Emperor Charles V., was at ouce more extraordinary and better calculated for continuance. When her husband, Philip of Austria, died, and it became pecessary to tear the body from her arms and place it in a coffin, she surrounded it with all the funeral magnificence and publicity that were possible, and took her own station as the first actress in the pageant. Wherever she went, the splendid show accompanied and surrounded her. She made, in this manner, the tour of Castille ; from town to town, from city to city, glided the dark procession, with its banners, and plumes, and songs of solemn

All Spain, all Europe, was filled with the renown of her grief. Think you that this widow was in danger from a lover ? There is nothing, indeed, so imprudent as retirement in such cases. Hushands should get themselves laid out in the drawing-room, and taken in a hearse to the watering-places. If this custom was once fairly introduced, I have no doubt that, even at the doors of the Opera, we should at length be gratified with the solemn and affecting cry of—“ Lady Blank's husband stops the way!"

Book-Making. - Never was the noble art of book-making carried to such high perfection as at present. These compilers seem to forget that people have libraries. Oue vamps up a new book of travels, consisting merely of disguised extracts from former publications. Another fills his pages with Greek and Latin extracts from Aristotle and Quintilian. A third, if possible, more insipid, gives us long quotations from our poets, while a reference was enough, the books being in the hands of every body. Another treats us with old French ana in masquerade; and, by a singular fate, derives advantage from his very blunders, which makes the things look new. Pah! I, and an amanuensis, could scribble one of those books in twenty-four hours.-- Walpole.




MILITARY BANDS. Amongst the numerous improvements which Music, as an Art, bas undergone within the last twenty years, there are few, we think, more striking than those upon Military Instruments.

Facility of execution is now a task of little difficulty, even upon those instruments whose scale formerly was so imperfect that the most careful practice was scarcely sufiicient to play them in tuve. We allude to the clarionet, the flute, the bassoon, &c.

We have now concerto players upon the French horn and the trombone ; the former had, at that time, in the hands of the best performers, only seven or eight notes, while the latter had just beeu imported from Germany, and was, of course, but little understood. It has now, however, become the most effective bass instrument of the orchestra. These, with the addition of keyed trumpets, double bass borns, &c. all of modern invention, com. bine to make that language most forcible and eloquent, which conjures up to the mind's eye of the hearer, "the pomp and circumstance of glorious war.” Nor is this all that the lover of music has to congratulate hiinself apon. He can now hear the melodies of Rossini, “ breathing like the sweet south ;" the strains of Mozart and Weber, awakening the feelings of awe and sublimity, too deep for utterance ; even these he can hear with a degree of truth, pleasure and expression, which brings the etřect of a military band very near, indeed, to that of a complete orchestra. We are led to make these remarks from the circumstance of a band being at present in the city that proves what we have adverted to. We have, lately, had frequent opportunities of judging of its excellence, and, if we except the band of the Household Troops, we may safely affirm, that there is, perhaps, no regiment in his Majesty's service that can boast of a better than that of the 4th Dragoon Guards. We have heard them perform overtures from the works of Kossini, Boildieu, Mozart and others, in a most masterly manner; in fact, nothing induces us to go to the theatre more readily, than when we learn that this band is to perform, and we hope while it remains, that these opportunities will be neither few nor far between. We have, also, been very much pleased with the manner in which some of the principal performers have acquitted themselves in a situation still more dificult-we mean the orchestra. To accompany vocal music requires a certain “tact,” wbich is only acquired by great experience; and, considering how seldom this happens to military men, their conduct deserves great praise.

NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS. We have received a graphic account of a “ Nocturnal Trial in the Crypt.The characters are painted to the lite; but, we regret that we cannot give insertion to our correspondent's clever paper, from our determination to avoid the least approach to personalities. We shall be happy to hear from bim again, however, on a less ticklish subject.

“ A Father's Funeral,” from the Unpublished Autobiography of An Orphan, will appear to-morrow.

“ R. P.’s” poetical Address to Tobacco is more fitted for lighting a pipe, than enlightening our readers.

“ 0. P. Q.’s" stanzas on “ An Author and a Critic; or, a Hint to Book-makers,” are excellent; but, we fear that the finale “ smells” rather too much of “the shop" for our columns.

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A third edition of Miss JEWSBury's Letters to the Young, with additions, will appear immediately.

Shortly, the Four Series of The Romance of History, in a cheap edition, uniform with the Waverley Novels.

The Carding and Spinning Master's Assistant, by JANES Montgomery, is in the press.

Letters from a Mother to her Daughter are to be published forthwith.

GLASGOW: Published every Moruing, Sunday ex

cepted, by John WYLIE, at the British and Foreign Library, 97, Argyle Street, Glasgow : STILLIES BROTHERS, Librarians, High Street, and Thos. STEVENSON, Edinburgh: David Dick, Bookseller, Paisley : John Hislop, Greenock; and J. GLASS, Bookseller, Rothsay.Aud Printed by John GRAHAM, Melville Place.





Just skim earth's surface, ere we break it up,

And save the world a nuisance.



is so peculiarly alive to such things, that I had scarce(From the unpublished Autobiography of Ax ORPHAN.)

ly made the usual morning enquiries, ere my elder sis

ter pointed to the vacant chair; and, while a tear stole Ench friend, hy fate snatch'd from us, is a plume Pluckt from the wing of human vanity,

down her cheek, she softly whispered, "My dear HenWhich makes us stoop from our aerial height, And, dampt with oinen of our own disease,

ry, you must occupy that place now ; and, oh! may it On drooping pinion of ambition lower'd,

be the will of Heaven that you occupy it long! It is O'er putrid earth to scratch a little dust,

to thee alone, my dear brother, that your poor orphan sisters now look for protection !". I felt the tender,

the impressive appeal; and, taking my father's chair, The enlivening beams of a May morning sun greeted poured forth, in secret, a short orison for the guidance me as I opened the shutters of my bed-room window. and the support of God in the trying situation I was The sky was clear and cloudless, and the crowds, who called, by his providence, to occupy. paced the streets, seemed to do so with a step more When the heart is sad, the eye clouded, and the light than usually buoyant. Nature, in fact, was in all the of hope has, for a season, eschewed the temple of the brightness and brilliancy of her spring-tide beauty, soul, it is, almost invariably, to beings similarly circumand Man appeared to have imbibed somewhat of her stanced that we turn for consolation ; and, from tasting gaiety and elasticity. What a sad and solemn con- of their cup of sorrow, are led to experience some allevi. trast did the exterior objects of that morning afford to

ation to the bitterness of our own. The breakfast hour the interior aspect of our household, and to my own

was, on this occasion, at least, spent cbiefly in thinking individual feelings ! All, without, betokened life and and speaking of those who, like ourselves, were feeling light-heartedness—all, within, spoke of death and sor- the deprivation of a mother's anxieties and a father's rowing. My father, the best and most indulgent of protection, while we fondly tried to find, in their situaparents, who, but a few days before, was seen in all the tion, a solace to our own woe and our own melancholy. vigour of manly healthfulness—who was the idol of his The breakfast over, and the usual portion of the Dichildren and the beloved among bis associates—at that vine Record being read, my sisters retired, and I was moment lay cold and still in the coffin which was des

left alone to attend to several matters which demanded tined, in a few hours, to be carried to its last lone my immediate attention. Thus occupied, the forenoon resting place. My poor heart-broken sisters had risen flew over, and, ere I had altogether completed the list only to pour out, anew, the tears which the soother of of melancholy epistles to friends of the family at a dishumanity had dried up during the few short fleeting tance, whose interest in our welfare demanded somehours of night, while, on turning my eye from the thing more than a mere ordinary announcement of my window upon the snit of sables and deep-craped hat parent's demise, I was roused from my mournful busiwhich lay upon my table, I felt, more forcibly than ness by the heavy tread and the noisy bustle of ever, the emphatic and terrible truth, that I was now,

The sable tribe, that painful watch indeed, an ORPHAN! How lonely, how chilling was

The rich man's door, and live upon the dead, the thought to one who had scarely entered upon

By letting out their persons by the hour, his fourteenth year, and who had just acquired so

To mimic sorrow where the heart's not sad. much knowledge of the world as to feel that the fa- The undertaker, in a few minutes, slowly opened the mily, all of whom were younger than their brother, parlour door, and intimated that it was now nearly the had now no one to look to but himself for solace and hour appointed for the assembling of the friends invitprotection. Oh, if there ever be a time in which the ed to the funeral. I immediately rose, and, having soul eschews more than another the pride of huma- made the necessary preparations, entered the yet solinity, and the vanity of all worldly joys, and in which tary dining room, which had been prepared for the rethe heart more effectually feels the weakness of human ception of those who might attend the obsequies. Simforesight and human power, it is when the strippling, not ple though the ceremonial of our funereal rites may be yet beyond the boundaries of boyhood, and deprived of in Scotland, it may safely be affirmed that there is no the light of a mother's countenance and a mother's coun. people in the world among whom the last offices, which sel, is required to donne himself in those outward ha- man is called to bestow upon his fellow, are more affec. biliments of woe which custom has declared necessary tionately paid, or more solemnly performed, than in for a father's funeral ! I may at least say, that never this country. Honourable is it, indeed, in the very was a moment in my whole history in which I felt so bighest degree, to the character of our countrymen, utter a distrust in the power of man, and so utter a that, as yet, they are exempted from that high pitch contempt for his pride and presumption, as on the of heartless refinement which commands the remains morning of my father's funeral, nor do I remember of our best and dearest friend to be consigned to the any one period of my whole existence in which I felt dust by the hands of strangers, or to be wept for by more irresistibly impelled to throw myself on my the wretched mockery of hired mourners. Happy is knees, and most earnestly to implore the aid of Him it for our land, that nature is still permitted to plead who has declared himself the father of the fatherless her own cause, and to follow her own tender sympaand the stay of the orphan.

thies, and that most of our countrymen, as yet, feel On entering the parlour, I found my sisters all con- that to assist at the sad obsequies of a friend, and to gregated, for the first time since our father had breath. follow his mortal remains to their last lone restinged his last. The arm-chair, which our beloved parent place, is the most sacred debt due to affection and had been in the custom of occupying, had been, as friendship--the most solemn demonstration he can give usual, placed by the servant at the table, and touchingly of affectionate 'respect for the memory of his departed reminded us of its wonted occupant. The female mind! companion.

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diately to comfort my sisters. The undertaker having promised to see every thing in order, I hastened homewards, and soon found myself at the entrance to the drawing room, where, I was told, my sisters were waiting my arrival. On opening the door, I summoned up all the fortitude I could well muster, but, I must honestly confess, I could scarcely command my feelings, when, as soon as I had entered, they all with one accord ran towards me, and, weeping, kissed me. What a sympathetic feeling of desolation and of woe pervaded each and all of our bosoms at that first meeting, after the world had closed over the mortal coil of our parent! The tongue refused to do its office, or to tell the mental suffering of the moment, till the eyes of our silent group simultaneously fell upon our father's picture, which, smiling from above the mantel-piece, broke the spell which, for a moment, sealed their lips. The first accents which each faultered out, were directed by the impulse of nature—“ Now, we are Orphans indeed;" but, the second was directed by the spirit of our hallowed religion, and these were, that “ God would be our shield and our stay through this bleak pilgrimage, and would, moreover, be our guide to the blessed world which is to come !"


At the precise hour appointed for meeting, my father's friends and companions, almost all, simultaneously arrived. There were few of these who did not meet my mournful welcome of them with a more than ordinary air of sympathy. Each successive squeeze of the hand was more tender and affectionate than another, and, ere the clergyman was requested to pour forth a prayer to Him who is eternal and unchangeable, I felt convinced that there was not an individual within the apartment whose heart did not bleed for the loss of him, who, as it were, but yesterday, was the most active among them, and who was, at that moment, laid out for the tomb.

I shall never, never forget the breathless stillness which prevailed, when the tender feelings of the clergyman, who had been the intimate friend of both my parents, so far got the better of his equanimity as to cause him to burst into tears when alluding to the orphan condition of our family. I had, till then, succeeded in concealing my own grief from those who looked on me, but, when the moving tones of the impassioned suppliant fell upon my ear, art could no longer dissemble, and I fairly poured out my woe in tears and sobbing.

On the announcement that all was ready, I rose from my chair, and, almost unconsciously, made my way to the door of a now fatherless babitation. There stood the pall in all its mournful trappings—a sight, under any circumstances, of an affecting description, but, to the eye of an orphan, most assuredly replete with the bitterest anguish. When the undertaker placed in my band the chief-mourner's ribbon, I thought my heart would have burst, and, when the melancholy cortege moved slowly on towards the church-yard, and the knell of the city bells struck upon my ear, I felt as if life were a burden to me, and wished myself as silent and insensible as my father. The blind and the wicked idea was, however, imme. diately put to flight, when I remembered my sisters. « Oh, heaven !” breathed I, “ forgive this captious, selfish thought, and preserve me to be their comfort and protector!"

The cemetery was not far distant, hence it was not long before we entered the cineral depôt which already contained the ashes of my mother, and was about to receive all that remained of her once honoured husband. The pall was soon uncovered, and the coffin was borne into the railed enclosure. Placed above the simple grave, the friends took the different stations that were assigned to them. At that moment, the corner of my mother's coffin, which met my eye as I gazed into the last narrow cradle of humanity, made me start, and summoned up the whole crowd of melancholy circumstances associated with my former sad visit to the cemetery. I imagined myself again kneeling at my mother's bedside, when she breathed her last sigh in pouring out a blessing on my head. The four years that had since elapsed, appeared to me a blank --my Christian parent's death-bed the only milestone on memory's waste! Alas ! there was now another mournful monument about to be reared on the desert of my existence! As the recollection of my mother swept athwart my brain, the remains of my father was lowered down to their last resting-place. The compány raised their hats, as the outward token of a last farewell to their departed friend. I long stood holding the cord which had lowered my father's head into the grave, and when, at length, I was obliged, reluctantly, to relinquish it, I felt my lips irresistibly murmur, "Now, father, we are separated for ever!" I gave a fearful shudder as the first shovelful of earth struck upon

the coffin-the hollow sound which ascended from the grave was more touching and more eloquent than a sermon of Sherlocke~it reached my heart, and a flood of tears fell into the sepulchre of both my parents !

How long I stood in the cemetery I know not, but, I recollect I was roused from my reverie by a relative, who suggested the propriety of my returning imme

There is something so peculiarly beautiful in the nature of Truth, that the more we engage in the pursuit of it, the greater is our admiration ; but it is not our object at present to develope the features, or to discuss their beauty, symmetry, and mute convincing eloquence, so much as to demonstrate the eminent ad van. tages that will necessarily result, from the application of Truth, as a governing principle, to the business of life. Truth is the basis of human prosperity and happiness, and consequently bas a superior claim to our regard and obeisance; it is the lever that must put in motion the whole machinery in the theatre of life, and the fulcrum upon the solidity and stability of which its order and security depends ; it is the amalgamating power that unites the whole family of nature in one illustrious society, and diffuses har. mony, prosperity and religion throughout its wide extended empire. Dissimilar to most of the subjects which occupy our thoughts, we run no hazard of its ultimately proving unprofitable and visionary; for it is the invaluable peculiarity of Truth that it cannot suffer by mutation or perversion, and its most noble prerogative, that no limits can be assigned to its operations, nor to our investigations into its usefulness. If these observations be admitted, how important is the duty we have to perform ? and how imperative our rigid observance of it? Mankind seems ever to have been insensi. ble to its results, and what a black catalogue of crime consequently does the pages of bistory display? What misery is there recorded -what brutality—what idolatry mark every era of a world's existence; it is a panorama in which nothing is beautiful, all is hideous, and we cannot refrain from dropping a tear of sorrow over the ruins of what should be anything but divine in its character. Had Alexander sat submissively at the feet of Aristotle, and put in practice the admonitions and precepts of that great philosopher, Macedon would not have been the seat of ambition—Greece of dissention- Persia and remote India of war. But why do we reflect upon an age antiquated by a lapse of more than two thousand years ? Does not Europe present a picture not less melan. choly, attributable solely to an indifference to Truth. Ay, but whence doth this proceed? Is it from a natural hatred to every thing pure and upright ? Is it from an invincible propensity to sacrifice truth at the altars of sensuality and selfishness ? No, the fault lies not in these. A deficiency in our moral education is the parent of these formidable evils. Were parents properly to instil into the susceptible minds of their children, a desire to make truth the only guide for their conduct, this desire would soon become a principle. To succeed eminently in anything, we must have a corresponding inclination for it. A contempt or ignorance of these rules is a great obstacle to our acquaintance with truth. There is a prepossession that gives a bias to the minds of many, and tells them, that it is neither necessary nor incumbent upon them to give truth more than a general attention. They are content with second causes, and will obtain their knowledge of these very thankfully

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