I, or men of the same period of life, to go, like Hervey, among the Tombs for Meditations. Every bustling street and teeming thoroughfare, every home visit and social meeting, every private party and public occasion utter silent voices. which speak mournfully of the absent, and trumpet-tongued of the dead. Friend after friend has departed, and when struck by misfortune, by trouble, by sickness, in vain do we look around for the succour that relieved, the sympathy that supported, the love that consoled; all, or nearly all, are gone, and we are left alone-alone!

In this melancholy mood I stop to ask myself who will be the readers, who the judges and critics, of what I am about to record? Will even those who have known me find interest in the re-awakened memories of scenes which we have shared together. Will those to whom the writer is but a name, bestow a thought or a care upon his joys and sorrows, for the sake of analogous joys and sorrows of their own, which his narrative may recall. I shall resolve, however, that such themes must occupy no more than a small portion of it. For it may be that the former have grown too old, or cold, and too much changed for the emotion; and that the latter will be too little touched by what is strange to, and does not concern them, to lend a listening ear to so simple and so universal a tale. The vicissitudes of the literary man have no striking points to attract the world's attention; he has no incidents, like those of the warrior, to fix the sense on perils, wonderful escapes, and dreadful catastrophes. His perils and catastrophes run on a dead level; and the only wonder would be how he could ever have any escape. Feelingly do I find it written by L. E. L. (in 1833): "The Poet may lament the flower that blows unseen in the desert, or the gem that is covered in the unfathomed caverns of ocean; but it is man himself

that crushes the flower and buries the gem to an extent unimagined in our philosophy. What glorious blossoms would expand, filling the earth with odours ?-what brilliant jewels would be set on high, dazzling with light and lustre, were they not nipped in the bud, and destroyed in the mine, by the harsh, rude influence of the living world? Who lifts the fallen-who cherishes the desponding-who animates the weary-who encourages the fainting-who pities and solaces the unfortunate-who sustains the enthusiastic-who is the friend of talent-who the idolator of genius? One of a thousand? No. The censorious detractor, the scoffer, the oppressor, the unfeeling, the selfish, the apathetic, all cross their paths and lay the weight of doom upon their aspirations. We are, indeed, but shadows, and the very shadows we pursue are placed beyond our reach by our fellowcreatures, who are engaged in the pursuit of similar phantoms, and have only time on their way, to baulk, and impede, and throw down others, till the scene of life presents but one mass of hope ending in disappointment, of struggle and defeat."

Nevertheless the sufferers long to unburden memory of its load, as the ill in health fly to a physician, or the sick in soul to a confessor.

In my own case I seek neither medicine nor absolution. What my own hand is now writing may not, in human probability, meet the eye of the friendly, the unknown, or the inimical (if any such remain after the grave has closed), till the ⚫ author is alike unconscious of the blessing of sympathy, the coldness of apathy, or the injustice of enmity. The eulogy, the neutrality and the insult will be of equal value to him, and only of some importance to those near and dear to him who inherit his blood and cherish his memory.

CHAPTER II.

CHILDHOOD.

Time rolls her ceaseless course! The race of yore
That danced our infancy upon their knee,

And told our marvelling boyhood legends store

Of their strange ventures happed by land or sea;
How are they blotted from the things that be!-SCOTT.
There is a place in childhood that I remember well.-LOVER.

ALTHOUGH my birth, parentage, and education cannot pretend to public interest, yet as they are requisite for the development of my design, I claim excuse for devoting a space to them; and if I then hasten more in medias res for the sake of later affairs, it will not be without an intention of retracing my steps at a future period, should circumstances attendant upon this publication warrant the retrospect. At present, perhaps, some critics may fancy I have said more than enough on the subject: but it illustrates more than Sixty years ago."

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I was born on the 16th of April, 1782, being the third son and seventh child of John Jerdan and Agnes Stuart, both of Kelso, in the county of Roxburgh, Scotland. If the spot of birth could implant a love of the beautiful in nature and perfection of pastoral scenery, that love must have been inherent in me, for I first saw the light in a room which hung over the Tweed, opposite to its junction with the Teviot, and certainly one of the sweetest rural localities

upon the face of the earth. The mansion itself was one of those large old-fashioned houses, with the pressure of two centuries resting upon its roof, and with apartments large enough-after the family moved into a modern cottage residence, built closely adjoining in a pretty garden off the river to be converted into places for town meetings, dancing schools, ball-rooms, and warehouses. It rejoiced in the name of "Lang Linkie," and is still, I believe, in existence as a distillery, and no ornament to the site. The new cottage was also most beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed, opposite a lovely island, or "Ana,” on the fork between the rivers. Old Roxburgh Castle was just beyond, Fleurs, the magnificent seat of the Duke of Roxburgh, up the river on the right; and the Eildon Hills in the distance. There was a sweet garden, high brick wall, and fine fruits, not common elsewhere. Close by was the old family residence of "Lang Linkie," the gable end of which was washed by the river, as was the garden wall of the new abode, with the cheerful town-mill immediately below, with a picturesque “cauld" or weir.

My father was an only son, and descended from a long line of respectable landowners, of small estate. They held their property in feu, as deeds ranging over three hundred years bear witness, and appear to have been always ranked among the leading inhabitants of their native place. Desirous of improving, though, in fact, his easy temper and large family ultimately led to his diminishing his inheritance, he obtained the appointment of purser to an East Indiaman when a young man, and proceeded to London to enter upon his duties. But these were not the days of railroads or rapid intelligence, and whether the only son was indulged too long in his outfitting by maternal fondness and fears or not, certain it is that he did not arrive at his destination

till too late to sail with the vessel on its voyage to India. To return home would have been to become a laughingstock, and therefore, having the means, he resolved on a volunteer voyage, and after some stay in London, about 1760-61, took that trip, instead of the grand tour, and visited the East as a private gentleman, when such expeditions were, indeed, exceedingly rare. The late eminent merchant, Mr. John Tunno, was an officer in the ship in which he went, and he not only formed a friendship with that gentleman, but with Mr. Kerr, afterwards of Kippilaw, and Governor of Bombay, which was marked by a cadetcy to my eldest brother, and lasted to the end of their lives. On his return he sought no farther active life, though a person of excellent abilities, and, in after years, of great reading and solid information, but settled indolently down, the laird of a few fields, producing a revenue which, in our statistical day, would be thought no very satisfactory provision for the marriage state and its consequences. Marry, however, he did, and one of the best of wives that ever fell to the lot of man. She was handsome and possessed of very superior talents; and as there can be few families in Scotland without some pretence to lofty lineage, her progenitors claimed descent from a no less exalted and improper ancestor than a certain (?) Abbot of Melrose, and the natural son of a certain (?) King James! How this was made out I cannot tell, but the supposition was sustained by several remarkable* resemblances between branches of her family and portraits of the royal

*My own dear and lamented second daughter, Mary, the late Mrs. Power, was so like Mr. Traill's portrait of Mary Queen of Scots, that when it was brought to London and exhibited in St. George's Hospital, she was frequently invited thither for the sake of the comparison, and much playful amusement derived from the circumstance. In a fancy-ball dress at Sir William Beechey's, the resemblance was observed to be still more striking.