exhibited; and when we beheld the splendid train of three hundred equipages sweeping round the base of the Calton Hill, and entering the city by the magnificent opening of Waterloo Place, we looked down with heartfelt gratitude to that now forgotten Palace, where the brave kings of Scotland once lived and struggled with a turbulent nobility and a barren soil, to maintain the freedom of their native land. But for their bold and unconquered spirit Scotland might have shared with Ireland the horrors of English conquest; and in place of exulting now in the prosperity of our country, and the assembled splendour of our nobility, we might have been deploring, with them, an absent nobility and a ruined people. Amidst our gratitude for the past, let us not forget the means by which similar prosperity for the future is to be obtained; and if we would secure for this country the inestimable blessings of a resident and patriotic body of landed proprietors, let us seek to give to its metropolis the attractions which might otherwise draw our youth to distant countries; and teach them to look to its taste and refinement, for the means of acquiring the elegant accomplishments, as they have long done, for the more solid acquirements of life. MA EDITOR, DON JUAN UNREAD. I composed the following poem on Tuesday-night last, between the hours of eleven and twelve o'clock, during a sound sleep, into which I had fallen while in the act of attempting to peruse Constable's Magazine. While I slept I was busily employed in versifying, and should, I am sure, have composed much more, but that I unfortunately threw the Magazine off the table upon my foot, which instantly awaked me. A half-hundred could not have descended with more weight, a circumstance which proves how very heavy the articles contained in that work must be; and I feel the effects of it yet. I send my lines merely as a psychological curiosity like Kubla Khan. It is a remarkable fact, that a poem of Mr Wordsworth's, “Yarrow Unvisited," bears a resemblance to this of mine; how to account for this coincidence I know not. I remain, Sir, your humble servant, M. N. YARROW UNVISITED. From Stirling Castle we had seen Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, "Let Yarrow Folk, frac Selkirk Town, "There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, And Dryborough, where with chiming The Lintwhites sing in chorus ; DON JUAN UNREAD. Of Corinth Castle we had read The amazing Siege unravelled, As faithfully as any, Until he cried, "Come, turn aside "Let Whiggish folk, frac Holland House, "There's Godwin's daughter, Shelley's A writing fearful stories; There's Hazlitt, who, with Hunt and Keats A recollection of the usual accoutrements of the prince of the air, to whose service the poem of Don Juan is devoted, will account for this epithet being applied to its author. +Italice for Juan, which is Hispanice for John. Witness the subscription for Hone as a reward for parodying the Lord's Prayer, &c. in which list the Duke of Bedford, Lord Sefton, and many other Whig leaders, figured conspicuously. There's pleasant Tiviot Dale, a land "What's Yarrow but a River bare There's pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad -Strange words they seem'd of slight and Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn; My true-love sigh'd for sorrow; And look'd me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 66 "Oh! green," said I, are Yarrow's Holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing! "Let Beeves and home-bred Kine partake. "Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown! "If Care with freezing years should come, 'Should life be dull, and spirits low, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny Holms of Yarrow !” "Let Colburn's town-bred cattle snuff We will not read them, will not hear "Be Juan then unseen, unknown! Ah! why should we undo it? "When Whigs with freezing rule shall come, And piety seem folly; When Cam and Isis|| curbed by Brougham, When Cobbett, Wooler, Watson, Hunt, Shall rough-shod ride¶ o'er church'and state, "Come, tell me, says Rosa, as kissing and kissed," &c. and "Sweet Fanny of Timmol," with many other equally edifying little pieces. +Scotice for-I do not exactly know what but it signifies something pleasant, comfortable, knowing, snug, or the like. Peter, to wit. Vulgariter for grandmother, not that I mean to assert that Lady M, is a grandmother, but to insinuate, that as she is old enough to be one, she has a fair claim to the title. Rivers, on the banks of which certain Universities much indebted to the learned jurisconsult mentioned in the text for his kind attention to their interests, are seated. "We shall ride roughshod over Carlton House."-Speech of all the talents through the mouth-piece of Lord on hearing of the assassination of Mr Percival. FANCY IN NUBIBUS. A SONNET, Composed on the Sea Coast. O! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, To make the shifting clouds be what you please, Own each strange likeness issuing from the mould And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold 'Twixt crimson banks, and then a traveller go From mount to mount o'er CLOUDLAND, gorgeous land! Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand, By those deep sounds possess'd with inward light, Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea! No more shall we welcome the white-bo- No more shall we welcome the white-bo No more shall we welcome the white-bo- No more shall we welcome the white-bo som'd stranger! "The hands of the Moor In his wrath do they bind him? Oh! seal'd is his doom If the savage Moor find him. More fierce than hyenas, Through darkness advancing, Is the curse of the Moor, And his eyes' fiery glancing! Alas! for the white man! o'er deserts a som'd stranger! "He launch'd his light bark, And sail'd to the land Where the day-beams are rising. May look forth in her sorrow, But he shall ne'er come To her hope of to-morrow! Alas! for the white man! o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bo- No more shall we welcome the white-bo ranger, som'd stranger! som'd stranger!" P. M. J. THE RECTOR. A Parody on GOLDSMITH's Country Clergyman, in the "Deserted Village." Near where yon brook flows babb'ling thro' the dell, From whose green bank those upland meadows swell; See where the Rector's splendid mansion stands, 'Tis said his sacred stole received some stains. Could ne'er find entrance to his close locked breast: His heart withholds the mite to sooth the wanderers pains. Thus to depress the wretched is his pride, Sound the church bells to summon him to pray'rs, Call'd to the bed where parting life is laid, If dues and tithes be punctually supplied. J. P. CHARACTER OF SIR THOMAS BROWN AS A WRITER. MR EDITOR, It is well known to those who are in habits of intercourse with Mr Coleridge, that not the smallest, and, in the opinion of many, not the least valuable part of his manuscripts exists in the blank leaves and margins of books; whether his own, or those of his friends, or even in those that have come in his way casually, seems to have been a matter altogether indifferent. The following is transcribed from the blank leaf of a copy of Sir T. Brown's Works in folio, and is a fair specimen of these Marginalia; and much more nearly than any of his printed works, gives the style of Coleridge's conversation. SIR THOMAS BROWN is among my first favourites. Rich in various knowledge; exuberant in conceptions and conceits; contemplative, imaginative; often truly great and magnificent in his style and diction, though, doubt less, too often big, stiff, and hyperlatinistic; thus I might, without admixture of falsehood, describe Sir T. G. J. Brown, and my description would have this fault only, that it would be equally, or almost equally, applicable to half a dozen other writers, from the beginning of the reign of Elizabeth to the end of the reign of Charles the Second. He is, indeed, all this; and what he has more than all this, and peculiar to himself, I seem to convey This is a fact. A certain reverend clergyman, who enjoys a plurality of livings in various parts of the country, but whose residence is near town, used frequently to amuse himself by performing the duty of Pindar. to my own mind in some measure, by saying, that he is a quiet and sublime enthusiast, with a strong tinge of the fantast; the humourist constantly mingling with, and flashing across the philosopher, as the darting colours in shot silk play upon the main dye. In short, he has brains in his head, which is all the more interesting for a little twist in the brains. He sometimes reminds the reader of Montaigne; but from no other than the general circumstance of an egotism common to both, which, in Montaigne, is too often a mere amusing gossip, a chit-chat story of whims and peculiarities that lead to nothing; but which, in Sir Thomas Brown, is always the result of a feeling heart, conjoined with a mind of active curiosity, the natural and becoming egotism of a man, who, loving other men as himself, gains the habit and the privilege of talking about himself as familiarly as about other men. Fond of the curious, and a hunter of oddities and strangenesses, while he conceives himself with quaint and humorous gravity, a useful inquirer into physical truths and fundamental science, he loved to contemplate and discuss his own thoughts and feelings, because he found by comparison with other men's, that they, too, were curiosities; and so, with a perfectly graceful interesting ease, he put them, too, into his museum and cabinet of rarities. In very truth, he was not mistaken, so completely does he see every thing in a light of his own, reading nature neither by sun, moon, or candle light, but by the light of the fairy glory around his own head; that you might say, that nature had granted to him in perpetuity, a patent and monopoly for all his thoughts. Read his Hydrostaphia above all—and, in addition to the peculiarity, the exclusive Sir Thomas Browness; of all the fancies and modes of illustration, wonder at, and admire, his entireness in every subject which is before him. He is totus in illo, he follows it, he never wanders from it, and he has no occasion to wander; for whatever happens to be his subject, he metamorphoses ; all nature into it. In that Hydrostaphia, or treatise on some urns dug up in Norfolk-how earthy, how redolent of graves and sepulchres is every line! You have now dark mould; now a thigh-bone; now a skull; then a bit of mouldered coffin; a fragment of an old tombstone, with moss in its hic jacet; a ghost; a winding-sheet; or the echo of a funeral psalm wafted on a November wind: and the gayest thing you shall meet with, shall be a silver nail, or gilt anno domini, from a perished coffin top!-The very same remark applies in the same force to the interesting, though far less interesting treatise on the Quincuncial Plantations of the Ancients, the same entireness of subject! quincunxes in heaven above quincunxes in earth below; quincunxes in deity; quincunxes in the mind of man; quincunxes in tones, in optic nerves, in roots of trees, in leaves, in every thing! In short, just turn to the last leaf of this volume, and read out aloud to yourself, the seven last paragraphs of chapter 5th, beginning with the words "more considerable." But it is time for me to be in bed. In the words of Sir T. Brown (which will serve as a fine specimen of his manner)," but the quincunxes of Heaven (the hyades, or five stars about the horizon, at midnight at that time) run low, and it is time we close the five parts of knowledge; we are unwilling to spin out our waking thoughts into the phantoms of sleep, which often continue precogitations, making cables of cobwebs, and wildernesses of handsome groves. To keep our eyes open longer, were to act our antipodes! The huntsmen are up in Arabia; and they have already passed their first sleep in Persia." Think you, that there ever was such a reason given before for going to bed at midnight; to wit, that if we did not, we should be acting the part of our antipodes! And then, THE HUNTSMEN ARE UP IN ARA BIA," what life, what fancy! Does the |