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to invent, and more ability uniformly to-sus- appears, till the last, is an admirably drawn tain this character than any one of the vari- and finely sustained character-new-perety of masterly characters with which the fectly new to the English reader-often enwork abounds. There is, indeed, uncommon tertaining — always heroic — and sometimes art in the manner in which his dignity is pre- sublime. The grey spirit, the Bodach Glas, served by his courage and magnanimity, in thrills us with horror. Us! What effect spite of alt his pedantry, and his ridicules, must it have upon those under the influence and his bear, and his boot-jack, and all the of the superstitions of the Highlands. This raillery of M'Ivor. (M'Ivor's unexpected circumstance is admirably introduced. This bear and boot-jack made us laugh heartily.) superstition is a weakness quite consistent

"But to return to the dear, good Baron, with the strength of the character, perfectly Though I acknowledge that I am not so good natural after the disappointment of all his a judge as my father and brothers are of his hopes, in the dejection of his mind, and the recondite learning and his law Latin, yet I exhaustion of his bodily strength. feel the humor, and was touched to the quick Flora, we could wish, was never called Miss by the strokes of his generosity, gentleness, Mac Ivor, because, in this country, there are and pathos, in this old man; who, by-the-bye, tribes of vulgar Miss Macs, and this associais all in good time worked up into a very dig- tion is unfavorable to the sublime and beautinified father-in-law for the hero. His excla- ful of your Flora-she is a true heroine_her mation of Oh, my son, my son,' and the first appearance seized upon the mind, and yielding of the facetious character of the enchanted us so completely, that we were cerBaron to the natural feelings of the father, tain she was to be your heroine, and the wife is beautiful. (Evan Dhu's fears that his of your hero—but with what inimitable art father-in-law should die quietly in his bed you gradually convince the reader that she made us laugh almost as much as the bear was not, as she said of herself

, capable of and the boot-jack).

making Waverley happy-leaving her in full “ Jinker, in the battle, pleading the cause possession of our admiration, you first made of the mare which he had sold to Balma- us pity, then love, and at last give our unwhapple, and which had thrown him for want divided affection to Rose Bradwardine-sweet of the proper bit, is truly comic; my father Scotch Rose! The last scene between Flora says that this and some other passages re- and Waverley is highly pathetic-my brother specting horsemanship, could not have been wishes that bridal garments were shroudwritten by any one who was not master both he thinks it would be stronger, and more of the great and little horse.

natural—because, when the heart is touched. "I tell you, without order, the great and we seldom use metaphor, or quaint alliteralittle strokes of humor and pathos just as I tion-bride favorbridal garment. recollect or am reminded of them at this • There is one thing more we could wish moment by my companions. The fact is, changed or omitted in Flora's character-I that we have had the volumes only during have not the volume, and therefore cannot rethe time we could read them, and as fast as fer to the page—but I recollect in the first we could read, lent to us as a great favor by visit to Flora, when she is to sing certain one who was happy enough to have secured verses, there is a walk in which the descripa copy before the first and second editions tion of the place is beautiful, but too long, were sold in Dublin. When we applied not and we did not like the preparation for a a copy could be had; we expected one in the sceneand the appearance of Flora and her course of next week, but we resolved to write harp. It was too like a common heroine-she to the author without waiting for a second would be far above all stage effect or novelperusal. Judging by our own feelings as ist's trick. authors, we guess that he would rather know " These are, without reserve, the only faults our genuine first thoughts than wait for cool we found, or can find in this work of genius. second thoughts, or have a regular eulogium We should scarcely have thought them worth or criticism put into the most lucid order, mentioning, except to give you proof positive and given in the finest sentences that ever that we are not flatterers. Believe me, I have were rounded.

not, nor can I convey to you the full idea of " Is it possible that I got thus far without the pleasure, the delight, we have had in readhaving named Flora or Vich Ian Vohr—the ing " Waverley "-—nor of the feeling of sorrow last Vich lan Vohr! Yet our minds were with which we came to the end of the history full of them the moment before I began this of persons, whose real presence had so filled letter—and could you have seen the tears our minds—we felt that we must return to forced from us by their fate, you would have the flat realities of life, and that our stimulus been satisfied that the pathos went to our was gone—we were little disposed to read the hearts. Ian Vohr, from ihe first moment he postscript which should have been a preface.

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THE NIGHT AFTER CULLODEN.

A pretty way for gentlemen

To end a pleasant dance !-
BY WALTER THORNBURY.

You cried "Pretender!” and the blood
TAE cherry-colored satin

Rose hot into their face; Moved with its peacock train,

These were the men who, beggar-like,
As the four-and-twenty fiddlers

Filled church and market-place.
Struck up a merry strain.
There was the Laird o' the Willow Glen, With slinking heads the old lords went
And Sir John of Siller Hall;

To take coach at the door;
Not to forget the Lairds of Fife,

They would not stay for stirrup-cup, With the Flanders lace and all.

But hurried to the shore.

The ferry-boats were filled that night The yellow satin and the black,

With muffled men in black, The crimson and the blue,

And every northern road was choked
Moved solemnly along the room,

With horsemen spurring back.
Slow pacing, two and two.
Cinnamon coat and claret vest

I shuddered when the sheriff came
Wore old Sir Robert Clare,

Unto the market-place; He had the small-sword by his side,

The scaffolds grew around the Cross, And the powder in his hair.

Stern was the hangman's face.

All night the sullen hammers went; The dance was set, the fiddlers stood

And when the day grew white. With the suspended bows,

They brought the wounded creatures outWhen at the gate into the street

The relics of the fight. There fell three angry blows;

National Magazine. Then, with a bang of folding-doors, As out flew many a blade,

ON THE PATHI.
A stranger came; his red hat bore
The Hanover cockade.

On the path toiling, I thought not of toil;
Swords blazed above bis fearless head,

Troubles might meet us, I did not recoil ;

Sunshine above us, but in our hearts more, Swords hedged the brave man round; Swords flashed and glittered past his eyes,

Rich in bright hopefulness, outwardly poor; Keen pointed, newly ground.

'Twas thus we started, thy hand clasping mine, Ten ladies fainted, twenty screamed ;

Thou my love owning, my faith built on thine. The satins shook and stirred;

“On the path,” saidst thou,“ together we'll keep, He stood as in the eagle trap,

Though it be thorny, love, though it be steep. The crowned and royal bird.

Alone one might falter, but we hand in hand The fiddler with a trembling rasp

Strength each from each, love, can ever comSlipped fiddle in the bag ;

mand." The trumpeter with quavering note

Yet I—the weaker-have held to the track, In time began to lag;

Singly have reached the goal; thou hast turned The dancer, half-way through the dance,

back. Stopped, listening half-afraid,

On the path, sadly and lonely I sped, O, shame for twenty Jacobites

Silently, tearlessly, buried my dead; To tremble at one blade!

One by one buried them out of my sight, Good gentlemen,” the stranger cried,

Deep in the heart that, near thee was so light. Waving away the swords,

Hope with its blossoms all withered and shed, “ Charles Stuart, whom ye call your chief,

Love, Faith, and Fellowship-these were my With all his naked hordes,

dead ! Is routed on Culloden Moor,

On the path still, but my toil is nigh done; God bless the day of spring !

I've but to enter the home I have won. He fies! a price is on his head !

Home !—what a word ! but the name is too sweet Adieu ! God save the king !

When the heart rests not, and the tired feet, He spoke with such a manly voice,

As o'er the threshold they wearily tread, Head up, and chest full spread,

Raise by their echo the ghosts of the dead. No rebel dared to even touch

From the path stepping, too clearly I see The badge upon his head.

Not what is present, but what was to be : The swords drooped down, and on their knees From the dark grave where I laid them to rest,

Some prayed' and sobbed and wept: The Love and the Faith that were dearest and How franticly towards the door

best, A dozen Tories leaped !

Like phantoms arise which the tomb cannot keep. The rakehells galloped down the strand,

And I lose them anew, having leisure to weep. To ship for Popish France,

Chambers's Journal

RUTH BUCK

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THE LAST POET.

From The Evening Post. 66 Wann werdt Ihr Poeten."

A MOTHER'S KISS. “ WHEN will yo, oh ye Poets, Be tired of the refrain ?

A child whose infancy was joy,
When will ye have out-sung it,

A little boy of noble mien,
The old, eternal strain ?

Now tossing gaily many a toy, “ Was not, long since, exhausted

Now romping through the garden greenThe overflowing cup ?

His parents' blue-eyed little pet, Are not the flowers all gathered?

He tripped one morn, and down he fell; Is not each fount drunk up?"

His mother cried, “ Come, Willie, let

Me kiss the spot and make it well.” As long as the sun's chariot

A mother's kiss hath power to cure; In his azure track yet burns,

Her love is balm for every wound; And to him in his splendor,

Her gentle smile, her words so pure One human face yet turns ;

Can heal the bruise and make us sound; As long as the storms of heaven

And if there come a bruised heart,
And thunder-clouds arise,

And bitter tears arise and swell,
And, fearful at their fury,

A mother's love still soothes the smartOne heart yet trembling lies ;

A mother's kiss will make it well.
As long as, after the tempest,

What matter if the world forget
One rainbow its glory shows,

To praise us for the good we do,
One bosom, after quiet

Or, if it never pays the debt And reconcilement, glows;

Which to our truthfulness is due !

A mother's sympathy is ours
As long as night the ether

Wherever on earth we dwell;
With starry seeds yet sows,

Though gone forever childhood's hours And yet one man the letters

The mother-kiss still makes us well! Of the golden scripture knows ;

My mother's hair is gray, and mine As long as the moon illumines,

Is slightly touched with silver streaks ; One heart yet longs and feels ;

I am a full-grown man—but Time As long as the forest rustles

Has deeply marked my mother's cheeks; And one tired traveller heals;

Yet still her thrilling kiss is warm
As long as spring brings verdure,

Upon my brow imprinted well :
And yet the rose-bowers blow;

Through all my life it hath a charm
While cheeks with smiles shall dimple,

My mother's kiss! to make me well. And eyes with joy overflow;

From infancy until to-day As long as the grave and the cypress

In sickness, sorrow and mistrust,

Her gentle words drive care away
The soul with sorrow shake;
As long as one eye is tearful,

And lift my spirit from the dust.

She tells me that the angels call,
And yet one heart may break;

That she must go with God to dwell : So long on earth shall wander

My broken heart! if such befall
The Goddess, Poesy,

No mother's kiss will make thee well. And with her shall wander, joyful,

“SPERANZA." Whoever her child shall be.

SILENCE.
And hereafter, triumphantly singing,
Through this old liouse of earth

In silence mighty things are wroughtShall march out, as the last Poet,

Silently builded, thought on thought, The man that shall last have birth.

Truth's temple greets the sky;

And, like a citadel with towers, The Lord yet holds creation

The soul with her subservient powers, His mighty hand upon,

Is strengthen'd silently.
Like a fresh blooming flower,

Soundless as chariots on the snow,
And looks with a smile thereon ;

The saplings of the forest grow
And when this giant-flower,

To trees of mighty girth;
Long hence, its bloom has shed,

Each mighty star in silence burns,
And earth and all the sun-balls

And every day in silence turns
Like flower-dust are spread ;

The axle of the earth.
Then ask, if still the question

The silent frost, with mighty hand, You would like to ask again,

Fetters the rivers and the land “Whether at last, we've out-sung it,

With universal chain ;
The old, eternal strain.”

And smitten by the silent sun, ANASTASIUS GRUN. The chain is loosed, the rivers run, - Providence Journal.

The lands are free again.

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