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so bewitching? It oppresses our soul with too full a sense of the loveliness of external nature, and our madness is full of melancholy. We throw ourselves down upon the breezy height that commands the castle and the wooded dell, and, gazing upwards on the summer sky, we catch the murmuring of the stream and hear the rustling of the leaves, until the sounds and the sunshine become a part of ourselves, and the fret, and languor, and feverish anxieties of ordinary existence sink into oblivion. The trees that hang upon the side of Hawthornden, how are they interfused with the golden sunlight! how are they, in beautiful variety, either massed up into magnificent groups waving over the toppling cliffs, or opening into glades and fairy knolls, into which there comes down from the sky a golden shower of beams like Jove into the lap of Danäe! Then the stream! that "pure and blessed thing!" for ever prattling on with its many tones! how deep the enchantment which it lends to that glorious ramble between Lasswade and Roslin! Call it not "classic Hawthornden;" it has higher attributes; it is a spot of earth hallowed not by man, but by God.

We have been mad at Musselburgh. The enormous sums which we have staked on horse-flesh, in the racecourse there, exceed all computation; yet, by a sort of miracle, we have never been more than a few pounds either in or out of pocket any one season. It is well that is so, for we have more than once felt the spirit of a black-leg creeping upon us, and we have longed to hedge our bets, and even to physic the horses against which we gave the long odds. But few minds can help being thrown off their equilibrium, by the ecstasy of seeing the horse you have backed come in by half a neck. There is first the perfect hush of the multitude, when, as Campbell says, "the boldest holds his breath for a time," as they pass the distance, and near the winning, post; then there are the slight alterations in the places of the leading horses, alterations, however, which change the destination of hundreds of pounds, and the sight of which so agitates the spectators, that to relieve their throbbing and oppressed hearts, they burst out of silence into tumultuous shouts of encouragement, and exclamations of sudden joy or fear; then there is the final and momentary struggle-the whipping and spurring of the riders-the waving of hats, and clapping of hands, and the inimitable tact with which some experienced old jockey lifts his horse, at the very winning-post, a full head before all the others. Human nature could stand no more; were the race continued twenty yards farther, we and a dozen other sporting characters would drop down dead on the spot from sheer overexcitement. But the collecting of one's winnings! The calm smile of conscious superiority with which you pocket a bunch of notes! or the rich expression of ill-concealed triumph with which you exact the payment of five shillings from some old miser, who ventured to bet to that extent, upon what he considered a certainty! No wonder we have been mad at Musselburgh.

ing, the sonorous tones of our voice may have been heard by the perambulator on the beach at Portobello, mingling with the dredging-song of the fishermen. The pandores know the music, and willingly allow themselves to be caught by the EDITOR, On whom, in mute love, they turn their " gentle dumb expression," as we gulp them alive. We have been mad at Craigmillar Castle, that ancient seat of Scottish royalty, the favourite residence of Mary the beautiful, the high-minded, and the deeply-injured. No wonder that she loved it, for it commands the noblest view in all the land,—the fertile plains of East Lothian, the magnificent basin of the Forth, the undulating Pentlands, the lion hill of King Arthur, the placid lake which sleeps at its foot, and the palaces and towers of Dunedin. We have visited Craigmillar only twice in our life, and on both occasions we had good reason to be mad—a slow consuming madness, which broke not out at the time, but which struck into our constitution, and will be difficult to eradicate.

We have been mad on the Corstorphin hills,-mad at Cramond Brig,-mad at Habbie's Howe,-mad at the Compensation Pond,-mad at Pennycuick,-mad—O ! very mad at Curry,—and in a state of total distraction at Haddington. But why confine ourselves to the immediate vicinity of Edinburgh? Where have we not been mad? Have we not been deeply and gloomily mad in that bleak and wild valley, through which the Line winds to the Tweed, where rises the black castle of Drochi), that gaunt and spectral-looking mansion, commenced, but never finished, by the bloody Earl of Morton? Have we not been cheerfully and enthusiastically mad beside the bonny linn and woods of Cora, into whose white waters we fell but to rise out of them again with renewed vigour, the baptized child of Scotland and her thousand rivers? Have we not been purely, truly, and tenderly mad upon thy broad surface, glorious Lochlomond! where we sailed with Thee, and loved thee all the while too well to love great nature so much as we have done of yore? Dost thou remember that we landed on that fairy island, and gazed together from the top? When shall we gaze again together upon a sight so fair? We must not ponder too long upon the answer to that question. An Editor in love is an anomaly in nature. It matters not; we have made good our position. In the words of the old song, we may safely say,

"Mad, mad, and merry were we,
Mad were we up and down,
Mad among the streams and hills,

And madder in the roaring town."

But for Heaven's sake, let us now get back to our study as fast as possible, else our Pegasus will run off with us altogether, and, like a second John Gilpin, we shall be seen careering along every highroad in the kingdom. Our SLIPPERS will operate like a cooling draught, and we shall become once more sedate, composed, and dignified ;

"Here awa, there awa, wandering Editor,

We have been mad on the Frith of Forth, between Newhaven and Aberdour; mad, not as the trustees of the Fife Ferries are mad, but as he is who rejoices in the Here awa, there awa, write sober prose; dancing up and down of a trim-built wherry. Away With all the blockheads now keep up your credit, or have we scudded up almost to Grangemouth, or down to the Isle of May and the hoary Bass; now whizzing beBigwigs and boobies will turn up their nose." fore the breeze like the Flying Dutchman, and now steer- Well, they may just do so if they please, for even here, in ing within one point of the wind, as vessel was never our study, we hold to-day a jubilee, and we shall give free steered before. We have fished all night off the north- scope to whatsoever mood of mind may present itself. east point of Inchkeith, and found our boat in the morn- And why should we not? Is not this a day of rejoicing ing filled with the most unimaginable creatures, concern- to all Scotland, seeing that to-day, in greater power and ing the natural history of which not Dr Greville him- with more resources than ever, we commence the Fourth self could give us any information. We have explored Volume of the Literary Journal. Why should we not several uninhabited islands, which lie nearly in the same take our pleasure in our own SLIPPERS, seeing that, when latitude as the village of Cramond; and on the shores of in our boots, we can do business in a style that laughs to one of them, we once saw the print of a man's foot, but scorn all other Editors? Look to our reviews in this very we were never able to discover the horde of barbarians to Number. The leading review alone would make the forwhich he must have belonged. We have dragged for tune of any new periodical. Nor is that on the Encyoysters off Prestonpans, and in the calm summer morn-clopædia Britannica, or that on Douglas of Cavers, or

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that on Valpy's Greek Exercises, less excellent. Then look to our Original Poetry, the Ettrick Shepherd and the author of "Anster Fair" side by side, two of the strongest pillars of our national school; and Gertrude, our own Gertrude-whom we back at this moment against both L. E. L. and Mrs Norton-gracefully standing apart by herself “in maiden meditation fancy free." Then look to our " Varieties," and our "Chit Chat,"-so much information crammed into so small a space, and all so pleasant to read, and so profitable to hear! And wait a little, for we have not done yet; look also to the group of contributors, from all parts of the country, which we are about to summon with one wave of our magic wand, and who will start up like Rhoderick Dhu's band, each ready armed with song and sonnet. Verily, it is but little marvel that we are jocund in our Editorship, for greatly are we respected, and much are we beloved, and highly are we popular, whilst we see others labouring around us with little profit and with small thanks, puffing and blowing, and making a terrible splashing in the muddy waters around them, but sinking every day deeper and deeper, till at length nothing but a little bit of -0 their bald heads is seen above the slime and mire of the receding tide. No marvel that respectable poets up and down the land feel themselves raised to the third heavens when any of their lucubrations find a place in our pages, and in the exuberant delight of their hearts, write to us in such terms as the following, which is but an extract from one of the many pleasing letters in praise of ourselves we receive weekly :

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TO THE EDITOR OF THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL. Forfar, May, 1830.

Now am I immortalized! Will not the Edinburgh, Literary Journal glide down the silver stream of time, with all her pennons flying,-beautiful, bright, and glorious? and will not the names of your correspondents be written in letters of gold round the immortal SLIPPERS, emblazoned on the silken ensign, rustling to the gentle breeze of heaven? and will not futurity, with the most enthusiastic gratulations, hail the magnificent bark, as, on her voyage of immortality, she sails along with many a happy shade of poet and poetess on board? Methinks I see the splendid and sublime phenomenon newly launched, and still hovering over the Calton-hill, while all the scene below is peopled with the beauty and chivalry of Scotland, gazing in breathless but pleasurable astonishment on the ethereal wonder! And who are these coming down through the far sky, on their glittering pinions, with music and with song? It is the glorious Nine themselves! Lo! they salute the noble captain-the editor of editors, and gracefully take their stations on the quarter-deck, redolent of balm and of myrtle, and of every sweet bloom! Hark! the harmony of the spheres, and the echoing harps of the sacred sisters, as the hallowed vehicle, mounting, floats slowly away! By ten thousand fair hands are waved ten thousand adieus and blessings, whilst tongues innumerable cheer the departing pageant. All the bells of fair Dunedin chime jubilant, and all the mountains of Albyn's city reverberate the symphonious applause! Lo! a beautiful iris is thrown across the sky-a shower of nectar falls— the spirit-ship of poetic fame is baptized! Read, thou delighted world, the everlasting name—

"The Edinburgh Literary Journal."

By the romantic minstrels of the rocky Caledon-by the poets and sweet poetesses of fair England-and by him, the chivalrous knight of the flaming lyre, the EDITOR HIMSELF, are sung the praises of the spirit-ship; and as it sails on, the breezes ripple into sunlight around its sides. Then fly the vulgar and the renegade crew, taking but one brief glance of the full-rigged glory, and instantly

*Since writing the above, we find ourselves obliged to postpone a powerful ballad by the Shepherd till our next.

hiding their diminished heads, far away and for ever!— Amen!

In like manner, we find our own value properly set forth in an agreeable poetical letter from Dumfries. We cannot insert the whole of it; but being not quite so modest now as we once were, we willingly give a place to the lines which follow, recommending them to the serious attention of all those who hate us with a perfect hate, and who sneer at us with witty sneers:

TO THE EDITOR.

As skilful nurses wisely show
The way how children ought to go,
And train them on a piece of cloth
By precept and example both;
So You, our patron, guide, and stay,
Have led us in Fame's letter'd way.
If, from plain prose, we witless stray'd,
Or blunder'd in the Muse's trade,
If dulness we mistook for fire,
You, like smooth candour touch'd with ire,
Applied with skill the critic's lash,
And whipt away the brainless trash;
If taste and judgment seem'd to shine
In prospect o'er the future line,
You ne'er were niggard of applause,
But spoke out in young merit's cause.
Much reason have we to conclude
Your labours always tend to good;
You turn our follies to a glass,
To show us wisdom as we pass;
The present thus rebukes the past,
And even fools get wise at last.

Having indulged thus far in egotism, we shall now de. part out of ourselves, and summon into the presence of our readers a poet whom we have long loved, but who, devoted to higher duties, will probably never seek to gain that fame he might so easily acquire. We regret that we cannot disclose the name of the author of these fine. stanzas:

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The scenes of early life are round me shining

Beneath a bright and well-remember'd sky; Unchanged-save into bloom more undecliningYet all around me tells how changed am I !

From hope, which arc'd all tempests, to repining

From creeds which open'd heaven to childhood's view, To doubts, like serpents round my heartstrings twining-From all I could not dread, to all I do!

Thy renovated youth-its luxury glowing

On the rapt sense-haloes thee, glorious stream! Alas! while I behold thee brightly flowing, My mem'ry's wave through deserts pours its gleam. Yet there's a beauty comes not by the eye,— And there's a music wooes not by the ear,— There is a life which breathes but in a sigh,And these, and more than these, are with me here..

I gaze upon thy glory, as if Heaven

Had made me once again what I am not; Since last I saw thee, I have mourn'd, watch'd, striven, Loath'd life itself,-and now 'tis all forgot!

Ay, all forgot!-the dead are standing round me,-
The false, in their first loveliness, are near,-

The dreams which cheer'd, and lofty hopes which bound me,

Like a soft sunrise, dawn upon me here.

I gaze o'er troubled days and wasted hours,
Like a spent meteor o'er its fiery track;

And, through them all, like Eve to Eden's bowers,
To early love my pausing heart looks back.

As oft, in icicles, a flower remaineth

Unwither'd, until spring its buds unchain ; This bosom, through all change, that love retaineth, And now exhumes its summer leaves again.

The noise of life can ne'er so dull our ear,

Nor passion's waves, though in their wildest mood, That oft, above their surge, we should not hear

The solemn voices of the great and good.

They, station'd on the mountains, whence comes wand'ring,

Like sounds of heavenly birth, their holy strain; While the still'd soul, its wasted seasons pond'ring, Is wooed to all its loftier hopes again.

It is a saying among farmers in the earlier part of the as the day lengthens, the cold strengthens." year, that " So it is with poets: the more the list increases, the greater the number of candidates that present themselves. There came to us, not many weeks ago, a simple son of song, John Wright by name, who had travelled all the way from Galston to Edinburgh, with little else but a manuscript poem in his pocket. His great ambition was to see the Editor of Blackwood's Magazine and the Editor of the Literary Journal; and he saw us both. He published a prospectus of his poem, which he is to bring out by subscription, and which he is to call "The Retrospect; or, Youthful Scenes." Most of his manuscripts passed through our hands, and we have pleasure in subjoining, as a favourable specimen of his abilities, the following

ANACREONTIC SONG.

By John Wright.

Kiss the goblet and live! it is sweeter to sip,
And richer than beauty's ambrosial lip;
And fairer than Fairyland poets have sung,
And truer than flattery's mellifluous tongue;

When clouds o'er the bright sky of young hope are driven—
Fill the bowl! fill it high!-it will waft you to heaven!

When penury shoots his sharp frosts through the blood,
When passion would weave us too early a shroud,-
When conscience starts up like a sibilant snake,
And the glory sets darkly that shone to awake
A fire and a feeling which held us in thrall-
Fill the bowl! fill it high!-'tis the Lethe of all!

When obloquy pours forth her poisonous breath,
And saddens our sky with the paleness of death;
When friendship's sweet smile is converted for aye,
To the frown of contempt and the glance of dismay;
Though these evils above us like thunder-clouds hang-
Fill the bowl! fill it high!—it will soften the pang!

What is life, but the sound of a wearisome chime?—
What is love, but a tree in the desert of time,
Whose blossoms look pale in the watery glow
That flickering gleams on its branches of woe,

Those branches whose leaves are so pallid and few?
Fill the bowl! fill it high! 'twill their verdure renew!
When manhood declines, and the grey hairs of age
Come to tell that we tread on life's last leaden stage;
When the lights of the heart all in darkness subside,
And the slow hours like reptiles through charnel vaults
glide;

When death's shadow rests on the spiritless frame,
Fill the bowl! fill it high!-'twill rekindle the flame!

In a different style, and from a different part of the country, namely, from the good town of Arbroath, comes the following effusion. It is a simple and pretty ballad : THE PRIDE O' the glen,

Frae fa' o' the lav'rock at gloamin' yestreen,
In glen o' the birk, an' the bracken sae green,
I wander'd till day was abroad on the plain,
Wi' bonnie young Mary, the pride o' the glen.

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TO A BRANCH OF ROSES BLOOMING IN A FLOWER-POT.

By the Rev. James Proudfoot of Culter.
Branch of Roses, bending low,

O'er the page before me lying;
Where got thou that crimson glow,

With the hues of heaven vying?

Where got thou that lovely bloom?
And where that delicate perfume?

For thou never wast bathed in the summer shower,
And the gaudy insect ne'er courted thy flower.

Branch of Roses, bending low,

Thou wast nursed 'mid sickly vapour,
Even in tender embryo,

By the wasting midnight taper.

Yet thy flower is red, and thy leaves are green,

As of the garden thou hadst been,

Though thou never wast wet with the dew of even, And thou never wast fann'd by the breeze of heaven,

Branch of Roses, bending low,

Near a head with sorrow aching;

Cease thy useless sweets to throw

Around a heart with anguish breaking:

Thy beauty is lost, and thy fragrance vain,

To a heart of woe and head of pain;

For thy leaves shall fall, and thy flowers be faded, And this heart to its woe shall still be wedded.

Branch of Roses, bending low

O'er the hand that now is writing;
Still may be, ere thy buds shall blow,

The heaving heart these lines inditing.

Oh! could man this being loose,

Soft as the falling leaf of the rose !

But firm is the band of life's mystic tying,
And there's many a pang in the work of dying!

Branch of Roses, bending low

O'er the hand thy stem that planted;
Where the grave-flowers rankly grow,

Thy soft bloom shall not be wanted;
Yet some loved friend will kindly take
An interest in thee, for my sake,

And save thy buds from blight and blasting,
When this woe-worn frame in earth is wasting!

From another corner of the island comes an amusing story in prose:

A TALE OF WITCHCRAFT.

By Thomas Brydson.

In the green valley of a certain mountain range, stands, or stood, the cottage of that most formidable of all characters, a reputed witch. Never shall I forget the occasion which brought me into actual contact with this singular personage. I was returning late one evening from a fishing excursion,-my thoughts so much engrossed with my recent sport, that I unconsciously took the road leading past the place of all others I least wished to encounter, either by day or by night. Some unwonted object suddenly crossing the horizon of my reverie, I looked up, and beheld, a few paces before me, the dreaded inmate of the cottage herself, seated upon a stone by the hedge side, and twirling a piece of grass between her fingers. On her head she had one of those conical-shaped flannel cowls which old peasant women not unfrequently wear-but hers was of more than ordinary capacity, and its bend forward was most exactly copied by the nose protruding beneath its shadow, and almost touching a chin which ever and anon came to meet it over the sunken mouth between. A blue plaiding petticoat and short brown cloak completed the visible array of this emissary of darkness. I made a dead halt—a numbness seized all my faculties a cold sweat trickled from my brow-I became giddy. The landscape, witch and all, got into motion. "She is wafting me to Pandemonium," thought I," and has taken a shred of the world for her vessel: I am a lost mortal, and my blood will be upon my own head. Oh! that I had followed Jock Tamson's friendly advice about the rowan-tree twig! I might by this time have been roasting the trouts at my own fire, instead of being roasted along with them in the fire of the Evil One!" Such were my reflections; for though unable to stir hand or foot, I had full consciousness of my awful situation. On we went, till at last the moon made her appearance, which convinced me that our progress was upwards. This sent a gleam of comfort through me, knowing, as I did, the directly opposite tendency of the person who had me in tow. Then the idea struck me that the witch's intention might be to carry me up for a mile or two, and cast me to the ground, where I would certainly be dashed to pieces. I was all the while steadily regarding the old carline, who kept continually grinning and laughing, and nodding her monstrous cowl in my face. At length she exclaimed, "Oh, man, ye hae been a wearifu' time wi' thae coals, though ye kend weel eneuch I was to hae a bit roast at denner-time !"

"My life is not worth much now," thought I; "I

will be roasted directly, and eaten to supper instead of dinner. Oh! what a predicament for any human being to be in!" I felt a hand grasp my shoulder, and a shrill voice bawled into my ear, "Stand oot o' the cart track, young man, gin ye dinna want to be ridden ower. Auld Luckie Aitchison harms naebody, for a' their clavers; but gin ye're flee'd, ye can wait till I pit in her coals, and I'll gi'e ye a cast up the gait." This homely address dispelled the fearful delusion, and every thing was explained. The honest old woman was highly tickled with the account which I gave of the strange fancies which had occupied me as she had also been with my appearance, during my half-hour's stance the cause of which she had, indeed, partly conjectured. She now really compassionated my condition, for I was still pale and ghastly; and having invited me into her house, persuaded me to taste a cordial, which, wherever brewed, or of whatever compounded, produced entire restoration. Luckie Aitchison has since left this sublunary scene, and it has often occurred to me that I could not do better than bring before the public the foregoing narration, because of its great importance in clearing away the mists of error which are too apt to obfuscate the human mind.

The author of a wild and original poem of some length, not yet published, bearing the equally wild and original title of "The Lunacy, or Death-watch; a Necromaunt, in Four Chimæras," has sent us the following little poem, which, we think, possesses singular power and merit:

I STOLE A DREAM.

By Thomas Todd Stoddart.

I stole a dream, that, like the stir
Of moonlight on the sea,
Over the virgin brow of her
I loved, lay silently!

I saw another,—and he wore
A statelier step than mine,
And threw a nobler shadow o'er
My sleeping Eveline!

And there was love, like mystery,

Lay burning in the glance
Of her dark eyes, that gave reply
To his fair countenance.

And I beheld myself, but not

As I had pictured me;

Oh, God! that I should bear the thought
Of such deformity!

It was, I see it must have been,
Her malice drew me so ;-
A likeness! yet, most frightful in
Those lineaments of woe!

She saw it in her dream; 'twas this That to her glowing cheek Threw the cold creeping chilliness, The melancholy streak ;—

She smote her white hand on her brow,
And flung each raven tress
Back, like a cloud amid the glow

Of her pale loveliness;

Then breathed another name-a new,
A loathed name to me :-
The dream was but a dream I drew

In my heart's jealousy!

The next poem we shall give from the heap of communications, in the midst of which we sit half buried, does not possess so much originality as the preceding, but has merit sufficient to entitle it to a place even here, and its merit therefore cannot be very trifling:

THE DESERT SPRING.

The desert spring! the desert spring!
Welcome, in sooth, thou art to me;
And gladly to my lips I bring

Thy cold clear waters, gushing free;
More grateful in the wilderness,
And at a sultry hour like this.

The desert spring! the desert spring!

The forest trees that round thee grow, The flowers, beside thee blossoming, Rejoice in thy unceasing flow; And oft as evening steals along,

To thee the wild bird trills its song.

The desert spring! the desert spring!

Sparkling with gems of azure light, The wandering swallow cools his wing Among thy waters, clear and bright; And from thy fresh'ning circle hies To warmer climes, and summer skies!

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The desert spring! the desert spring!
By thee may rest the timid deer;
The spirit dove his mate may bring,
To woo in tranquil safety here;
Far in the lonely wilds to prove
The rapture and the truth of love!

The desert spring! the desert spring!
Oh, that it were but mine to share,
Now that my heart's a faded thing,

A portion of thy calmness there,
And bid my sådden'd bosom know
One feeling, yet untinged with woe.

The desert spring! the desert spring! O'er thee my tears are pour'd in vain; The loved and lost thou canst not bring

Back to my blighted heart again; Yet thou hast brought one hour of rest, And dreams of all I loved the best.

The desert spring! the desert spring!
Thou art a drear and lonely one,
Yet o'er thee this poor wreath I fling,
A token from a heart as lone,
To bid the wanderer, worn and sere,
Seek for repose and comfort here.

There is something lively, piquant, and striking in the effusion we shall next usher into the full blaze of day:

o! SWEET BESSY POESY!-A SONG.
By John Nevay.

Far 'mong glens and mountains wild,
Where bees gather Hybla honey,
Wonneth nature's darling child,

Ever young, and wild, and bonny;
Blooms her bower in greenwood dell,
Haunt of streams, and birks, and braken;
Lovers mair than tongue can tell,

There her love aye try to waken.

Chorus.

O! sweet Bessy Poesy!

There's owre mony wooing at her, Harping to her, canna get her,

O! sweet Bessy Poesy!

What a din and clitter-clatter!

"The spirit dove." The Indians call the wild pigeon" memé," and the wood dove," minato memé," literally the spirit pigeon." It is worshipped among many tribes.

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O! sweet Bessy Poesy!

There's owre mony wooing at her,
Harping at her, canna get her,

O! sweet Bessy Poesy!

What a din and clitter-clatter!

Brougham some time ago, in a very Mechanics'-Magazine sort of way, said, that the "schoolmaster was abroad." Had he been a poet, he would have said that Apollo and the Nine Muses were abroad, for certes, they are so with a vengeance. People talk of the spread of knowledge and the spread of religion, but the spread of poetry beats all other spreads hollow. Weavers and masons we could have endured-nay, rejoiced in them; but where may they not ensconce themselves at last, when we find that the Muses have made their way even into the Cowgate of Edinburgh? Ye gods! have we lived to have a correspondent in the Cowgate? Yes;-Mr Thomas Brownlee, come forth! Thou art a most ingenious

and amusing character, and both thy letter and thy lines, in all their exquisite naïveté, shall grace our pages:

TO THE EDITOR OF THE EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL.

Cowgate, Edinburgh, 24th May, 1830.

Sir, Having had occasion to borrow a glue-pot from a friend of mine, after heating it, a fly, cómmonly called in this country a spin-maugie, unfortunately fell into the pot of glue, which has afforded me an opportunity of composing the following little poem on it; and when you take into consideration that it is my first attempt, I flatter myself it is a little above the common, which you will, no doubt, discover, when you peruse it. Pray do me the honour to insert it in your excellent Journal, that the poem may not lie dormant from the eyes of the public; and if I should succeed in meeting the approbation of the world in this my first attempt, I shall attempt a second on a larger scale, viz. on the industry of the bee. Meantime,

I have the honour
Simply to be

Your obedient humble servant,
THOMAS BROWNLEE.

Beautiful spin-maugie! tell me true, How did you fall into this pot of glue? One limb is fast, all the others are free! Beautiful spin-maugie! in this I see

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