The song was finished; her sails were double-reefed, the hatches closed, and all made snug to meet the storm, which by this time had almost risen to a hurricane. How ever, Lawson, confident in the sea-worthiness of his favourite, fearlessly kept on his way, and in three bells came off the harbour of D—, against the piers of which the waves were breaking so furiously, that they were nearly hid in a cloud of foam and spray. Many years ago, at the time when the events of our tale happened, the coast blockade was not established; and whenever the revenue officers wished to make a seizure on land, they were obliged to call in the assistance of the military, the tide of popular prejudice setting in favour of the free-traders, as they were generally called. This run the Lucy had little to fear from unwelcome visitors, the revenue officers being far to the south, on a wrong scent, as we hinted some time ago. "We're just in the nick of the tide, Law

lugger and the quay. At the cry of "The skipper an the mate overboard!" the lad lost all power in amaze ment, the tiller slipped from his hands, and at the ver moment they rose above the water, the lugger, being n longer under control, yielded to the wind, and was in stantly dashed violently against the quay. A shriek e horror burst from the crowd. As quickly as hundred of eager hands could effect it, she was moved from th place. The bodies were soon found, but in a state to horrid to describe. An arm and hand of each were alon entire, firmly grasped together in the death-seal of friend ship. They had been driven between two beams, which formed part of the framework of the quay.

She

Morning broke bright and joyously; the storm wa over, and all nature seemed rejoicing in the change; but where was Lucy? She was sitting, gazing fixedly on the bed which contained the inanimate remains of those who were dearest to her on earth. The day advanced, but still she sat. One of her companions spoke to her. turned her dewy eyes on her for a moment, took another long last look, then rose, and with an erect step walked out of the cottage, under whose roof she had passed so many happy years, and sat herself on the edge of the cliff, with her eyes wandering eagerly over the sea. The guiding light of reason had happily left her.

By the side of a brawling brook, running through a beautiful sequestered little glen, a still lovely face might be seen, every summer's eve, reflected on the pure surface, as it bent seeking the water-cresses that were abundant in its bed. 'Twas Lucy. She recollected that her father liked them, and in the morning she might be discovered on the edge of the cliff, with her basketful hanging from her arm, still gazing over the sea. Alas! no more will her father's sail break the line of the horizon. Soon she drooped, and died. The tears of the inhabitants for miles round were the last proofs of commiseration for poor Lucy, the water-cress girl! The ill-fated schooner that met the lugger that night was so cut up, that she yielded to the storm, filled, and went down at sea; and of that brave ship and her gallant crew, nought remains but an old man's tale.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

more to the wind, eh?"-" Right, boy: in with that foresail there, and stand by to haul in every rag." The lugger appeared for a moment on the crest of a wave, was immediately lost in the spray, and next moment was in the mouth of the harbour in comparative safety. "We'll make for the south side, I suppose, Lawson, eh?"—" Ay, boy, do. Come aft here, you young imp, and take the tiller; and now, Will, come for'ard. A keg of Nantz to a pound of granny's delight, I jump ashore first."- " I say, done."" Keep her steady, you lubber, or I'm blow'd if I don't make a dead marine of your back!"

66

Ay,

They were now almost close to the quay. At that time, none of the houses on the northern side, which now protect the harbour from the wind when in that quarter, were built. A fisherman's hut or two, formed of a wall half mud, half brick, with an old boat inverted for the roof, were all that then broke the dreariness of the prospect in that direction. "Come, Will, art ready?" cried Lawson, one foot on the gunnel, about to leap. ay. Steady there, steady!" roared he to the lad at the helm. The latter, more intent on recognising his own friends among the crowd on the quay, than in attending to his duty, and hearing some command given, moved the tiller a little to leeward; a gust of wind tore the halfhauled-in sails from the hands of the men; her head yawed off to the wind; Lawson and Will sprung that moment, without seeing what had happened; their feet

CHINA.

By Allan Cunningham.

THY gallant ship shows like a bride,

Upon her bridal-night;

And like the falcon, wild and free,

She spreads her wings for flight; The heaven above, the flood below, Show many a cheering signLo! see the cup in my right hand,

'Tis brimm'd with ruddy wine; As full as this, thy cup will flow,

With all that's good and fair— Go, and good fortune go with theeMy blessings on thee, Blair!

The ocean calls thee from below,
A fair wind calls on high,
Around thee crowd thy merry-men,
And friends are standing nigh.
Full on thy sight the vision'd shores
Of India open wide,

As mute ye pace the deck and muse
With all a seaman's pride,
And call" Come, give, my merry-men,
Our mainsail to the air;"
Away the ship goes with a start-
My blessings on thee, Blair!

Ye go where spice is in the grove,

And diamonds in the sand;
Where China opes her jealous gates,

As commerce waves her wand;
Where every breath men draw is balm;
Where suns unceasing smile;
And where your compass is the scent
Of mainland and of isle.

Your good ship breasts the billows free,
And cuts them like a share-
Where'er you go, I'll think of thee—
My blessings on thee, Blair!

O! when in homeward joy you cleave
The hills of foaming brine,

And see nought but the wave and sky,
While o'er the level line,

Where sea and cloud meet, starts the sun,
And glances on your sail,

Look to the wondrous orb, and cheer
His rising with a hail;

For on thy native isle he shines,

With glad hearts beating there,

And kindred tongues, who cry with me, My blessings on thee, Blair!

'TAMMY LITTLE.

A JUVENILE JEU-D'ESPRIT.

By the Author of " Anster Fair."
WEE Tammy Little, honest man!
I kent the body weel,

As round the kintra-side he gaed,
Careerin' wi' his creel.

He was sae slender and sae wee,
That aye when blasts did blaw,
He ballasted himself wi' stanes
'Gainst bein' blawn awa.
A meikle stane the wee bit man
In ilka coat-pouch clappit,
That by the michty gowlin' wind
He michtna down be swappit.
When he did chance within a wood,

On simmer days, to be,
Aye he was frichtit lest the craws

Should heise him up on hie;
And aye he, wi' an aiken cud,
The air did thump and beat,
To stap the craws frae liftin' him
Up to their nests for meat.
Ae day, when in a barn he lay,

And thrashers thrang were thair,
He in a moment vanish'd aff,

And nae man could tell whair;
They lookit till the riggin' up,

And round and round they lookit,
At last they fand him underneath
A firlot cruyled and crookit.
Ance as big Samuel past him by,
Big Samuel gave a sneeze,
And wi' the sough o't he was cast
Clean down upon his knees.
His wife and he upon ane day
Did chance to disagree,
And up she took the bellowses,
As wild as wife could be;
She gave ane puff intill his face,
And made him, like a feather,
Flee frae the tae side o' the house,
Resoundin' till the tither!

Ae simmer e'en, when as he through
Pitkirie forest past,

By three braid leaves, blawn aff the trees,
He down to yird was cast ;

A tirl o' wind the three braid leaves
Down frae the forest dang,

Ane frae an ash, ane frae an elm,

Ane frae an aik-tree strang ;
Ane strak him sair on the back-neck,
Ane on the nose him rappit,
Ane smote him on the vera heart,
And down as dead he drappit.
But ah! but ah! a drearier dool
Ance hapt at Ounston-dammy,
That heise'd him a'thegither up,

And maist extinguish't Tammy;
For, as he cam slow-daunderin' down,
In's hand his basket hingin',

And staiver'd ower the hie-road's breidth,
Frae side to side a-swingin';

There cam a blast frae Kelly-law,
As bald a blast as ever
Auld snivelin' Boreas blew abraid,
To make the warld shiver;
It liftet Tammy aff his feet,
Mair easy than a shavin',
And hurl'd him half-a-mile complete,
Hie up 'tween earth and heaven.
That day puir Tammy had wi' stanes
No ballasted his body,

So that he flew, maist like a shot,

Ower corn-land and ower cloddy.
You've seen ane tumbler on a stage,
Tumble sax times and mair,

But Tammy weil sax hundred times
Gaed tumblin' through the air.
And whan the whirly-wind gave ower,
He frae the lift fell plumb,

And in a blink stood stickin' fast

In Gaffer Glowr-weel's lum. Ay-there his legs and body stack

Amang the smotherin' soot,

But, by a wonderfa' good luck,
His head kept peepin' out.
But Gaffer Glowr-weel, when he saw
A man stuck in his lum,

He swarf'd wi' drither clean awa,
And sat some seconds dumb.

It took five masons near an hour,

A' riving at the lum

Wi' picks, (he was sae jamm'd therein,) Ere Tammy out could come.

As for his basket-weel I wat,

His basket's fate and fa'

Was, as I've heard douce neighbours tell,
The queerest thing of a'.

The blast took up the body's cree},
And laid it on a cloud,

That bare it, sailin' through the sky,
Richt ower the Firth's braid flood;
And whan the cloud did melt awa,

Then, then the creel cam' down,
And fell'd the town-clerk o' Dunbar
E'en in his ain guid town;
The clerk stood yelpin' on the street,

At some bit strife that stirr'd him,
Down cam' the creel, and to the yird
It dang him wi' a dirdom!

THE EPITAPH FOR TAMMY.

O Earth! O Earth! if thou hast but
A rabbit-hole to spair,

O grant the graff to Tammy's corp,

That it may nestle thair:

And press thou light on him, now dead, That was sae slim and wee,

For weel I wat, when he was quick,

He lightly prest on thee!

Φιλοπαίγματα

PORTRAIT OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.-Numerous enquiries having been made regarding Mr Watson Gordon's portrait of the Ettrick Shepherd, now engraving for the Literary Journal, we take this opportunity of informing our readers, that as much care is required in its execution, and as we are anxious that all justice should be done to it, anticipating the interest which it will possess when finished, three or four weeks will yet elapse before it will be ready for delivery. Our subscribers will receive a copy gratis, and a copy will also be given to every purchaser of the Number with which it appears. As soon as it is ready, due intimation will be given both in the Journal, and by advertisements in the newspapers.

BIOGRAPHY.-It has occurred to the conductors of the Edinburgh Literary Journal, that an occasional brief sketch of the lives of eminent men, of all ages and countries, would form an agreeable feature in this work. Anecdotes, indicative of the leading peculiarities of their characters, and such events as had a material influence in developing them, chronologically arranged-followed, in the case of literary men, by a brief summary of their principles and most prominent merits, cannot fail to be read with satisfaction, if executed with any degree of judgment. A series of biographical sketches upon this principle will be commenced in an early Number of the Journal. It is meant to comprehend philosophers, poets, artists, statesmen, and striking characters, who cannot well be assigned to any class. No systematic or chronological arrangement will be observed, yet it is expected that the unity of principle which directs their execution will cause them mutually to bear upon and illustrate cach other. They claim no other merit than that of being the fruit of careful and pretty extensive research.

Stories of American Life, by American Writers, in three volumes, edited by Mary Russell Mitford, is announced.

A Narrative of Travels in Abyssinia. by Nathaniel Pearce, with a Life, written by himself, is in the press.

Mr Boaden, author of the Life of Kemble, is preparing for publication Memoirs of the late Mrs Jordan; a task, under existing circumstances, of great delicacy and difficulty. The work is to embrace a public and private history of the life of that celebrated actress, from her first appearance upon the Irish stage, until her lamented and premature death at St Cloud, together with anecdotes of all the eminent individuals and distinguished personages, with whom, during her life, she associated.

Lord Byron's Cain," with Notes, vindicatory and illustrative, by Harding Grant, author of "Chancery Practice," is announced. Mr Burchell, the well-known African traveller, has returned to England, after an absence of nearly six years, employed in exploring the inland provinces of Brazil. His zoological and botanical collections are said to be immense.

Messrs W. and E. Finden are making rapid progress with their Landscape Illustrations to Lord Byron's Life and Works, which promises to be a publication of much interest.

A Memoir of the Life, Writings, and Correspondence of James Currie, M.D., edited by his son William Wallace Currie, is in the press.

posed to be published in Edinburgh, devoted to legal topies, and a pearing every two months. The conductors are of approved talon and it seems to have the good wishes of every eminent member the College of Justice.

LITERATURE IN HADDINGTON.-We have received from Haddin ton the first Number of the East-Lothian Literary and Statistic Journal, dedicated, by permission, to the Right Honourable Lo Elcho. It contains a due mixture of prose and verse, and thoug certainly not a brilliant, appears to be a respectable, publication. CHIT-CHAT FROM LONDON.-There is little else talked of in La don among literary men, but "Libraries-Libraries." Artists, R mancers, Historians, Players, Poets, and Prophets, are all purchas up to contribute their article, or their volume, for Murray, for Lar ner, for Colburn, or some other of the sons of enterprise. Biograph is the order of the day :-the unhappy painters, the miserable seul tors, and the cutters of stone, called by courtesy architects, are no attacked by a hundred pens, and nothing is heard but of chiaroscur the great masters, the grand style, and the classic creations of Greed -Mr Campbell, the poet, is ruralising at Ashford, in the neighbou hood of Staines, where he is busily preparing the Life of Sir Thom Lawrence. It is said that the King will go to Brighton immediate on the dissolution of Parliament, and that he contemplates a sho cruise early in August. There is no truth in the reports that he w be crowned and visit Scotland this year.-The Earl of Errol, who h kissed hands as Master of Horse to the Queen, possesses also the h reditary rank of Lord High Constable of Scotland, and as the S Feet Club of Edinburgh are his body guard, it is likely that the would be called into active requisition in the event of a Royal vis to that city. The Sligo Observer still insists that Campbell is not th author of the "Exile of Erin :" but it is to be hoped that Mr Cam bell will write no more letters to the newspapers on the subject.joint-stock company is now formed, with the somewhat ominous a pellation of a "General Cemetery Company," for laying out a n tional burying-ground in the neighbourhood of London.

Theatrical Gossip.-There is nothing new doing at the Oper Malibran, Lalande, Blasis, Curioni, Donzelli, and Lablache, conting the principal attractions in the musical department; and the bali has lost the powerful aid of Taglioni, who has gone back to Paris.The French Company have now closed their season with Laporte benefit, which took place on Monday last.-Hummel and his famil have left London for Germany.-At a recent meeting of the propri tors of Drury Lane Theatre, it appeared that Price, the late lesse had failed in the payment of his rent to the extent of L.1800, an that the deficiency in the income of the Theatre amounted, durin the last year, to L.3937. The Theatre is now let to Alexander Le at a rent of L.9000 per annum-a fair rent, but at the same tim high enough to render the speculation a doubtful one.-Pasta is a Warsaw; Sontag is going to St Petersburg and Beriin.-A new fo reign vocalist, named Schoulz, of Swedish birth, is spoken of wit enthusiasm. She has excited a great sensation at Stockholm an Copenhagen, and is now singing at Christiana.-The English Oper House with Phillips and Miss Kelly, and the Haymarket with Far ren, Reeve, Mrs Humby, and others, continue to draw pretty goo houses. Sinclair has been playing Masaniello at Liverpool wi great success.-Fanny Kemble is now in Dublin, but refused t play on the alternate nights with Miss Paton, not wishing to com

A Physiological History of Man, tracing his gradual progress through the various stages of animal existence, from his first exist. ence to the destruction of his body, by H. W. Dewhurst, Esq., will appear immediately.

Dignities, Feudal and Parliamentary-the Nature and Functions

-A London paper, alluding to the Caledonian Theatre, and als to Mr Cummins's recent secession from his post as leader of the or chestra, says "The Edinburgh minor theatre has the best of chestra in the kingdom, but the bass has kicked out the first fiddle. -In reply to some questions which have been put to us as to the pro bability of a new theatre being built in Edinburgh, we can state po

A Narrative of a Journey overland to India, by Mrs Colonel Elwood, will appear immediately. All the overland journeys hitherto published have been homeward from India.

Captain James Edward Alexander's Travels to the Seat of War in the East, through Russia and th Crimea, in 1829, are in a forward state. They are to consist of two volumes, with a map, and various other illustrations.

A work entitled the Domestic Theological Library, is announced to be published in the course of next sea-on. It is to be dedicated, by permission, to the Bishop of London, and to comprise a series of original Treatises upon Religious Knowledge and Ecclesiastical History and Biography, by some of the most eminent Divines of the Church of England, under the superintendence of the Editor.

A new edition of the Bible is about to be published, with illustrations by Martin, and under the immediate patronage of his most gracious Majesty the King. This work will afford good scope for the exercise of Mr Martin's imaginative powers.

Le Keepsake Français, embellished with engravings, is announced.

We learn that the University Commission have finished their Report; but it is not to be submitted to Parliament this Session.

NEW PERIODICAL.-We understand that a new periodical is pro

expense would be so great that it is not likely soon to take place Besides, we know that the present less ee of the patent, Mr Murray is of opinion that the old theatre, with a few alterations which he in tends making on it, is quite large enough. In this opinion we ar disposed to agree, and only wish that its front elevation could be little improved. Its situation is unquestionably the best which coul be got in Edinburgh. The manager is now actively engaged in hi preparations for next winter.

TO OUR CORRESPONDENTS.

WE are obliged by the attention of the Editor of the Birmingham Argus; but the poem alluded to by "R. S. M." has not reached us which we regret.-The communications of “ A Country Reader" ar under consideration.-The hints of " A Glasgow Mechanic" will no be overlooked.

We were glad to hear from the Author of "May Flowers." Hi communications will appear at an early opportunity.-The poem, by William Mayne, shall have a place, if possible, in our next.—Thi "Right Loyal Song" is in types -We are afraid we cannot find room for the poems entitled "A Summer Evening," "The Minstre Boy," and "Stanzas" by "W. F." We are not so easily hoaxed as " gine.

Meg Merrilees" seems to ima

SUMMER THOUGHTS AND RAMBLES.
By Henry G. Bell.

To sit on rocks.-BYRON.

Oh, blest retirement !-GOLDSMITH.
Ay! these were days, when life had wings,
And flew-Oh! flew so wild a height,
That, like the lark, which sun-ward springs,
'Twas giddy with too much light.-MOORE.

VERY few people know what to do with themselves when they go into the country. They see a great quantity of blue sky, and several large hills, and a good number of trees, and some fields of grass, and some of corn; and now and then the odour of a bean-field, or a bed of wild violets, takes their olfactory nerves by surprise, and they snuff it up pleasantly enough, and pass on with their hands in their pockets. Birds, too-curious little specks, far up in the sunlight, or unseen in the woods-pour forth the countless songs of their merry hearts, as if they enjoyed a polite happiness in seeing such respectable members of society sauntering through the green lanes; and the respectable members of society, hearing the birds, are rather pleased as otherwise, and, after saying nothing, go home to dinner, and take an additional tumbler, and play backgammon, and go to bed, and sleep very soundly beside the amiable and rather corpulent mother of their large and promising family. Next morning, their wife makes excellent tea, and gives them plenty of rolls and buttered toast, and then they go into the garden and eat gooseberries, and pluck a full-blown rose, and look at the bee-hives, and wonder if the apples are as sour as they were yesterday, and sit down in the arbour and become gradually somnolent, and are greatly tormented by a persevering blue-bottle that buzzes close about their ear, and Occasionally settles upon the tip of their nose; and they at length become indignant, and start up, and depart they know not whither.

This is the common mode of enjoying the country, and, no doubt, a very excellent one; yet does it hardly suit our taste. In the first place, it seems to us that no one can be happy in the country, as a Christian and a gentleman ought to be, who fixes his head-quarters anywhere within twenty miles of a place where there is an established concourse of summer visitors; a watering-place, for instance, or any such hideous abomination. A mineral well, with its sulphureous rottenness of taste, and crowd of scrofulous decrepitudes assembled in the pump-room, is a sight sufficient to throw the Goddess of Romance into hysterics, startling her more than ever the daughter of Ceres was startled at the violence of Pluto. A true lover of nature ought to have no head-quarters. He ought to ramble up and down like the birds of passage,—now breathing inspiration on the mountain's peak, and now following in his skiff "the golden path of rays" that glance and flicker on the bosom of the lake: at one time, alone and far away in the blood-stained solitudes of Glencae—at another, tracking the red-deer through the forest of Martindale down to the wooded banks of Ullswater. Let no man go to the country expressly to fish or shoot: let him fish when he comes to a splendid stream or living

PRICE 6d.

loch, and shoot when the moor lies in his way, and the birds rise gloriously on the wing, as if they deserved to be shot. But never let him pretend to be a votary of nature in all her moods and aspects, and yet go forth into: her presence with a mind intent only upon a pocket-book of fly-hooks, gut, and casting-lines, or an imagination filled with detonating caps, hair-triggers, percussion locks," pointers, and double barrels. No one loves angling more than we do, no one can carry a gun or follow a dog more unweariedly; but it will not do to maintain that there is much poetry in either pursuit, or, at least, that poetical associations and reveries can ever be indulged in during the hour of excitement, when a fish of three pound weight seems worth a king's ransom, and á blackcock more valuable than a dozen birds of paradise, or a score of the golden kinhis of China. We cannot serve two masters. We cannot adore the mountains, and at the same time allow the line to flow easily from our reel ; we cannot venerate the clouds, casting their majestic shadows over valley and town, and at the same time pop away with No. 6, to the satisfaction of our gamekeeper, and the approbation of our own conscience. Having once established this rule, we may then talk of scenery in any cursory, hop-step-and-leap manner we please, and there is a chance that we will now and then say something worth listening to, for when the mood is on us, we will feel the beauty ́› of the subject.

We have seen all the waterfalls in Scotland, and we never saw a waterfall that in the slightest degree came up to our expectation of what a waterfall ought to be. The falls of the Clyde, the fall of Foyers, the falls of the Devon, the Highland falls, innumerable as they are, we have looked at with comparatively little emotion. If you go very near, the noise is rather deafening, though not in the least stunning; and there is a considerable quantity of foam-a good deal more than you have ever seen in a washing tub--but on the whole the effect is paltry. The cascade, or whatever it may be termed, is probably a very good feature in the landscape; but it is only a feature. Yet never did we confess that we were disappointed to any benevolent individual, who took us to see a waterfall: we admired because he admired; and if he lived in the neighbourhood, he always gave us a bottle of wine additional after dinner for having admired so well. There are probably some good falls in Germany: but the falls of which we dream are the Falls of Niagara, that fling their whole soul over the abyss, and send the thunder of their voice up to the stars,-falls, which even the dull ear of man can hear for fifty miles, and under whose arched cataract an army might stand and gaze. If there were falls in the Clyde below Glasgow instead of twenty miles above it, they might be respectable. A mighty fall of the Forth, any where between Edinburgh and Queensferry, would be imposing. But we have no such sights in old Europe: they are all on a reduced, minor-theatre, halfpay sort of scale. All the Scottish rivers put together would hardly form a decent tributary to the Mississippi; and all the Scottish cascades made into one, would but resemble the little dog who barked at the moon, if set down beside Niagara.