the privy councillor, with his coronet, and his | of the procession away-for he was buried with long descent from princes on one side and from heroes on both-and who did not care for George Gordon Byron the poet, who has charmed us, and will charm our descendants, with his deep and impassioned verse. The homage was rendered to genius, not surely to rank-for lord can be stamped on any clay, but inspiration can only be impressed on the finest metal. Of the day on which the multitude were admitted I know not in what terms to speak --I never surely saw so strange a mixture of silent sorrow and of fierce and intractable curiosity. If one looked on the poet's splendid coffin with deep awe, and thought of the gifted spirit which had lately animated the cold remains; others regarded the whole as a pageant or a show, got up for the amusement of the idle and the careless, and criticized the arrangements in the spirit of those who wish to be rewarded for their time, and who consider that all they condescend to visit should be according to their own taste. There was a crushing, a trampling, and an impatience, as rude and as fierce as ever I witnessed at a theatre; and words of incivility were bandied about, and questions asked with such determination to be answered, that the very mutes, whose business was silence and repose, were obliged to interfere with tongue and hand between the visitors and the dust of the poet. In contemplation of such a scene, some of the trappings which were there on the first day were removed on the second, and this suspicion of the good sense and decorum of the multitude called forth many expressions of displeasure, as remarkable for their warmth as their propriety of language. By five o'clock the people were all ejected man and woman-and the rich coffin bore tokens of the touch of hundreds of eager fingers -many of which had not been overclean. The multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave went step by step with the chief mourners; they might amount to ten or twelve thousand. Not a word was heard; and, though all could not be near, and many could not see, when the earth closed on their darling poet for ever, there was no rude impatience shown, no fierce disappointment expressed. It was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions mingling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, with the remains of him who had sang of their loves and joys and domestic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part military honours because I am one of those who love simplicity in all that regards genius. The scarlet and gold-the banners displayedthe measured step, and the military array, with the sound of martial instruments of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene; and had no connection with the poet. I looked on it then, and I consider it now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have been spared, more especially as his neglected and traduced and insulted spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen. His fate has been a reproach to Scotland. But the reproach comes with an ill grace from England. When we can forget Butler's fate-Otway's loaf-Dryden's old age, and Chatterton's poison-cup, we may think that we stand alone in the iniquity of neglecting pre-eminent genius. I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he was about to descend for ever-there was a pause among the mourners as if loath to part with his remains; and when he was at last lowered, and the first shovelful of earth sounded on his coffin-lid, I looked up and saw tears on many cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears of their comrade by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gazing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. notice this-not from my concurrence in the common superstition, that "happy is the corpse which the rain rains on "--but to confute a pious fraud of a religious magazine, which made Heaven express its wrath at the interment of a profane poet, in thunder, in lightning, and in rain. I know not who wrote the story, and I wish not to know; but its utter falsehood thousands can attest. It is one proof out of many, how divine wrath is found by dishonest zeal in a common commotion of the elements, and that men, whose profession is godliness and truth, will look in the face of Heaven and tell a deliberate lie. I A few select friends and admirers followed Lord Byron to the grave-his coronet was borne before him, and there were many indications of his rank; but save the assembled multitude, no indications of his genius. In conformity to a singular practice of the great, a long train of their empty carriages followed ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. MAZEPPA'S PUNISHMENT. "Bring forth the horse!"-the horse was brought; A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, the mourning coaches-mocking the dead with | sepulture would have been paid-and it is not idle state, and impeding the honester sympathy a small one. Hail to the Church of England, of the crowd with barren pageantry. Where if her piety is stronger than her avarice! were the owners of those machines of sloth and luxury-where were the men of rank among whose dark pedigrees Lord Byron threw the light of his genius, and lent the brows of nobility a halo to which they were strangers? Where were the great Whigs? Where were the illustrious Tories? Could a mere difference in matters of human belief keep those fastidious persons away? But, above all, where were the friends with whom wedlock had united him? On his desolate corpse no wife looked, and no child shed a tear. I have no wish to set myself up as a judge in domestic infelicities, and I am willing to believe they were separated in such a way as rendered conciliation hopeless; but who could stand and look on his pale manly face, and his dark locks which early sorrows were making thin and gray, without feeling that, gifted as he was, with a soul above the mark of other men, his domestic misfortunes called for our pity as surely as his genius called for our admiration. When the career of Burns was closed, I saw another sight-a weeping widow and four helpless sons; they came into the streets in their mournings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh; I shall never forget the looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life had not been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in forgiving; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unalienable affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love by its regard and esteem. Burns, with all his errors in faith and in practice, was laid in hallowed earth, in the churchyard of the town where he resided; no one thought of closing the church-gates against his body, because of the freedom of his poetry and the carelessness of his life. And why was not Byron laid among the illustrious men of England, in Westminster Abbey? Is there a poet in all the Poets' Corner who has better right to that distinction? Why was the door closed against him, and opened to the carcasses of thousands without merit and without name? Look round the walls, and on the floor over which you tread, and behold them encumbered and inscribed with memorials of the mean and the sordid and the impure, as well as of the virtuous and the great. Why did the Dean of Westminster refuse admission to such an heir of fame as Byron? if he had no claim to lie within the consecrated precincts of the Abbey, he has no right to lie in consecrated ground at all. There is no doubt that the pious fee for Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. Away!-away!-My breath was gone; Save what grows on a ridge of wall And the hot lead pour down like rain Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. They little thought that day of pain, When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, They bade me to destruction dash, That one day I should come again, With twice five thousand horse, to thank The Count for his uncourteous ride. They play'd me then a bitter prank, When, with the wild horse for my guide, Upon the pinions of the wind, And, save the scarce seen battlement Increas'd his fury and affright; I tried my voice,-'twas faint and low, green, "Twas studded with old sturdy trees, The boughs gave way, and did not tear The wood was past; 'twas more than noon, But chill the air, although in June; Or it might be my veins ran coldProlong'd endurance tames the bold, And I was then not what I seem, My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, PADDY THE PIPER. BYRON. 1 the day's work was over, divil a one of uz daar go to meet a frind over a glass, or a girl at the dance, but must go home, and shut ourselves up, and never budge, nor rise latch, nor dhraw boult antil the morning kem agin. Well, to come to my story:-'Twas afther nightfall, and we wor sittin' round the fire, and the pratees was boilin', and the noggins of butther-milk was standing ready for our suppers, whin a knock kem to the door. 'Whisht,' says my father, 'here's the sojers come upon us now,' says he; 'bad luck to thim the villians, I'm afeard they seen a glimmer of the fire through the crack in the door,' says he. 'No,' says my mother, 'for I'm afther hanging an ould sack and my new petticoat agin it, a while ago.' 'Well, whisht, any how,' says my father, for there's a knock agin;' and we all held our tongues till another thump kem to the door. 'Oh, it's folly to purtind any more,' says my father-'they're too cute to be put off that-a-way,' says he. 'Go, Shamus,' says he to me, and see who's in it.' 'How can I see who's in it in the dark?' says I. 'Well,' says he, 'light the candle thin, and see who's in it, but don't open the door for your life, barrin' they break it in,' says he, 'exceptin' to the sojers, and spake thim fair, if it's thim.' So with that I wint to the door, and there was another knock. Who's there?' says I. !Samuel Lover, born at Dublin, 1797; died 6th July, A frind,' says he. Baithershin,' says I, 'who 'It's me,' says he. 'Who are you?' says I. 1968. He was gifted with the versatile genius of his country, and won repute as painter, poet, novelist, musician, dramatist, and as a public entertainer. Rollicking humour was the leading characteristic of his literary work. Of his Legends and Stories of Iread, from which the following sketch is taken, the Athen said, "The ready retort, the mixture of canning with apparent simplicity, and the complete thoughtlessness combined with shrewdness, so frequently found in Ireland, have never been better portrayed than in these volumes." Mr. Lover's chief works were, besides the one already mentioned, Rory O More: Handy Andy; L.S.D., Treasure Trove; and Songs and Ballads. He wrote the music for most of his own sotigs, and several of them became eminently popular.] Ill tell you, sir, a mighty quare story, and it's as thrue as I'm standin' here, and that's no lie:-It was in the time of the 'ruction,2 whin the long summer days, like many a fine fellow's precious life, was cut short by raison of the martial law, that wouldn't let a dacent boy be out in the evenin', good or bad; for whin are you at all?' 'Arrah! don't you know me?' says he. 'Divil a taste,' says I. 'Sure I'm Paddy the piper,' says he. 'Oh, thundher and turf,' says I, 'is it you, Paddy, that's in it?' 'Sorra one else,' says he. 'And what brought you at this hour?' says I. 'By gar,' says he, 'I didn't like goin' the roun' by the road,' says he, 'and so I kem the short cut, and that's what delayed me,' says he. 'Oh, bloody wars!' says I Paddy, I wouldn't be in your shoes for the king's ransom,' says I; 'for you know yourself it's a hanging matther to be cotched out these times,' says I. 'Sure I know that,' says he, 'God help me; and that's what I kem to you for,' says he; and let me in for old acquaintance sake,' says poor Paddy. Oh, by this and that,' says I, 'I darn't open the door for the wide world; and sure you know it; and troth if the Husshians or the Yeo's3 ketches you,' says I-they'll murther you, as sure as your name's Paddy.' 'Many thanks to you,' says he, 'for your good intintions; but, plaze the pigs, I hope it's not the likes o' that is in store had betther lose no time in hidin' yourself,' for me, any how.' 'Faix then,' says I, 'you 3 Yeomen. says I; for throth I tell you, it's a short thrial | So off Paddy set to hide in the shed, and throth it wint to our hearts to refuse him, and turn him away from the door, more, by token, when the pratees was ready-for sure the bit and the sup is always welkim to the poor thraveller. Well, we all wint to bed, and Paddy hid himself in the cow-house; and now I must tell you how it was with Paddy:-You see, afther sleeping for some time, Paddy wakened up, thinkin' it was mornin,' but it wasn't mornin' at all, but only the light o' the moon that deceaved him; but at all evints, he wanted to be stirring airly, bekase he was goin' off to the town hard by, it bein' fair-day, to pick up a few ha'pence with his pipes for the divil a betther piper was in all the country round, nor Paddy; and every one gave it up to Paddy, that he was illigant on the pipes, and played 'Jinny bang'd the Weaver,' beyant tellin', and the Hare in the Corn,' that you'd think the very dogs was in it, and the horsemen ridin' like mad. Well, as I was sayin', he set off to go to the fair, and he wint meandherin' along through the fields, but he didn't go far, antil climbin' up through a hedge, when he was comin' out at t'other side, his head kem plump agin somethin' that made the fire flash out iv his eyes. So with that he looks up-and what do you think it was, Lord be marciful unto uz, but a corpse hangin' out of a branch of a three. 'Oh, the top of the mornin' to you, sir,' says Paddy, and is that the way with you, my poor fellow? throth you took a start out o' me,' says poor Paddy; and 'twas thrue for him, for it would make the heart of a stouter man nor Paddy jump, to see the like, and to think of a Christhan crathur being hanged up, all as one as a dog. Now 'twas the rebels that hanged this chap -bekase, you see, the corps had got clothes an him, and that's the raison that one might know it was the rebels-by rayson that the Husshians and the Orangemen never hanged anybody wid good clothes an him, but only the poor and definceless crathurs, like uz; so, as I said before, Paddy knew well it was the boys that done it; and,' says Paddy, eyein' the corps, by my soul, thin, but you have a beautiful pair of boots an you,' says he, and it's what I'm thinkin' you won't have any great use for thim no more; and sure it's a shame to see the likes o' me,' says he, the best piper in the sivin counties, to be trampin' wid a pair of ould brogues not worth three traneens, and a corps wid such an illigant pair o' boots, that wants some one to wear thim.' So, with that, Paddy lays hould of him by the boots, and began a pullin' at thim, but they wor mighty stiff; and whether it was by rayson of their being so tight, or the branch of the three a-jiggin' up and down, all as one as a weighdee buckettee, and not lettin' Paddy cotch any right hoult o' thim--he could get no advantage o' thim at all-and at last he gev it up, and was goin' away, whin looking behind him agin, the sight of the illigant fine boots was too much for him, and he turned back, determined to have the boots, anyhow, by fair means or foul; and I'm loath to tell you now how he got thim-for indeed it was a dirty turn, and throth it was the only dirty turn I ever knew Paddy to be guilty av; and you see it was thisa-way: 'pon my sowl, he pulled out a big knife, and by the same token, it was a knife with a fine buck-handle, and a murtherin' big blade, that an uncle o' mine, that was a gardener at the lord's, made Paddy a prisint av; and more by token, it was not the first mischief that knife done, for it cut love between thim, that was the best of friends before; and sure 'twas the wondher of every one, that two knowledg able men, that ought to know betther, would do the likes, and give and take sharp steel in friendship; but I'm forgettin'-well, he outs with his knife, and what does he do, but he cut off the legs av the corps; ‘and,' says he, 'I can take aff the boots at my convaynience;' and throth it was, as I said before, a dirty turn. Well, sir, he tuck'd up the legs under his arm, and at that minit the moon peeped out from behind a cloud—‘Oh ! is it there you are?' says he to the moon, for he was an impident chap-and thin, seein' that he made a mistake, and that the moonlight deceaved him, and that it wasn't the airly dawn, as he conceaved; and bein' friken'd for fear himself might be cotched and trated like the poor corps he was afther malthreating, if he was found walking the counthry at that time-by gar, he turned about, and walked back agin to the cowhouse, and, hidin' the corps's legs in the sthraw, Paddy wint to sleep agin. But what do you |