where the troops were encamped, was robbed of his watch, by a serjeant in the British army. Complaint was immediately made to the commanding officer, and the troops were paraded before the Frenchman, who was thus enabled to single out the offender. A court-martial was held, and the criminal condemned to die on the following morning. As early as four o'clock, the whole of the allied army was assembled in the Bois de Boulonge, near Paris, where the prisoner was to undergo the sentence. The charge upon which he had been tried and convicted was read aloud, and the unfortunate man prepared for the presence of an offended Maker. Not a murmur ran through the ranks. The justice of the decree was acknowledged by every soldier, and if the short lapse of time between the offence and its solemn expiation excited feelings of terror, they were mingled with respect for the stern severity of their commander; the drums beat and the black flag waved mournfully in the air. The ministers of justice had raised the engines of destruction, and the fatal monosyllable Fire, was half ejaculated, when the Duke of Wellington rushed before the firelocks, and commanded a momentary pause whilst he addressed the prisoner; "You have offended against the laws of God, of honor, and of virtue,―the grave is open before you,—in a few short moments your soul will appear before its Maker, -your prosecutor complains of your sentence,the man whom you have robbed would plead for your life, and is horror-struck at the rapidity of your judgment. You are a soldier, you have been brave and, as report says, until now, even virtuous. Speak boldly! in the face of Heaven and as a soldier of an army devoted to virtue and good order, declare now your own feelings as to your sentence. "General," said the man, "retire, and let my comrades do their duty; when a soldier forgets his honor, life becomes disgraceful, and an immediate punishment is due as an example to the armyFIRE." "You have spoken nobly," said the Duke, with a tear in his eye." You have saved your life, -how can I destroy a repentant sinner, whose words are of greater value to the troops than his death would be? Soldiers, bear this in mind, and may a sense of honor always deter you from infamy.' The troops rent the air with huzzas; the criminal fell prostrate before the Duke, the word, march, was given; he arose and returned alive in those ranks which were to have witnessed his execution. 25.-1759.-ROBERT BURNS BORN. Whar' the heather's growing, Whar' the hare-bell weeps, Whar' the stream is flowing Whar' yon auld thorn mourns, Ill-starred Robert Burns. A. H. A short distance from Ayr, near to Kirk Alloway, stands a lowly cottage, that has nothing to recommend it, otherwise than being the birth-place of the greatest poet that Scotland ever produced; and on this account, unattractive as the building is, it becomes an object of interest. Mr. John Murdoch, the early tutor of Burns, says:-"In this mean cottage, of which I myself was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger portion of content than in any place in Europe. The house was built by the father of the poet, shortly after whose birth one end of it fell down, which occasioned an alarm easier conceived than described. The house consisted of a kitchen at one extremity, and at the other was a room, dignified with the luxury of a fire-place and chimney-things not usual at that time in the cottages of the Scottish peasantry. In the kitchen was a concealed bed, with a small closet at the end, of the same materials as the house, and being altogether cast over, both outside and inside, with mortar, it had a neat and comfortable appearance. The regularity and order of the house, during the time the father lived in it, is thus described by the poet, in his Cotter's Saturday night: The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face And, "let us worship God," he says, with solemn air. Of latter years the house has been turned into a snug public house; and yearly, on the birth-day of Burns, a social party meet and celebrate it with festivity and rejoicing; scarcely a traveller passes, who does not there pay a tribute to the memory of the poet; and the possessor has contrived that none shall H pass without knowing who once inhabited it, by placing the following inscription near the door:Halt, passenger, and read: This is the humble cottage, That gave birth to the celebrated Poet, ROBERT BURNS. Extract from a Letter of Sir Walter Scott. "As for Burns, I may truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and feeling enough to be much interested in his poetry, and would have given the world to know him; but I had very little acquaintance with any literary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that time a clerk of my father's. He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to his lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word; otherwise I might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it was, I saw him one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson's where there were several gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the celebrated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sate silent, looked, and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Burns's manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery on one side,-on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines were written beneath, 'Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, "Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather the ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of "The Justice of Peace.' I whispered my information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, which, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect, with very great pleasure. "His person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, not clownish; a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture, but to me it conveys the idea, that they are diminished as if seen in perspective. I think his countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sagacious country farmer, of the old Scotch school, i. e. none of your modern agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gudeman who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness; and when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at the same time with modesty. I do not re |