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less he were allowed at least half-a-dozen pieces of canvass, could ever have given any thing like an adequate notion of that extraordinary physiognomy? The sharp, shrewd, knowing, inquisitive, hair-splitting look of his countenance, in one of its moods, was the most egregious of all possible contrasts to the high, melancholy, earnest enthusiasm of it in another; and between these there was a world of shadings, each deserving of being fixed by the hand of a master. I would have given something, nevertheless, for the merest daub that had preserved any thing like a shadow of his features, together with (what nobody could have failed to hit) the most picturesque profusion of grey hairs, the brisk-looking little pigtail,—the enormous striped waistcoat, and those never-failing Hessian boots, of which we knew the shuffle and clank two quadrangles off.

Young sleeps with his fathers, and close beside him sleeps his old friend, rival, and fellow-labourer, Richardson. We (boys) respected them both, loved them both, and of course gave them both nicknames. With us the one was always Cocky, the other Billy,that is a sort of tax which all pædagogical authority must pay; nay, perhaps I might go farther. Napoleon was always the Corporal, and Wellington Hooknose, or, at best old Douro, among his soldiery. These two professors were the very antipodes of each other-almost in every thing. Young was short, squat, and awkward in person,-slovenly, very slovenly, in attire,— hurried in gesture and walk, and, in manner, vivacious to the last degree, and brusque. He had a great deal of the shrewdness and craft of the man of the world, and had many by no means scholastic tastes and accomplishments about him-particularly mu

sic, in which he was a perfect enthusiast; but he never could speak three syllables without betraying the habits of uninterrupted dissertation and unquestioned authority. How could it be otherwise? he had been a professor, and nothing but a professor, almost from his boyhood. Mr Richardson, on the other hand, had travelled in his youth;-he had even been secretary to an ambassador,—at least such is my impression,-and had, moreover, the reputation (I dare say most absurdly unfounded) of having been, in his day, a gay character in more senses of the word than one. He was a poet too, and had acquired a name in the world of belles lettres by some contributions to the Mirror and Lounger, and some really admirable essays on Shakspeare's characters,— (that on Hamlet, by the way, still keeps its place). Lastly, Mr Richardson had an elegant little estate and residence on the shores of Loch Lomond, and played the country-gentleman one-half of his year. Thus, he would have taken it much amiss to be considered any thing like a mere professor of Glasgow college; and, to do him justice, though he was a most excellent professor, he was widely distinguished from most of his class by the style of his general appearance, manners, and, I believe indeed, habits of all sorts. He was a bachelor, and a dandy, in his way, of the first water. I can suppose Gray the poet to have had something of the same air, though Richardson was neither so slim nor so diminutive in his person. When dressed, he wore grand black satin breeches and buckles, and seagreen or snuff-coloured silk stockings with gorgeouslywrought clocks. He had a delicate rosy complexion, as I remember him,-a truly gentleman-like expression of face, though somewhat prim, no doubt,-a

beautifully-curled white wig, with a noble toupee in front,--and a ponderous queue behind,—the same sort of chevelure, in short, that one sees in the prints of Frederick of Prussia. Nothing could surpass the bland courtesy, and, to us lads, condescension of his address. He used to invite us occasionally to his suppers, and then he was completely the courtier in manner, setting us all perfectly at our ease, and taking part in our conversation (for he took care it should be ours) with the utmost frankness and hilarity. If old people and great people only knew how easily they can make young people and small people happy!

Richardson was a high Tory-Young, I think, a keen Whig; but as to politics, I neither knew nor cared more about them, in those days, than about Sanscrit or Pehlavi.

I knew only one more of the professors,-Mr Jardine,—and he, I was glad to find, still flourishes in good health and a green old age, though retired from the more active part of his duties. He walked past me as I was lounging about the place yesterday, and I saw wonderfully little change in him; for I take it your professor of sixty looks quite as old to a boy, as your professor of eighty can ever do to a man. The venerable old gentleman gave me one of his usual benign glances, but evidently recognised nothing in my person; and, being very doubtful whether he would have recollected my name any more, had I introduced myself, I made him a profound bow and said nothing. Long may he continue to enjoy the recollections of his exemplary and most useful career! I believe few teachers ever did so much for the intellect of so many.

LAMENT FOR MACLEAN OF AROS.

FROM THE GAELIC.

MACLEOD of Dunvegan,

There's a curse lies upon thee, For the slaughter of Lauchlan, Little honour it won thee.

Little honour it won thee,

For smooth was thy greeting;

Thou wert bid to the feast,

In the hall was your meeting.

In the hall was your meeting,

But thou stain'd'st it with slaughter; When there's blood on the hearth,

Who can wash it with water?

Who can wash it with water,
Though it flow as in furrows,

Or bring joy to the children
Of desolate Aros?

Upon desolate Aros

There is wailing and weeping,

For the chief of her nobles

In the dark chamber sleeping.

In the dark chamber sleeping

Lies our curly-tress'd warrior, In the day of the battle

Our bulwark and barrier.

Our bulwark, our barrier!

Oh! the mother that bore thee, How she wept in her anguish

When the turf was laid o'er thee!

When the turf was laid o'er thee,

With the nurse that had rear'd thee,

Wept the maiden that loved,

And the race that revered thee.

The race that revered thee,

On the heath and the billow, Saw thy chamber of silence,

And the dust of thy pillow!

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