that he concealed himself among the branches upon seeing that he was discovered. I immediately proceeded to the place indicated, and, after beating for some time about the environs to no purpose, at length heard his voice in the tone which he usually adopted when supplicating for a favour or a remission of punishment. Upon looking up, I perceived him half hid behind a large branch in a tree immediately above me, from which, in fact, he had been watching our encamp. ment ever since his departure; but all my persuasions could not prevail upon him to descend, and it was only by climbing the tree that I finally succeeded in securing him. He made no attempt to escape me, however, and his countenance exhibited a ludicrous mixture of joy at the meeting and fear of being punished for his misdeeds.

"On one occasion, I resolved to reward my Hottentots for good conduct. The pipe went merrily round, joy was pictured on every countenance, and the brandy-bottle was slowly circulating.

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Kees, all impatience for the arrival of his turn, followed it with his eyes, holding his plate ready for his allotted portion; for I had found that in drinking out of a glass his impatience generally caused some of the liquor to run up his nose, which greatly incommoded him, and kept him coughing and sneezing for hours afterwards. I was engaged at the moment in sealing a letter. He had just received the share of the brandy, and was stooping down to drink it, when I adroitly introduced a slip of lighted paper under his chin. The whole plate suddenly burst into flame, and the terrified animal, with a yell of indescribable horror, leaped backwards at least twelve or fifteen feet at a single bound, and continued, during the whole time the brandy was burning, to chatter and gaze intently at a phenomenon which he no doubt considered of preternatural occurrence. He could never afterwards be prevailed upon to taste spirits of any kind, and a mere sight of a bottle was at all times sufficient to frighten and alarm him.”

THE

[JOHN LEYDEN, born at Denholm, Roxburghshire.

ON Jura's heath how sweetly swell
The murmurs of the mountain bee!
How softly mourns the wreathed shell
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea!

But softer, floating o'er the deep,

The mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the barque of Colonsay.

Aloft the purple pennons wave,

As, parting gay from Crinan's shore,
From Morven's wars the seamen brave
Their gallant chieftain homeward bore.
In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail
Still blamed the lingering barque's delay:
For her he chid the flagging sail,

The lovely maid of Colonsay.
"And raise," he cried, "the song of love
The maiden sung with tearful smile,
When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove,
We left afar the lonely isle!
"When on this ring of ruby red
Shall die,' she said, 'the crimson hue,
Know that thy favourite fair is dead,
Or proves to thee and love untrue.''
Now, lightly poised, the rising oar

Disperses wide the foamy spray,
And echoing far o'er Crinan's shore,
Resounds the song of Colonsay.

"Softly blow, thou western breeze,

Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowy seas,

Before my love, sweet western gale!
"Where the wave is tinged with red,
And the russet sea-leaves grow,
Mariners, with prudent dread

Shun the shelving reefs below.
"As you pass through Jura's sound,
Bend your course by Scarba's shore;
Shun, oh, shun, the gulf profound,
Where Corrievreckin's surges roar!
"Softly blow, thou western breeze,
Softly rustle through the sail!
Soothe to rest the furrowed seas,

Before my love, sweet western gale!"
Thus, all to soothe the chieftain's woe,

Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow,

He seemed her parting sigh to hear.
The lonely deck he paces o'er,

Impatient for the rising day,
And still from Crinan's moonlight shore,
He turns his eyes to Colonsay.

The moonbeams crisp the curling surge,
That streaks with foam the ocean green;-
While forward still the rowers urge

Their course, a female form was seen.

That sea-maid's form, of pearly light,
Was whiter than the downy spray,
And round her bosom, heaving bright,
Her glossy yellow ringlets play.
Borne on a foamy-crested wave,

She reached amain the bounding prow, Then, clasping fast the chieftain brave,

She, plunging, sought the deep below. Ah! long beside thy feignèd bier

The monks the prayer of death shall say, And long for thee the fruitless tear Shall weep the maid of Colonsay!

But downward, like a powerless corse,

The eddying waves the chieftain bear; He only heard the moaning hoarse

Of waters murmuring in his ear.

The murmurs sink by slow degrees.

No more the waters round him rave;
Lulled by the music of the seas,
He lies within a coral cave.

In dreamy mood reclines he long,

Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose,
Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song
Far in the crystal cavern rose-
Soft as the harp's unseen control,

In morning dreams which lovers hear,
Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul,
But never reach the waking ear.

As sunbeams through the tepid air,

When clouds dissolve the dews unseen, Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair, And fields that glow with livelier green-

So melting soft the music fell;

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It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray-
Say, heard'st thou not these wild notes swell?
Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay."

Like one that from a fearful dream
Awakes, the morning light to view,
And joys to see the purple beam,

Yet fears to find the vision true,

He heard that strain, so wildly sweet,
Which bade his torpid languor fly;
He feared some spell had bound his feet,
And hardly dared his limbs to try.

"This yellow sand, this sparry cave,

Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway; Can'st thou the maiden of the wave Compare to her of Colonsay ?"

Roused by that voice of silver sound,

From the paved floor he lightly sprung, And, glancing wild his eyes around

Where the fair nymph her tresses wrung,

No form he saw of mortal mould;
It shone like ocean's snowy foam;
Her ringlets waved in living gold,

Her mirror crystal, pearl the comb.
Her pearly comb the syren took,

And careless bound her tresses wild; Still o'er the mirror stole her look,

As on the wondering youth she smiled. Like music from the greenwood tree, Again she raised the melting lay: "Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me, And leave the maid of Colonsay?" "Fair is the crystal hall for me,

With rubies and with emeralds set; And sweet the music of the sea

Shall sing when we for love are met.

"Through the green meads beneath the sea, Enamoured, we shall fondly stray;

Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me,
And leave the maid of Colonsay!"

"Though bright thy locks of glistering gold, Fair maiden of the foamy main,

Thy life-blood is the water cold,
While mine beats high in every vein:
"If I, beneath thy sparry cave,
Should in thy snowy arms recline,
Inconstant as the restless wave,

My heart would grow as cold as thine. "These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay,

They swim not in the light of love; The beautcous maid of Colonsay,

Her eyes are milder than the dove! "E'en now, within the lonely isle,

Her eyes are dim with tears for me; And canst thou think that syren smile Can lure my soul to dwell with thee ?"

An oozy film her limbs o'erspread,

Unfolds in length her scaly train;
She tossed in proud disdain her head,
And lashed with webbèd fin the main.

"Except thou quit thy former love, Content to dwell for aye with me, Thy scorn my finny frame might move To tear thy limbs amid the sea." "Then bear me swift along the main, The lonely isle again to see, And when I here return again,

I plight my faith to dwell with thee." An oozy film her limbs o'erspread,

While slow unfolds her scaly train; With gluey fangs her hands were clad; She lashed with webbed fin the main. He grasps the mermaid's scaly sides, As with broad fins she oars her way; Beneath the silent moon she glides, That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay.

Proud swells her heart! She deems at last
To lure him with her silver tongue;
And, as the shelving rocks she passed,
She raised her voice and sweetly sung.
In softer, sweeter strains she sung,
Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay,
When light to land the chieftain sprung,
To hail the maid of Colonsay.

Oh! sad the mermaid's gay notes fell,
And sadly sink remote at sea;
So sadly mourns the wreathed shell
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea.

And ever, as the year returns,

The charm-bound sailors know the day, For sadly still the mermaid mourns The lovely chief of Colonsay.

of

But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her; for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society, and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart-I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of

that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. I was seated there one still, sunny morning, watching two labourers who were digging a grave. While I was meditating, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected woe; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased

the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavouring to comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the

mourner.

As the funeral train approached the grave the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in his surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless.

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the nams

and age of the deceased: "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped as if in prayer, but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother's heart.

The service being ended, preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection-directions given in the cold tones of business; the striking of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation: "Nay, now-nay, now; don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted.

I could see no more; my heart swelled into my throat; my eyes filled with tears. I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed.

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her.

On my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter. She was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed.

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. "Oh, sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweettempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents. It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church, for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm than on her good man's,

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and, poor soul! she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round."

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the small craft that plied on a neighbouring river. He had not been long in this employ when he was entrapped by a pressgang, and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, and sank into his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certain respect, as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbours would now and then culti vate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly open. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened toward her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye. Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son -your poor boy George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness, and foreign imprisonment, had at length dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood.

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He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. He could not endure his mother from his sight. If she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her venerable form bending over him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died.

The next Sunday I was at the village church, when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar.

She had made an effort to put on something like