foot, when she and her husband again rise to go their ways. That face was ance a bonnie ane-and it's no unbonnie yet-were ony justice done to it -and it wou'd na be sae waefu', had the heart not known the meesery o' buryin' an only bairn-and leevin' it far ahint her, never mair to see the grass on its grave.

We must.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

I see a beautifu' cretur, no saxteen; I hear her sabbin' at the Wayside Well; but she has a babby at her breist, and the thocht o't brak her mither's heart, and the sicht o't drave her father mad-or waur than mad-for the verra nicht she was delivered-(he had been out a' day at his warkand, you see, he had been telt nathing o' what was gaun to happen by her noo in her grave-for she had died suddenly-before she could bring herself to tell her husband-a stern man, and an elder o' the kirk)-twa hours after her time was over, he stood beside her bed, where the bit lassie, his dochter, lay wi' her wee sweet bonny new-born life atween her breists-and wi' white lips, and a black face, and fiery een, commanded her to rise-some said the Evil Ane had put a knife into his haun', but if sae, something took it out, and hid it safe awa'-and she did sae a' trumlin', and hardly fit to put on her claes-but on, somehow or ither, they were put-and though unable to a' appearance to staun' by hersell, yet, to the amazement o' folk at the doors and windows, she walked awa', without daurin' ance to look back-wi' baith arms and baith hauns faulded across her breist-and whisperin' something wi' a sweet voice, no in to herself, but wi' her mouth breathing on that immortal jewel-sinfu' as she was-intrusted by the Almichty to the care o' her who last simmer used to drap a curtsy on entering the school-for said I na that, sittin' there at the Way-side Well, Helen Irvine will no be saxteen till the First Day o' May! And whare think ye she's gaun? I need na tell the reason-but the silly child-as she keeps sit sittin' there-for fear if she were to rise up that she micht fa' doon, and hurt the breathin' blessing o' God, that is drawin' life from her breist-the silly child is thinkin' o' takin' shippin' at some far-aff seaport, and sailing awa'-I need na tell the reason-sailin' awa' to the wars in Spain !

NORTH.

James, spare the Registrar's feelings

SHEPHERD.

My Lord High Registrar, I didna think ony thing I could say would hae sae affecked you-but your heart's a' ane with the lowly Shepherd's ; and, as Shakspeare says,

"Ae touch o' natur' maks the hail warld kin!"

NORTH.

Ah! James! I wish you had seen Allan's new picture before it went to Somerset-house-POLISH EXILES CONDUCTED BY BASHKirs on their WAY TO SIBERIA.

SHEPHERD.

Whatn' a fine and affeckin'-aye, sooblime, soobjeck for an ile-pentin', by a great maister like Wullie Allan! Twunty or thretty wild Tartars on lang-maned, lang-tailed horses, galloppin' like mad in the middle distance-in the far-aff distance, a comin' storm o' Siberian thunder and lightning-in the fore-grun', disarmed troops o' Polish patriots, o' a' ages and sexes, that wad fain hae dee'd fechtin' for the laun' ance set free by John Sobewhisky-noo loaded in chains, like gangs o' slaves in the Soothern States o' American Virginia.

NORTH.

No, James, no-" When bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen,"-it was all by herself and by a few simple touches you shewed her to us in her spiritual beauty, going and coming from Fairy Land.

Sure aneuch I did sae.

SHEPHERD.

NORTH.

Allan, James, has conceived, in the same spirit, his Polish Exiles. They

are but one family, but in their sufferings, they represent those of all sent to Siberia, and cold and base would be that heart which melted not before such a picture. Towards evening, fatigue has weighed them down-one and all on the roadside; but there is no fainting, no bysterics. That man in fetters in Poland was a patriot-in the steppes of Siberia he is but a father! With humble-almost humiliated earnestness, he beseeches the Bashkirs to let his wife and daughter, and other children, and himself, rest but for an hour! The Bashkirs are three; and he who refuses, does so without cruelty, but, inexorable in his sense of duty, points towards the distance, a dim dreary way along the wilderness, not unoccupied by other wretches moving towards the mines! The other two Bashkirs are sitting without any emotion on their jaded horses, and if they be jaded, how low must be the pulses of that lovely girl and that matron, who, with the rest, have travelled on foot the same leagues-unaccustomed-for they are noble-to be thus trailed along the dust!

SHEPHERD.

It maun, in good truth, be an affeckin' sicht.

NORTH.

To my mind 'tis Allan's best picture.

SHEPHERD.

Say rather-" to ma heart." For though the mind, dootless, has something to do wi' a' our emotions, frae the heart they a' spring; and on feelin', which is the only infallible way o' judgin', a picture o' emotions, whether in poetry or pentin', tae the heart is made the feenal appeal. The feelin' i' the heart then sanctions and ratifies the decision o' the mind; and you hae, as in the case afore us, sae beautifully, and beyond a' question sae truly touched aff by Christopher's pen, after Wullie's pencil, A JUDGMENT.

NORTH.

The poor Poles! I honour them for their patriotism and their valour. All brave men are my friends, Shepherd; and I was proud to have beneath my roof, and at my board, that old Polish patriotic poet, whom his countrymen call their Scott. Sczyrma, too, the brave and bright, thy name I love to its sound mine ear is true-but to mine eye elusive are the letters-may happier days yet dawn on thee, and may the exile behold again the fair face that once beatified his household! France betrayed Poland, and if England were to speak at all, why was it not by the mouths of her cannon? With Thomas Campbell I would walk to death; and I admire the bold British eloquence of Cutlar Fergusson. James, he is A MAN.

REGISTRAR.

Noble sentiments, North. I always thought you were, like myself, a Whig.

NORTH.

Never. Nor are you a Whig, Sam; but to me Liberty is the air I have ever breathed, and when I have it not, I will die. May all men be free!

SHEPHERD.

"Wha sae base as be a slave!"

NORTH.

Some six months since, Sam, Achmet Pacha, the Intendant of the Palace, and the Sultan's especial favourite, set out from Constantinople for Odessa, in order to proceed to St Petersburgh, there to conciliate the favour of the new master of Turkey-a title the Russians eagerly arrogate for their Czar. Achmet was laden with jewels and other costly presents, but that to which the vanity of the Russians attaches most value, was an old sword, selected from the ancient Turkish collection, of which the handle and scabbard, covered with precious stones, was sent to Nicholas as the weapon of CONSTANTINE PALEOLOGUS, who died, as you know, in the breach, when the capital was stormed by Mahomet the Second. So far the talented correspondent of the Times. Mr Simmons of Templemore, Tippera ry, (why not name a man of genius?) the writer-under the signature of Harold-of some noble lines in Maga, entitled, " Napoleon's Dream," saw the letter in the Times, and "on that hint he spake." I have had his ines in my book for some moons-but such poetry outlives the politics ofthe day, and its interest is as strong now as ever-even here in the

Fairy's Cleuch. I may mention, that Alp Arslan, or the Valiant Lion, was one of the most powerful monarchs of the Seljukian (Turkish) dynasty. He was buried at Maru; and, according to Gibbon, had these words inscribed over his tomb:-" O ye, who have seen the glory of Alp Arslan exalted to the Heavens, repair to Maru, and you will behold it buried in the dust!" His son, Malek Shah, (in the stately phraseology of the same historians), extended his astonishing conquests, until Cashgar, a Tartar kingdom on the borders of China, submitted to his sway-which swept from the mountains of Georgia to the walls of Constantinople, the holy city of Jerusalem, and the spicy groves of Arabia Felix. Soliman, Sam, one of the princes of his family, was the immediate founder of the Ottoman Empire. Sam, you are the best reader of poetry I know, for a Scotchman. There, -out, and up with them-ore rotundo.

REGISTRAR.

O'er the golden-domed shrines of imperial Stamboul,
High rises the morning resplendently cool,

Till that proud double daylight is burning in smiles
On blue Marmora's waters and olive-hid isles.

All Stamboul is astir,-the Imaum's minaret

Is scarce hush'd from the Hu of his godliness yet;
When your brows to the dust! Achmet Pasha appears
'Mid the thunder of horse and the lightning of spears!

In a tempest of splendour-with banner and tromp,
By bazaar and atmeydan is winding his pomp,
Till it sparkleth away through yon Gateway of Gold,
Like a stream in the sunset triumphantly roll'd.

He doubtless goes forth the Vicegerent of Fate,
O'er some THEME of that despot-dominion, whose state
Shot the arch of its empire's plenipotent span
From the summits of Zion to yellow Japan.

May the head of his Highness be lifted! Not so,
Achmet Pasha is boune for the Cities of Snow,

Where the glow of his grandeur will scarce be deem'd meet
To warm him a way to their Autocrat's feet.

By the God-wielded brand of Red Beder! he bears
The high Heir-loom of Empire-the Falchion that wears
The dark hues of that morning its terrors were humbled,
When the Last Sceptred Roman's last rampart was crumbled!

He transfers the free blade of unkinged Constantine-
Who died as can die but the deathless-divine-
To a son of rude Ruric, that Wasp of the Wave,
The Slavonian who lent us his epithet-Slave!

Oh thou, who, though dead, from thy tomb at Maru
Yet speaketh, till tyranny pales in its hue-
Alp Arslan! crown'd Whelp of red Valour, awaken-
The strongholds of thy dwindled puissance are shaken!

Once more for the flap of thy flag, Malek Shah,
That shook wide over terrified Asia its awe!
Ruthless Soliman,-west from the Euphrates' marge
Again let thine all-blasting cavalry charge!

For the Wolf of the North, the foul battener in blood,
Guttled hot from the marsh where a monarchy stood,
Is panting to couch in his pestilence, where
The lush grapes of Scutari are purpling the air:

And his hordes will descend like the bloom-killing gale,
And as crushingly cold as its hurricane-hail,

To thaw the dull ice from their veins in the zones

Of the breasts whose white billows are heaving on thrones.

Stern shades of the proud Paleologi, come,

And when midnight is stone through the broad Hippodrome,
There pledge to the shroudless Comneni the cup,
Which the Moon-crown'd Sultana, like ye, must drink up!

As for thee-the Mistitled-Frail Shadow of God-
On the Janizar's gore-dabbled turban who trod-
And who, casting thy Bigot-sires' trammels behind,
Buckled round thy freed spirit the harness of MIND-

Where now is that spirit, Lost Mahmoud the Last?
Like the Cross, is the Crescent's supremacy past?
Then up! and let echoing Christendom tell,
That a Moslem could fall as a Constantine fell!

Ho! Leopards of Albion, and Lilies of France-
Let your flags in the breeze of the Bosphorus dance-
Or, by Allah the Awful! if late by a sun,

The Carnatic will stable the steeds of the Don!

NORTH.

You that are a Greek scholar, James, do you remember an inscription for a wayside Pan, by Alcæus?

SHEPHERD.

I remember the speerit o't, but I forget the words. Indeed, I'm no sure if ever I kent the words, but that's naething-at this moment I feel the inscription in the original Greek to be very beautiful! For sake o' Mr Tickler, perhaps you'll receet it in English?

NORTH.

Way-faring man, by heat and toil oppress'd,
Here lay thee down thy languid limbs to rest,
Upon this flowery meadow's fragrant breast.

Here the pine leaves, where whispering zephyrs stray,
Shall soothe thee listening to Cigala's lay,

And on yon mountain's brow the shepherd swain

Pipes by the gurgling fount his noon-tide strain,
Secure beneath the platane's leafy spray,

From the autumnal dog-star's sultry ray.

To-morrow thou'lt get on, way-faring man,
So listen to the good advice of Pan.

SHEPHERD.

Thae auncients, had they been moderns, would hae felt a' we feel oursells; and sometimes I'm tempted to confess, that in the matter o' expression o' a simple thocht, they rather excel us-for, however polished may be ony ane o' their maist carefu' compositions, it never looks artificial, and the verra feenish o' the execution seems to be frae the fine finger o' Nature's ain inspired sell! O how I hate the artificial!

Not worse than I.

REGISTRAR,

SHEPHERD.

Ca' a thing artificial that's no ony sic thing, and ye make me like it less and less till I absolutely dislike it; but then the sense o' injustice comes to ma relief, and I love it better than afore-as, for example, a leddy o' fine education, or a garden flower. For, I'll be shot, if either the ane or the ither be necessarily artificial, or no just as bonnie, regarded in a richt light, as a lass or a lily o' low degree. Ony ither touchin' triffle frae the Greek, sir?

Near to the shore, upon this neck of land,
A poor Priapus, here I ever stand.

Carved in such guise, and forced such form to take,
As sons of toilsome fishermen could make,

My feetless legs, and cone-shaped, towering head,

Fill every cormorant with fear and dread.

But when for aid the fisher breathes a prayer,

I come more swiftly than the storms of air.

I also eye the ships that stem the flood:

'Tis deeds, not beauty, shew the real God.

[Loud hurras heard from the glen, and repeated by all the echoes,

Heavens! what's that?

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

Didna I tell ye I had wauken'd the Forest? What's twenty, thretty, or fifty miles to the lads and lassies o' the South o' Scotland? Auld women and weans 'll walk that atween the twa gloamings-and hae na they gigs, and carts, and pownies for the side-saddle, and lang bare-backed yads that can carry fowr easy, and at a pinch, by haudin' on by mane and tail, five? Scores hae been paddin' the hoof since morn frae the head o' ClydesdaleAnnan-banks hae been roused as by the sound o' a trumpet-and the auld Grey Mare has been a' day whusking her tail wi' pleasure to see Moffatdale croudin' to the Jubilee.

[They all take their station outside on the brae, and hold up their hands.

I have been accustomed to calculate the numbers of great multitudesand I fix them at fifteen hundred, men, women, and children.

SHEPHERD.

Twa hunder collies, and asses and mules included, a hunder horse.

Of each a Turm.

REGISTRAR.

SHEPHERD.

Oh! sir, is na 't a bonny sicht? There's a Trades' Union for you, sir, that may weel mak your heart sing for joy-shepherds, and herdsmen, and ploughmen, and woodsmen, that wud, if need were, feght for their kintra, wi' Christopher North at their head, against either foreign or domestic enemies; but they come noo to do him homage at the unviolated altar which Nature has erected to Peace.

REGISTRAR.

A band of maidens in the van-unbonneted-silken-snooded all. And hark-they sing! Too distant for us to catch the words-but music has its own meanings-and only that it is somewhat more mirthful, we might think it was a hymn!

SHEPHERD (to TICKLER and the REGISTRAR). Dinna look at him, he's greetin'. If that sound was sweet, is na this silence sublime?

TICKLER,

What are they after now, James?