(Luke, ch. xv. 17.) And, Whether Christian, as well as moral, virtue will not grow on the root of self-love? 21. Whether the moral condition of the world does not proceed rather from the imperfection, than from the depravity of human nature,-rather from the absence of good principles than from the presence of bad ones? Whether our sense of the presence of the Deity, our confidence in his goodness, and our desire of obtaining his favour, are not in a state of dormancy, like the powers of speech and intellect in a man born deaf? And, Whether the separation of the soul from the body may not give us a more distinct view, and a more impressive feeling of the Divine presence, and consequently operate on our moral nature as a surgical operation on the ear of a deaf man might operate on his organs of speech and intellect? (See Gospel of John, ch. ix, 1, 2, 3.)

THE DREAMER. No. I.

A. B.

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was
Of dreams that wave before the half shut eye.

I SAID to myself last night when I went to bed, "To-morrow I will write a paper for the Edinbro' Magazine," but as I had said the same thing every night for the last six weeks, I laid no great stress on keeping my resolution, and should probably have gone on saying the same thing for six weeks longer, had I not had such an extraordinary dream, that I cannot resist giving you an account of it.

I dreamed, Mr Editor, that I had a thumb-nail, not such a one as Dentuas in the fairy tale I read in my youth, which was long, and sharp enough to serve at once the purposes of a knife, a spoon, and a scoop, but more like the thumb-nail recorded in Sheridan's play of the Rivals, which was cherished to make marginal notes withal, for such was the miraculous power of this nail of mine, that when applied to any written or printed characters, it had the power of completely obliterating every word that its author had not written with an honest and pure intention. Tremble, ye authors of certain modern poems and romances, at hearing of such a nail, and rejoice it was only a dream! Be filled, ye critics, with envy, at hearing of such a gift, though only in

possession for a few hours! But I forget, such a faculty would be useless to you, since ye are less solicitous to investigate truth and falsehood, than to display your own wit and talents.

But to return to my dream, no sooner did I find myself possessed of such a treasure of a nail, than I was ar.xious to make trial of its powers, and the first book I applied it to was Edgeworth's Life, a book whose merits have been so often and so variously canvassed, that I had some curiosity to see how it would stand the test of such a talisman; and I protest to you, Mr Editor, on the faith of an honest dreamer, that, except a few little inflations of vanity, a few inaccuracies from defect of memory, a few overcharged expressions of praise from the daughter to the father, and a harmless desire on her part to exalt his fame a little higher than it would go, the book was written with an honest heart and good intention.

My next experiment was on a volume of travels in France by a young gentleman, but as he was a schoolfellow and favourite of some friends of mine, you will pardon my not mentioning his name. There my formidable nail made terrible havoc ; a sort of looseness of principle on sacred subjects, a carelessness whether the display of his scepticism did harm or not, soon made his pretty looking volume present a very mangled appearance under the flagellations of my thumb. I now took up the last Number of your Magazine, but with rather a beating heart, for, to say the truth, it is my favourite periodical work, and my disappointment would have been extreme to see it suffer from the ordeal to which I was about to submit it; but, with joy and satisfaction do I say it, that scarcely a word became effaced, and those few were only little exuberances of vanity in some of your correspondents, for which you are no way accountable, and which perhaps human nature is scarcely ever so much sublimated as to be totally exempt from; and I saw, with infinite satisfaction, that the whole was written with an earnest desire to promote the great causes of morality and religion.

While I was thus agreeably engag ed, methought my servant brought me a letter from my dearest Altissadora. There, said I, is a heart that never dictated a falsehood, truth and

siucerity always flow from it,-here at least my nail will be of no use. Her letter was like its writer, full of tenderness and affection; the last passage particularly charmed me, for it is natural to the heart of man to desire to be loved only for itself. It was as follows: "Believe me, my dearest Cleanthes, you wrong me in supposing that the circumstances of your rank and fortune have any influence in determining my choice; were you only a commoner with L. 500 a-year, I should prefer you to all the world. Your unalterable Altissadora." Whether it was curiosity, suspicion, or the confidence of love, I know not, but I was suddenly seized with the desire of trying the passage I have just given you with my talisman of truth; but Oh! though it was but a dream, I tremble while I describe to you how each beloved word faded away from the paper, even to the little syllable un, leaving only your alterable Altissadora." The shame, the surprise, the grief of such an unexpected stroke caused me to awake, and in the confusion of my thoughts I felt almost inclined to try the affections of my dear girl by writing to her to say an elder brother of my father had suddenly appeared, and that I had nothing left to offer her but my heart, but I soon rejected the unworthy artifice; for, even allowing that my adorable Altissadora should be so much of a woman as to let a diamond necklace and a coroneted carriage have any weight in the scale of a husband's merits, she shall see how light. they are in comparison with a husband's tenderness and affection.

Sir, your friend and admirer, (though unknown,)

CLEANTHES.

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF A LATE DISTINGUISHED CHARACTER. Lawrence of virtuous Father, virtuous Son. MILTON.

LONG threatening hung th' impending gloom,

While trembling Hope respir'd with pain,

And shrinking Fear foresaw the doom
That sorrowing hearts could ill sustain :
The bolt is sped-we view aghast
The mighty ruin fallen at last.
As some majestic sheltering oak,
With ample boughs, the forest's pride,
Victim of heaven's own thunder stroke,
Spreads its lamented ruin wide;

The scatter'd tenants of its shade With plaintive cries the ear invade. Thus low on earth Machaon lies,

To us extinct, that mighty mind; Long must we mourn the good and wiseThe noble-hearted, true, and kind :The yawning gulf, which all deplore, Lies open to be filled no more. Sprung from a long paternal line,

For virtue lov'd-for science fam'dMidst Scotia's nobles first to shine,

His high maternal lineage claim'd; Yet Genius on his favour'd head New honours heap'd-new lustre shed. Sprung from the noble and the brave_ The saint, the scholar, and the sage,Though round his tomb no trophies wave,

His fame to every distant age Shall flourish fresh in vernal grace, And add new splendour to the race.

Cold is that heart whose fervid glow

Burst forth in many an ardent gleam, Closed are those lips whence wont to flow

Of eloquence the copious stream, While wit and learning's blended powers Bloom'd fair in academic bowers.

His was the clear and spotless life,

Pure as the lucid mountain stream, And sordid art and petty strife,

And avarice with her golden dream, Shrunk from that candid open mien Where truth and honour shone serene.

The stream that with diminish'd force

Irriguous wanders through the mead,
Or hid in shades, directs its course

Each humbler plant unseen to feed ;
While verdure fresh, and flow'rets gay,
Reviving mark its devious way :
An emblem fair its course supplied

Of bounty ever fresh and new,
That while it wander'd far and wide,

As silent mov'd as evening dew,
And heal'd disease and soften'd woe,-

That stream, alas! has ceased to flow.
She who to him supremely dear,

Dwelt in his generous bosom's core ;
They who his pride and solace here,
Joy in a father's smile no more,
While o'er the treasure lost they moan,—
Mourn not unaided or alone.

Sickness, and want, and sorrow round

Respond with answering sounds of woe, Long must they mourn the skill profound That bade the healing balsam flow, And added to the unbought cure The aid that made it firm and sure. Not to this favour'd isle alone,

Where art and genius soar so high, Where science mounts her western throne, And heavenward lifts her eagle eye, Was his much honour'd name confin'd, Who liv'd and thought for all his kind.

Where'er the sons of science strive
Our feeble nature's pangs to aid,
His fame immortal shall survive

With grateful honours duly paid,
Extensive as the healing art,
And dear to every generous heart:
Where Britain's energetic tongue

Is heard in East or Western Ind,
Or Shakespeare's verse, or Milton's song,
Have fancy wak'd, or taste refin'd,
Beneath the sun's last lingering ray,
Or where he first pours forth the day.
From where Canadian wastes of snow,
Sullen in wintry guise appear,
To where the South, with ardent glow,
Decks with her golden fruits the year,
Columbia's sons that name revere,
To virtue and to wisdom dear.

Even hostile France, averse no more
To merit's just and powerful claim,
In healing art and classic lore,

Inscribes the Scottish sage's name
Amongst her sons, whose fair renown
Their country's letter'd honours crown.
Yet not the wealth his spirit scorn'd,

Not all the wreathes his genius won, Not all who prais'd, nor all who mourn'd, Avail when life's short day is done: To heartfelt virtues priz'd by Heaven, The unfading amaranth is given.

His dear-lov'd country heirs that fame,

That long her classic page shall grace, His offspring, too, may boast the name, That sheds a radiance o'er his race; But 'tis his goodness spreads a bloom, And scatters fragrance round his tomb.

THE PRUDENT SQUIRE,

A Tale from the German. A KNIGHT of renown, named Hugo, had, till his 50th year, never been in love but with a bumper. Instead of paying court to the fair, he went in search of tilts and tournaments, from which he always returned victorious. In process of time, however, the beardless boy threw him out of the saddle, and all his disdain was gone.

He saw at last Angelica the fair,
And quite forgot his cough and silver hair :
Whatever ills his forehead might betide,
Before a month had past she was his bride.

By good luck, Angelica was a modest, well brought up girl, who, by her rigid virtue, scared away all the gay butterflies that fluttered round the flower of her beauty. Hugo knew the tried and invincible fidelity of his spouse, and loved her as the apple of his eye. One morning he rode out to

pay a visit to a neighbouring brother of the lance. Behind him trotted Conrad, his old and trusty squire. When they had made about half the journey, the knight suddenly stopped and thus began: "Listen to me, Conrad,—a thing has just come into my head which vexes me. This is the very day that the Reverend Nicolaus comes to the castle to read mass for my dear Angelica and me. Now I am not very fond of having that young spark of a priest within my walls while I am absent: these fellows don't always remember their Do you ride back as quickly as you can, and tell Angelica, in my name, not to see him till I come home."

VOWS.

Conrad thoughtfully shook his head, and replied: "I beg your pardon, noble knight, but would my lady not decline seeing him, perhaps, of her own accord?" "Away with your perhaps," proceeded Hugo, " I will be sure of it by giving her my orders." "Do you think so?" returned the squire. "In my simplicity I think the contrary. Follow but for once the counsel of a faithful servant, and give no orders in a case so ticklish." "Ticklish here, ticklish there,” cried the knight fretfully, "What crotchets are these you have in your head today? Do you think it troublesome, perhaps, to ride back a few miles?"

"Oh! if you speak in that tone," replied the other," I have nothing more to say." On that he put spurs to his horse and cantered back to the castle. Angelica saw him riding full speed, and, not without some terror, called from the window: "No misfortune, I trust, has happened to my husband?"

"No, my lady," answered Conrad : "The valorous knight is only uneasy lest any misfortune come upon you, if you should take a fancy to ride on the large dog." "I ride? I ride on that ugly bull-dog?" asked Angelica full of amazement: "I believe you have been making too free with the bottle this morning! It is impossible the knight should have charged you with such a ridiculous commission to me."

"I assure you, he did," answered Conrad," and his honour did it in these very words: "That he knew the bull-dog to be an animal which bit furiously if one attempted to use him

as a riding poney, and that, therefore, you should not think of taking such amusement." After he had spoken in this manner, he turned about his horse and galloped off again. Am I awake? or am I dreaming?" said Angelica to herself. "That idea of the knight is so very strange, that I cannot think there is any reality in the whole affair-it must be a phantom of my own brain. What could he mean by such a message? Is it not enough that I have endeavoured, all along, to learn from his looks, every wish of his heart, in order to accomplish it? Have I deserved that he should extend the limits of his au

thority always farther and farther? that he should lay upon me arbitrary and capricious commands? Ah! I now remark, that it is foolish to be too flexible and submissive! The worm which crawls in the dust is trod upon. No, Sir knight, it shall not go so far as that neither! In spite of your teeth, I will ride upon the bulldog, a fancy which would never have entered my brain, but for your prohibition."

Here her soliloquy was interrupted by a servant, who came to inform her, that Nicolaus was in the antichamber.

"I cannot receive his visit to-day," said Hugo's lady," for my husband is abroad. Make my apology to the reverend gentleman, and beg him to come back to-morrow. I have the highest respect for Mr Nicolaus," said she to herself," but he shall not, for all that, spoil the merry ride I mean to have. I wish the poney were but here! I know he must have a soft trot, and his teeth shall not deter me: he is as gentle as a lamb. O I am delighted at the double pleasure I shall have in putting a trick upon my old snarler, and in trying this new sort of horsemanship."

In all the nooks and corners of the house, Her voice was quickly heard, "Come here, dear Mouse."

Leaving his half-gnawed bones, as thus she cried,

The bull-dog, in a trice, was at her side.
Into a room he was by art allured,
The door of which the lady straight secured.
She gave him something nice (perhaps

'twas steaks)

spur;"

On that she thrust into his side her heel; He growled, but moved not, as he felt the steel.

Again she used the spurs, with greater force;

He, surly, bared his fangs-and things grew worse:

He now springs on-she falls extended on the ground,

His tusks tear in her lily arm a frightful wound.

The lady, thus unsaddled, first, with tears, bedewed the floor, and then got up indignant. The ill-natured animal that could not understand a joke, she drove directly from the room. Towards evening, Hugo, her lord, returned and inquired, with such haste as showed some jealousy, if Nicolaus had been there?"Yes, he came," replied his wife, "but he was not admitted." The knight now looked with a triumphant air at Conrad, whispering in his ear, "Well, Solomon the Wise, do you not now perceive that prohibitions have their use?"

It

Conrad, who had not said a word about the change he made in the commission, smiled and shrugged his shoulders at his lord's mistake. was not till the knight, a second time, turned to his spouse, that he observed her left arm in a sling. He asked the cause. "The bull-dog bit me," answered she," and that proceeds from you." "From me?" said Hugo. Yes, from no one else," replied his spouse. "Had you not sent me, by your squire, a message not to ride upon that snarling animal, I, in my days, had never thought of it." In

silence and amazement our knight now hastened forth to question Conrad, who had, it seems, retired, how that had been. "What did you tell Angelica that she was not to do?" said he. Squire Conrad readily

confessed the truth. "Was that what I desired of you?" said Hugo in a rage. "No, certainly it was not," said the other, yet I think I managed well. I beg you now, reflect how things had been, if I had told her what you said of Nicolaus? My lady is, I own, the jewel of the sex, one-half an angel or even more; yet, still allow me, Sir, to say, she is a daughter of old Eve, who seems to have bequeathed, on all her female race, a no small liking to forbidden fruit.'

MEMOIRS OF THE REBELLION IN 1745 AND 1746. BY THE CHEVALIER DE JOHNSTONE.

(Continued from p. 237.) We have already apprised our read ers, that the latter part of these memoirs is employed in recording the personal history of their author, which, as will quickly appear, was of a nature sufficiently romantic to shew to advantage the daring and even desperate character of the Chevalier; and sufficiently dangerous to engage the anxious interest of all who shall give the narrative of it a perusal. It is, at the same time, well fitted to give us an idea of the wide extent of ruined expectations, the complicated variety of sufferings, and the manifold instances of unhoped for escape which followed the defeat which the Pretender's cause sustained at Culloden. And it also shews, considering the manner in which he abandoned the enterprise, and the unconcern with which he left those who had

engaged in it to their fate, that the subsequent sufferings of the Prince have not that exclusive claim on our sympathy and admiration, to which they have been generally represented as entitled.

Our author thus describes the circumstances in which the signal for battle found him on the morning of the day which decided the fate of the Pretender's enterprise.

"Exhausted with hunger, and worn out with the excessive fatigues of the three

last nights, as soon as we reached Culloden I turned off as fast as I could to Inverness, where, eager to recruit my strength by a little sleep, I tore off my clothes, half asleep all the while; but when I had already one leg in the bed, and was on the point of stretching myself between the sheets, what was my surprise to hear the drum beat to arms, and the trumpets of the piquet of Fitzjames sounding the call to boot and saddle, which struck me like a clap of thunder. I hurried on my clothes, my eyes half shut, and, mounting a horse, I instantly repaired to our army, on the eminence on which we had remained for three days, and from distance of about two miles from us." pp. which we saw the English army at the 133-139.

Macdonald of Scothouse, with whom the author had formed a steady friendship, was killed at his side;-the general rout warned him of the necessity of consulting his safety ;-encumbered with boots, and worn out by fatigue, he looked towards the eminence where he had left his servant

with his horses, but they were gone; -the sight of a horse without a rider, at the distance of thirty paces, anifound the bridle in the firm grasp of mated him with new hope; but he

a man whom fear had laid flat on the

ground, though within reach of the English cannon. He could not wrench the bridle from the death gripe of the poltroon, and was covered with mud, by means of the grape-shot which fell

at his feet.

"Fortunately for me, Finlay Cameron, an officer in Lochiel's regiment, a youth of twenty years of age, six feet high, and very strong and vigorous, happened to pass near us. I called on him to assist me. "Ah! Finlay,' said I, this fellow will not give me up the horse.' Finlay flew to me like lightning, immediately presented his pistol to the head of this man, and threat. ened to blow out his brains if he hesitated a moment to let go the bridle. The fel

low, who had the appearance of a servant,

at length yielded, and took to his heels. Having obtained the horse, I attempted to mount him several times; but all my efforts were ineffectual, as I was without strength and completely exhausted. I called again on poor Finlay, though he was already some paces from me, to assist me to mount. He returned, took me in his arms with as much ease as if I had been a child, and threw me on the horse like a loaded sack, giving the horse at the same time a heavy blow to make him set off with me. Then, wishing that I might