"The Voice of Many Waters," by Mrs. David Osborne, is a book for young people, very full of useful knowledge, but, as we think, improperly styled “a tale." It is no more a tale than our old acquaintance, "Goldsmith's Grammar of Geography," is a tale; but it contains fully as much geographical information as that desultory school-book, and of a newer, and therefore more correct description. Mrs. Osborne favours her young readers with all sorts of curious and instructive matter, à propos of every river and city, sea and country, lake and mountain, which is mentioned. But the book is tainted with a sectarian tone in things dear reader, strains against his collar, intent on going off at a direct angle in pursuit of something, which, with his intelligent head high raised in air, he scents, or fancies he scents; thereby distracting Jem with a divided duty, and rendering the figure of that much enduring lad an exact fac-simile of the Austrian Eagle, barring its second head. And now, with 800 acres to shoot over, containing famous stubbles, standing beans, turnips, and a brilliant little tit-bit of late clover, where the birds always lie as thick as oysters in a barrel, if you're not "good" for sixteen brace at the very least, it's a pity; and most happy should we be to go through the day with you-chro-spiritual, which should by no means prevail in a work nicle each clever shot-vouch for the incredible number of minutes Sancho stood, with his tail as stiff as a ramrod, his fore-foot slightly elevated, and his precious nose poked out as if he were trying (good dog!) to look like a stuffed crocodile-and bring you comfortably home to dinner at a quarter to eight, with a very decided pain in your back, the appetite of a famished tiger, thoroughly used up, but perfectly happy. Much would it rejoice us to do all this, were we not an editor, and obliged to attend to business. Amongst the new books which have come under our notice, we may mention the eighteenth volume of the Parlour Library, containing " Olivia, a Tale for an Hour of Idleness." The lady who makes her debut in this work, (for a lady we happen to know it is,) assures us in her preface, that she trusts "nothing she has written will ever do any harm, even if it should fail to do good;" in this we agree with her, though we incline to go further, and believe the reverse of the proposition to be equally true. Such very innocent writing as characterizes the pages of Olivia, will scarcely exert much influence, for good or evil. Still, although the tale savours strongly of the Rosa Matilda school, it has its merits. The most serious fault we find with it is on the score of want of originality. "Olivia" is affectionately dedicated to Mrs. Marsh; and a more fit person for the purpose it would have been impossible to select, for, had Emilia Wyndham never been written, we much doubt whether Olivia would have seen the light. Lest we be thought unfairly severe, we beg to call the reader's attention to the following somewhat suggestive coincidences:Emilia carly in the tale loses a well-loved mother; Olivia's idolized parent dies in the first chapter; both Emilia and Olivia are left to look after an unpleasant papa apiece, for whose benefit they both marry men to whom they are indifferent,—each, in so doing, sacrificing a lover whom she adores, and whose respective deaths they are both made aware of while reading a newspaper aloud to their husbands, whose attention they draw to the fact by fainting on the spot. The rival heroines are decidedly alike in character, and each has a weak-minded but amiable young female companion as a foil. Still, the book is evidently the work of a lady, and an amiable and religious woman, and as such we can safely recommend it to those of our readers who prefer mild literature to a more stimulating, and possibly therefore a less wholesome mental diet. intended for children. In speaking of Italy, and its beauties and wonders, the authoress deplores that such a country should be inhabited by "idolaters!" and talks of the rites of the Catholic Church as "certain ceremonies performed by these people !” One would think, from this, that the Roman Catholics were a tribe of bushmen lately discovered in Australia or New Zealand, who practised some altogether novel and curious ceremonies. Children who read Mrs. Osborne's book should be warned, that (without entering upon the religious question) "these people” have civilized Europe; taught us to read and write; given us poetry, the arts, and most of the sciences; established good governments, and laws; in fact, that we Protestants owe nearly all we inherit to them; and that it is not becoming in children to point scornfully at their parents, and call them-" these people." "Kate Walsingham" is a pretty tale; but we confess ourselves unable to make up our minds as to its authorship, owing to the ambiguity of the title-page. From internal evidence we should judge the work to be by that old favourite of the novel-reading world, Ellen Pickering. The story is, we fear, a very natural one; it is briefly this :-Kate Walsingham, a young beauty, poetess, and sort of female Admirable Crichton, is beloved by her cousin Walter, who is as handsome, as poetical, and as full of genius for a man as she is for a woman. But Kate has been, unfortunately, brought up with Walter, and loves him only as a brother. She falls into real inflammable novel love with a man every way her inferior, except in person and property, who is desperately alarmed at her cleverness, thinks it unfeminine, &c. and behaves to her in the most cowardly and insulting manner. Still Kate, being a heroine, therefore unreasonable, loves him, and tries to make him forgive and forget her intellectual superiority; for his sake she endeavours to become common-place,-she is ashamed of her best gifts; and it is touching to see how she falsifies her nature that her lover may feel himself her equal, or, if possible, her superior. In vain she acts a lie;―he sneers at her, taunts her with her genius, and finally almost kills her with his cruel jealousy. Walter stands by, and sees all, and bears all patiently for Kate's sake, who, through it all, loves her tormentor. At last, to the reader's great relief, he dies; and the book ends with a significant hope that Kate may, in time, love and marry Walter. THE CASTLE OF DOUNE.1 PERHAPS the history of Europe during the last three hundred years can furnish us with no event so chivalrous in every sense of the word as the effort made by Prince Charles Edward against the house of Hanover, in the year 1745. In these days we can hardly understand, although we are compelled to believe, the enthusiasm and romantic attachment dis played by all classes of the Scotch in the Jacobite cause. Ladies of every rank and station seem, if possible, to have been even more devoted to the house of Stuart than their relations and friends of the opposite sex. The songs composed at the time are certainly the most spirit-stirring effusions of the kind in our language, while their abundance testifies the universality of the furor, for such only can we call it, which prevailed. Sir Walter Scott saw at once the vast capabilities of this subject for the purpose of fiction, and the high popularity attained by the famous Waverley novels was owing, in no small degree, to the admirable manner in which he made use of the materials thus afforded him, for the first of that unrivalled series. Although, perhaps, he may have painted the character and personal manners of Prince Charles in too favourable colours, he has by no means exaggerated the enthusiasm of the Jacobite army, and their deep devotion to the dangerous cause they had embraced. Neither did he at all overdraw, in the character of Flora Mac Ivor, the ardent attach ment of the Scottish fair to the unfortunate house of Stuart. History furnishes us with numerous instances of a similar kind: mothers urged their sons, wives their husbands, and maidens their lovers and brothers, to" fight for Prince Charlie," and, even if they could not conquer, to die for his sake. the manner in which they contrived to escape from their prison, a large room in the highest part of the castle near the battlements. "To guard the prisoners there was a party of about twenty highlanders; a sentinel, who stood two or three paces from the door of the room, allowed any of the prisoners, who chose, to take air on the battlements. It was proposed, that they should make a rope of the blankets they had, by which they might descend from the battlements to the ground, a depth of seventy feet, but where there was no sentinel. The proposal was agreed to, and to prevent suspicion of their design, some of the volunteers' always kept company with the other persons in the Great Room, which was common to all, whilst the rest of them, barring the door of their cell, were hard at work, till they had finished the rope, of which they resolved to make trial the very night it was completed. The two officers then claimed it as their right to be the first that should hazard themselves by proving the strength of the rope. But that claim was objected to, and all drew lots, so as to settle the order in which they should descend. This done, the captain stood No. 1, the lieutenant No. 2. "When everything was adjusted, they went up to the battlements, fastened the rope, and about one o'clock, in a moonlight night, began to descend. The two officers, Robert Douglas, and another, got down very well; but with the fifth, who was tall and bulky, the rope broke just as his feet reached the ground. The lieutenant now called to the next in the order of descent, an Englishman, of the name of Barrow, not to attempt it, as twenty or thirty feet were broken off from the rope. Nevertheless, putting himself on the rope, he slid down as far as it lasted, and then let go his hold. His friend Douglas, and the lieutenant, as soon as they saw him on the rope, placed themselves under him, so as to break his fall; but descending from so great a height, he brought them both to the The history and results of that unhappy rebellion are too well known to need notice, but one circumstance may be here cited as an illustration of the chivalrous spirit manifested in behalf of the Pretender. I allude to the magnanimous conduct of a poor High-ground, dislocated one of his ankles, and broke several lander, who sheltered Prince Charles at the risk of his life, and resisted the temptation of betraying him for thirty thousand pounds, though he was so poor as actually to be compelled to steal from his neighbour food for the sustenance of his royal guest. And yet this man was afterwards hung for cattle stealing. During this outbreak, the castle of Doune (the subject of our engraving) was held by Mc Gregor of Glengyle, a nephew of the famous Rob Roy, better known by his Lowland name of James Graham. He at once declared for the Chevalier, and fortified the castle by planting a twelve-pounder in one of the windows, and several swivels on the parapet. Soon afterwards, a party of Royalist volunteers, from the university of Edinburgh, headed by John Home, the author of Douglas, ventured as far as the Teith river, but old Glengyle managed to capture them, and confine them in his castle. Home, in his History of the Rebellion, gives the following minute description of VOL. VII. (1) Vide Illustration. of his ribs. In this extremity the lieutenant raised him from the ground, and taking him on his back, carried him towards the road which led to Alloa. When unable to proceed any further with his burden, two others of the company, by holding each one of Mr. Barrow's arms, helped him "to hop along upon one leg;" but thinking that at this slow rate they would certainly be overtaken, they resolved to call at the first house in their way, and that happening to belong to a friend, a horse was procured, and having reached the sea, they were received on board the Vulture sloop of war. "But to return to the castle. Neil Mac Vicar had drawn the last number, and, while standing on the parapet, having seen the disaster of his friends, he carried the rope to his cell, where he substantially repaired and lengthened it with shreds of blankets. This done, he returned to the battlements, and there again fastening it, commenced his descent. But when he reached that part where the fracture had taken place, and which he had endeavoured to secure by adding greatly to its thickness, he found it beyond his grasp, | who had made a fortune by being the tailor of Margaret and falling from the same height that Mr. Barrow had of England, whom we have before mentioned as often done, but with no one to break his fall, he was so residing in the castle. seriously injured, that he languished and died soon afterwards at the house of his father, a clergyman in the isle of Isla." The castle of Doune was originally built by Murdock, Duke of Albany, who was beheaded on the castle hill of Stirling, from which his dying glance might for a moment rest on that stately pile, the monument of his fallen greatness. In the sixteenth century, it was often occupied by Margaret, daughter of Henry VII. of England, and widow of James IV.: her grand-daughter, the lovely and unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, in company with Lord Darnley, frequently resorted to it as a hunting-seat, and after the battle of Falkirk, many of the royalist prisoners were confined within its ample walls; and although only eight miles from Stirling Castle, Graham held out for the prince during all the time that the Jacobite army was in England. Its position is at once commanding and beautiful, being situated on the steep and narrow green bank of the Teith, while its opposite side is washed by a mountain stream. Its lofty towers rise far above the surrounding trees, and give great effect to a distant view of this noble baronial residence. At one end of the front rises a spacious square tower, of considerable height, while another, a little inferior, stands behind the opposite extremity: a strong back wall, nearly forty feet in length, forms the whole into an ample quadrangle. The principal room between the towers is seventy feet in length, that in the great tower forty-five feet by thirty; and the kitchen fireplace is quite capacious enough to allow space for a score of giants to spend a comfortable winter's evening bencath the chimney. A ponderous iron gate still exists within a heavy iron studded folding-door, and although the castle is now roofless, the walls are still entire, and have the appearance of great solidity and strength. The Earl of Moray, to whom Doune Castle belongs, has a seat adjoining, called Doune Lodge; and Cambus Wallace, the ancient seat of the Edmonstones, and now that of Lord Doune, eldest son of the Earl of Moray, is in the immediate vicinity. In his march from the highlands, the chevalier took a cup of welcome from the hands of a fair adherent at the gate of Cambus Wallace. The neighbourhood of the castle of Dounc is rich in associations connected with the ballad poetry of Scotland. Among these, that relating to the death of the "bonny Earl of Moray" is no doubt familiar to many of our readers. The village of Doune, which lies in the immediate neighbourhood of the castle, has much improved of late years, and is gradually rising into some degree of local importance. Many a visitor stops to see the castle, which has been introduced by Sir Walter Scott in his novel of Waverley, as the fortress to which the hero of the tale was brought by his Highland captor. A fine old bridge, crossing the Teith a little above the castle, was built by Robert Spittal, a citizen of Stirling, To the taste and liberality of the Earl of Moray the inhabitants of Doune are indebted for a new and elegant parish church, in the gothic style, with a handsome tower, and very beautiful pulpit. Many new houses, too, have been recently added to the village; and it is not the least of the signs of the times that a few cotton factories have been started here as a substitute for the manufacture of pistols, for which, in the days of old, Doune was celebrated. As the pistol then formed an important portion of the Highland costume, the demand was very considerable. Being only eight miles from Stirling, and about the same distance from Callander, Doune is easily reached by any visitors to Loch Katrine and that part of the Highlands. It will be found worthy of a visit by any who are fond of fine scenery, or who take an interest in the time-honoured remains of the dwellings of those whose names have been famous in history. A DIRGE. F. B. How wearily, how wearily, They say the carth looks glad and gay, But, oh ! since thou art snatch'd away, Too softly beamed thine eye of blue, The nightingale returns to bless The flowers return to deck the field, I care not though a thousand yield Spring may rejoice to see her flowers, Yet do I seek the holy spot, Then speed ye hours on swifter wing, O heaven ! it is a weary thing, |