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Eighteen Maxims of Neatness and Order; to which is prefixed, an Introduction. By Theresa Tidy. 20th Édition. London. J. Hatchard and Son.

WITHOUT a habit of neatness and order, all the comfort of social life is at an end. We recommend these Maxims, therefore, to the especial attention of all young ladies and gentlemen, who may not be sufficiently aware that upon one occasion,

"For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost,
For want of a horse the rider was lost,
(Being overtaken and slain by the enemy)
And all for want of care about a horse-shoe nail."

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THE PICTURE GALLERY.
No. I.

SCENE-A Gothic Chamber, with antique Statues ranged in niches along its sides; in the back-ground, hangings concealing a recess; the stage darkened.

Enter the SORCERER, bearing a lamp, followed by ADRIAN. Sorcer. WELCOME, my young scholar, to this retired room, the scene of your initiation; and welcome to the presence of its sole witnesses-those marble effigies of the poets of old, whose shadows, cast from our one lamp, mark out a fanciful avenue on the stone floor beside us. Yonder vaulted cell, with the veil drawn over it, conceals the stone, the instrument of my art.

Adr. And what does that art profess?

Sorcer. To wed poetry to painting, and chain both as captives to the chariot of Virtue and Reason: to embody to the sight the fleeting phantasms of thought, and give to the hopes and fears of the human heart an apparent form and living energy; in fine, to transmute superstitious and vague terrors into a pure awe and devotion redolent only of good.

Adr. Is your science new?

Sorcer. No; but its legitimate end has been but lately made known. The globe of alabaster on which my emblematic pictures are formed, has existed in its present shape since the times of the Alchymists. It is the identical stone commemorated in the mad, but singularly interesting, dream of the astrologer, Dr John Dee. With the progress of opinion it became unpopular, and finally disappeared till the beginning of the present century. It was then discovered by the Author of Waverley among the ruins of Melrose Abbey, who again introduced it to the world, now to become the means of diffusing virtue and knowledge, purified from the degrading fears and subtleties which had so long disfigured and obscured it. Adr. Let me behold it.

Sorcer. You shall. Place our lamp on the slab behind the third statue. (Adrian places the lamp. The Sorcerer waves his hand, and the veil rises, and discovers the sanctuary, and the magic globe on a lofty pedestal.

Adr. How exquisitely beautiful! It blazes through the width of this dim chamber, like one of those ancient

carbuncles we read of, which diffused a red light like evening through every aisle of the temple of a god.

Sorcer. Turn your back on the stone, and look at me. Adr. (Turns.) I see you not : we are in utter darkness. Where is the lamp I but now placed above us? Sorcer. It has gone out. We are in the world of thought; and before the glories of that sacred region, fires fed by the grosser aliments of matter, flicker and die away.

Adr. Let us turn back, then, to the light which will not fail us. I can yet perceive none of those figures which you have described to me as appearing on the sphere. I see only a rack of dusky shadows, sailing slowly across the globe, and tinged, like the eastern side of a morning cloudlet, by the hues of the lucid body before which they move.

Sorcer. And this, too, has a meaning. you to see?

What wish

Adr. I have heard, that ye who hold commerce with supernal natures, have each some master whom ye must serve. Who is yours? If it be permitted, I would behold your lord.

Sorcer. I have a sovereign: and though herself you cannot see, her likeness shall pass before you. firmly on the stone.

Look

On Adr. The darkness is melting from around it. its face are tossing and whirling the fragments of a beautiful landscape, like the reflection of woods and cliffs in a river-pool, which the otter's plunge has disturbed, as he dives to his bed beneath the root-twisted bank. It becomes still and connected, and seems now to be the image of one of those ancient paradises of the earth, lighted up with a shadowy splendour, like that of the first morning sun that rose from the new-formed sea. Divine resemblance! By the tears which stand in mine eyes, I have seen this before!

Sorcer. Thou hast not. Already thou mayest have learned that beauty always seems to have existed with us in the past; and therefore it is that true poetry is ever melancholy. But look again. The scene has its inbabitant.

Adr. The wood-embosomed lake! the awful cave! the enchantress! speak, for I cannot.

Sorcer. You behold the ruler of life, her who sways our human spirits, as the whirlwind tosses the mountain's sands. You behold her in her mystic cave of fear, encircled by her phantom train; those etherial and delightful shapes, and those others of sterner aspect, that twine round her in unceasing and varied dance, till the sorceress half believes in the creatures of her own thought, and smiles, with the stony smile of awakening fear! Adr. Let them pause. I am giddy.

Sorcer. At thy wish the picture grows dim. Thou hast seen our mistress. Canst thou tell her name? Adr. She is IMAGINATION.

Sorcer. Then in her name invoke her subject-visions; and at the sound of that spell they will come trooping to thy call.

Adr. I do invoke them. By the power beneath whose magic rod ye spring into being, rise before me, ye children of change and thought! Pass visibly by me, ye fancies of the heart, before whom the mind bows down to fear and worship! Let life come before in all its shades, from the first tears of the cradled infant, to the last sigh of broken and weary age.

Sorcer. We can do more: we can gaze beyond the dark river of death, and walk in the world which lodges our spirits before their earthly existence is begun. Let us look on one of these.

Adr. It is very strange. Pale and unsubstantial forms seem restlessly to wander through a dark and misty clime, whose waters are black as though their gulfs were bottomless, and its dimly-discovered mountains seem clothed with storm-struck and lifeless pines. Methinks thin weak voices swell in the air, as of deep and hope

less lamentation uttered by lips unwarmed by mortal blood.

Sorcer. These are human souls waiting in the unseen state, for the hour that is to call them into the body.

Adr. And they mourn because they are doomed to live! My master, their grief is prophetic! I will see no more of life. But let me witness its conclusion,-the jubilee of sad humanity!

Sorcer. Behold it as you desire. The face of the stone presents a sequestered valley, canopied by the thin grey cloud of night; while above yon steep and wooded mount, which, like a rude and mossy temple, rises in the centre of the dell, the shroud is slowly parting, and disclosing one narrow streak of sky. It comes!-up into that river of deepest blue is sailing the fairest of the barks of heaven, the evening-star of beauty and of love; the only lamp of that delightful earth, the only wanderer of that placid heaven!

Adr. Yes, yes! this is death! Even as that star has burst from its cloudy prison, the spirit soars from the gloom and sorrows of earth. And as the bright planet which shines on this blessed scene, yet looks, too, on the valleys it may have left behind that jutting hill, so may the soul, from its regained birth-place in heaven, gaze still on the spot where once it sojourned on earth.

Sorcer. And if this be true, may we not, far more than the sage of Greece, wish to die, and be with those who were once great and beloved, before and among us? Adr. The wise man of Greece, the mighty of old! There are words which work as strong enchantments as your mirrored sphere, and give life to phantasies not less vivid or sublime. Let the stone exhibit to me some emblem of that elder world, which we in weaker days so love to contemplate.

Sorcer. You have your wish, and more. In that extended plain, you see, far distant, cities and towers, rivers and retiring hills; all faintly seen, as if the autumn sun had an hour ago sunk from heaven: while, in the foreground of the picture are grouped, men in a strange and ancient garb, building with toil, a gigantic and marble altar.

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Sorcer. Not to the novice. Another time, when you' eyes have been further strengthened to look on our mys terious pageant, and your mind gifted to pierce more deeply into its hidden philosophy, you shall visit our chapel again. In the meantime, our stone must be veiled Its surface is already dark. (The veil drops before the globe and its cell.) And now, from the turret at our side, look out upon the night.

Adr. It is truly lovely. Almost could I persuade myself that I still gaze on the unearthly spectacle you last presented to my sight. The valley round our rocky dwelling is bathed in the snow-like moonlight, whose setting beams are quivering on our willow-fringed lake.

Sorcer. It is well; now, witness the last wonder my place of art. Come hither: open that western window, and let the light revisit our dark room. (d rias throws back the casement.)

Adr. Hark! Hark! (Soft music.) Á strain of harmony, wild and pathetic as a phantom's hymn. Whence comes it? from above us, or beneath?

Sorcer. Trace the moon's rays which you have just admitted. Where do they fall?

Adr. Full on that statue, on the very harp which the poet bears.

Sorcer. And with those strings the light makes music. For, as you have heard of the eastern statue, which sounded under the first beams of morning, so do the marble harps of those ancient masters of melody discours to me delightful music, when touched by the fine essence of the cold lamp of night. Neither is this without a more solemn import.

Adr. It has ceased, even while we spoke of it. Sorcer. And is in this like mortal pleasure: it stays not to be questioned.

Adr. At your last words a thought has struck me. Are not your representations gloomy?

Sorcer. They ought to be so, if they would work on man. The howling of the November wind along the crumbling wall, and the hush of the leaves which fall at his feet, will go at once to the heart of him, around whom spring would twine her roses, without exciting a feeling or a thought.—But we must retire, and leave our chamber and its treasure to its lifeless and beautiful occupants, soon, very soon, to visit them again. [The curtain drops.]

AN ARTIST.

OUTLINE OF A MECHANICS' INSTITUTION FOR
EDINBURGH.

WHATEVER the working classes do, of their own accord, for their improvement in useful knowledge, must always be regarded with great satisfaction; because, in every thing which tends to promote their true interest, the maxim inculcated by an Edinburgh Reviewer will be found equally just and applicable--that, "what others can do for them is trifling indeed, compared with what they can do for themselves." To the remarks, therefore, which we recently made upon Mechanics' Institutions in general, and which we know to have been perused with interest by many of our readers, we are anxious now to add something of a more specific nature.

Adr. A spirit's hand has touched it; and now my beloved day-dreams are truly before mine eyes. Earth is yellow with the glow of sunset, blending in the distance with the rosy and purple lights of coming eve. The cities are ruined and silent-the woods are old and stately in their vales and the altar itself, the genius of the place, has suffered decay and change. Its grey and massive walls gleam out from robes of green grass and lichens; and the statue which crowned it, thrown down from its ivytwined pillar, lies, overgrown with moss, by the driedup fountain's brink. And before that relic of death stands a solitary man, musing over the ruin, with such wonder as if he believed its immense frame the work of gods, and such awe as if its every stone to him were holy. But it has more power for him. Let it appear to him What the City of Edinburgh chiefly desiderates in rein its hour of might,-in night and darkness. Like spect of popular education, seems to be, an intermediate thought it rises. The wanderer sleeps on the grassy institution between the Sessional School and the School of · mound, beneath the lonely pine-tree of the spot, and the Arts, for enabling the advanced students of the latter to pale moonshine tinges the ground with broader shadows exercise themselves, under no constraint, in chemical and and softer and more airy hues. And they descend around philosophical manipulation; and to refresh their memohim,--the world-forgotten dead hover in the air above, ries by becoming the gratuitous instructors of such jourwhile their awful forms seem to bend forward from theirneymen and apprentices as earnestly desire to learn, but cloud, to bless the worshipper who feels their power, the power and divinity of Time and Death!

Sorcer. He dreams; and so do we. Are you satisfied? Adr. Can you not bring up before us the thoughts and passions of the human soul?

who may be withheld from the Sessional School by that feeling of reluctance which adults can rarely overcome, to mix with children already far before them in acquirement. Upon this plan of mutual instruction, with the aid, perhaps, of a few voluntary lecturers from among

the better classes, may be taught, and most effectively, many of the more humble branches of useful knowledge not embraced by the arrangements of the School of Arts, but which are, nevertheless, indispensably requisite before any substantial benefit can be derived from that institution, to say nothing of their own practical value. illustration of the sort of institution we mean, we beg to submit the following programme, which, of course, might be modified according to circumstances:

In

1. Reading, writing, and common arithmetic-bookkeeping and tradesmen's accounts-practical geometry, with every description of artificer's measuring-use of the tables, nature and application of logarithms.

2. English grammar and composition (by far too much neglected)-geography, with the use of the globes, and construction of maps-practical trigonometry and navigation_drawing and planning (very important)-and also the French language, if required.

3. (The discursive department)-Original essays and instructive extracts, to comprise, if possible, a clear elucidation of the plan and principles of friendly societies and savings' banks; and, of course, experiments and illus. trations in chemistry and natural philosophy.

let our mechanics give the experiment a fair trial; and if they succeed, as they are sure to do, let them print an annual report of their progress, and assume to themselves the appropriate name of THE EDINBURGH MECHANICS' INSTITUTION.

LETTERS FROM PARIS.
No..II.

I SHALL now turn your attention to Parisian theatricals; and first, to the Théatre Français. There is something august in the very name; it is redolent of the good old times of Louis XIV., and "la grande nation." Be sides, it is sanctified and set apart for the classical drama; the impertinent gaiety of the vaudeville, and the noise and glitter of the melo-drama, dare not enter here. No one is privileged to joke here but Moliere, and no one dare aspire to tragic grandeur but Corneille; all the rest are spell-bound by the icy trammels of etiquette. Nor is the building unsuited to inspire feelings of reverence. Its exterior is plain, and not very impressive; but the neatness, taste, and precision which preside over its internal arrangements, are worthy of that dynasty which stamped its own character upon it. Yet even in this

taste been attacked by the Goths of romance. The sacred stage, the orchestra, boxes, and proscenium, have trembled at the profanation of seeing a play of Shakspeare performed in the Théatre Français; and, what is worse, applauded by at least a part of the audience. Victor Hugo has had the audacity to perpetrate a translation of the old barbarian's “Othello" into French verse; nay, more-Mars, Joanny, and Perrier, have so far forgot themselves as to perform in it; and, worst of all, the Romantics are so shameless as to say it was successful. Five of the few remaining Emigré's, and three antiquated critics, have hanged themselves on the occasion; and tirades, argumentative and abusive, have filled the public prints. The interest of this important question absolutely superinduced a cessation of the vituperations against the ministry for a day and a half.

Such persons only as have witnessed a monitorial school in operation, can rightly conceive the peculiar fa-sanctum sanctorum have the luckless adherents of classical cility which working men have of communicating their ideas to one another, and in many of the branches stated above, mutual instruction is all that would be required. To the voluntary lecturers already alluded to we might safely trust for lectures in popular astronomy, geology, and animal and vegetable physiology. Neither is it going too far to predict, that the reading-room and hall of the institution would soon become the chief rendezvous for all well-behaved and intelligent young mechanics, who would find the amusements which science and literature afford, every way preferable to the vulgar and degrading enjoyments of the tap-room and smoking-club. At the same time, we should wish it to be expressly understood, that only "a little learning" is the utmost the great mass of the working-people can possibly acquire. Their own common sense leads them to perceive very clearly, that, even did they possess theoretical science in a high de- Closely connected with this quarrel, is the memory of gree, it could never compensate men who must live by the late English company. It has departed, and need be "the sweat of their brow" for deficiency in that practi- in no haste to return, for the day of its success is over. cal knowledge, which, next to good moral conduct, best Novelty is pleasing everywhere, and the Parisians were recommends them to good masters and constant employ- contented to sit for a time, and wonder at the unintelligible Let the "hard-working men of Athens," there- gestures of a set of people whose language they did not fore, build their little temple of science upon the substan-understand. Latterly, however, the seats were abandontial basis of practically useful knowledge.

ment.

The foregoing simple outline of a mechanics' society is little else than the plan which has been judiciously adopted, and acted upon with gratifying success, by many of the local institutions. That such an institution is required, and would prosper in Edinburgh, there cannot be the shadow of a doubt. A few mistakes would, of course, occur at its commencement; but why should not mechanics, by whom alone we suppose the society to be managed and conducted, derive, as well as others, wholesome instruction from their own blunders? That such an institution would greatly promote the best interests of the present School of Arts, seems abundantly manifest. We have heard it confidently asserted that it would triple the attendance, and give twofold efficacy to the excellent lectures administered at that valuable seminary. At all events, for the first year, the use of apparatus from the School of Arts would not likely be refused; and valuable aid might also be derived from the " Edinburgh Mechanics' Subscription Library" already formed. The only expense worth mentioning would be, the rent of suitable apartments to meet in; and the money for this purpose should be raised by the members themselves, for, upon no account whatever should they accept of pecuniary donations: let all such be sent to the School of Arts building fund. The drawing up of a neat code of rules and regulations would not cost much trouble. In fine,

ed to the use of the English residents in Paris. Even they attended but poorly, for the one-half thought it would compromise their literary reputation, should they confess that they felt the want of an English theatre in Paris; and the other feared they would find little pleasure in seeing the first line of characters sustained by actors who, they suspected, had come here, because they were not much in request at home. For a week or two, indeed, the establishment did offer an attraction. Mrs West was taken ill, and a Madame St Leon volunteered to supply her place. It was a rich treat to see our fair countrywomen in the boxes sitting convulsed, between their de sire to laugh at the ineffable distress of Madame St Leon's Jane Shore, and their native feelings of what was due to politeness.

The minor theatres here are much the same as those in London. Occasionally you find a good actor lost amidst a crowd; as, for example, Perlet at the Théatre de Madame. In the matter of dirt and disagreeable odours, too, they are worthy counterparts of our Cockney temples of the dramatic muse. Nor wants there a pretty frequent row, to make the illusion complete. A catalogue raisonné of some of the most recently produced pieces will give you the best idea of the state of the drama in these establishments.-Some time ago, a most outrageous bit of pathos was produced at the Théatre des Nouveautés with great success. "Isaura" is the name of the play,

and its plot is as follows:-A young man, desperate from disappointed love, plunges into the recesses of a forest in the Pyrenees, and is there bit by a mad wolf. Of course he goes mad himself, and bites, in his frenzy, the poor girl who is the innocent cause of his misfortune. The consequence is, that she goes mad just as she is about to be led to the altar, and expires in excruciating agonies. This exquisite morceau still continues to draw houses, although a considerable time has elapsed since its first appearance. Mme. Albert, who enacts the part of the young girl with horrid correctness, has gained thereby the highest reputation. Fired by the success of the horrible in the instance of "Isaura," the theatre at the Porte St Martin is bringing out Schiller's "Robbers ;" and another minor has announced Marschner's "Vampyr." This strange aberration cannot, however, be expected to hold long. Already the Vaudeville has set itself against the stream, by producing "L'hydrophobe," a trifle meant to ridicule" Isaura." It is a vaudeville more laudable in its intention than its execution.-A new vaudeville has been produced at the Théatre de Madame, by the indefatigable MM. Bayard and Scribe. It would be utterly impossible for these gentlemen to write any thing completely destitute of interest; and yet in this new piece they are scarcely equal to themselves. It is called "Les Actionnaires," and has been suggested by the mania for Joint Stock Companies, which has had its day here as well as in England. M. Geffart, a gentleman of more talent than morality, sells shares, in a great enterprise not yet projected, to a set of good people who purchase without making any impertinent enquiries about its nature. The time, however, arrives at last, when he is called upon to explain his scheme in a full meeting of the shareholders. He blunders out a thousand impracticable undertakings, all of which are rejected. Just in the nick of time, an honest countryman offers to sell him a wood at a low price, and Geffart, to the great satisfaction of the speculative crew, announces his scheme to be a new and less expensive mode of furnishing Paris with firewood. Some of the situations are amusing enough; but, on the whole, the economical details are given with too much verisimilitude. As in the case of some Dutch painters, the joke is lost in the auxious correctness of the portrait." Le Garde de Nuit," is a trifle which owed its success entirely to the spirit with which Vernet performed the principal character. The prince of some place or another, tired of the sameness of a court life, flies from a grand masked ball, to seek for a frolic among the citizens. He finds Philip, an honest watchman, about to commence his nocturnal rounds, and forces him to exchange his dreadnought for the elegant rose-coloured domino of the prince. The attendants who have come in search of the latter take Philip for him, and insist upon accompanying him back to the ball; when he, without attending to the propriety of time and place, begins to dispense home-truths on all sides, and to announce reforms of rather an alarming character. At this critical moment a plot against the true prince breaks out, and Philip, under his assumed character, is committed to close custody; from which he escapes in time to save his betrothed bride from the amorous importunity of the true prince.

These pieces will serve to give you an idea of the kind of plays which succeed here. Historical dramas, too, there are, but, as you have enough of them at home, it is needless to enter into any detail concerning them.

AFFAIRS OF THE SCOTTISH ACADEMY. We announced last week our intention of publishing a detailed account of the proceedings at the late general meeting of this body. On second thoughts, however, and upon the principle of " never throwing ashes or any thing hot to windward," we have altered our intention. We are of opinion, that to make squabbles which should

never have taken place a topic of public animadversia is to do much more harm than good. In the case of recent coalition between two rival bodies, many discus sions are apt to arise, with which it is neither necessary nor prudent that strangers should be made acquainted The occurrences of the 11th instant were most unequive cally of this description. It is with regret, therefore, that we feel it indispensable, in correcting some mis-statements that have gone abroad, to give even a general a count of what really happened—a regret enhanced by the knowledge, that some member of the Academy must have lent himself to the publication of a garbled statement e the proceedings at the general meeting in the teeth of a pledge to keep silence.

It has been maintained, that the artists formerly connected with the Royal Institution, who lately acceded to the Scottish Academy, have conducted themselves in an improper spirit towards one of the leading members of that body. The accusation is rested upon two assertions, -that they refused to continue him in the office of treasurer; and that they introduced to the meeting two legal gentlemen, not members of the Academy, for the purpose of bearing down all opposition.

With regard to the election of a new treasurer, it was a step undeniably in the power of the Academy to take: and after the dispassionate and full account of the preceedings which we have gathered from different and trust-worthy quarters, we must say, that the measure appears to have been justified by the tone which the unsuccessful candidate assumed to the Society. In regard to the second allegation-the fact is, that some discussion was expected to arise regarding the terms of the award which was the foundation of the union of the two bodies; and, from a desire to prevent unnecessary, and in all prebability warm discussions, the arbiter named by the artists of the Institution, and the gentleman who has all along, and gratuitously, officiated as the law-agent of the Academy, volunteered their attendance, in order to explain any doubtful expressions. The offer was accepted, and at the suggestion of the very gentlemen who now complain of it as an undue interference.

We refrain from entering into particulars, and from commenting on the language held on the occasion, because we look upon it as the expression of a feeling of soreness which time will assuage, if left unexcited by comment. But we would beg to impress upon the minds of the academicians, that bygones ought to be bygones that the very existence of their young institution depends upon the cordiality of their union-that wasting their time in petty squabbles must alienate from them the public sympathy that, above all, appeals to the public upon incorrect statements, by any individual, of what takes place at their meetings, are most unjustifiable and dangerous. Here we are willing to let the matter rest, unless there be a repetition of the offence which has suggested these remarks. In that case, we shall hold it necessary to probe the matter to the bottom. This is no vain threat, for we have ample materials in our hands; neither is it uttered in any feeling of hostility, for we have approved ourselves on former occasions friendly to that portion of the Academy whose conduct we are now reluctantly obliged to condemn.

THE DRAMA.

CIRCUMSTANCES prevented us from being much at the Theatre last week. Miss Paton's benefit, on Monday evening, was very crowdedly attended, and went off with great eclat. On Wednesday, Mr Macready-an actor of much power and originality-entered upon an engage ment. We were not present, but an intelligent correspondent has favoured us with the following remarks concerning him:

"On Wednesday evening, Mr Macready appeared before an Edinburgh audience in his favourite character of

Virginius—one in which he has long gathered many lau12 rels, and displayed much histrionic power. Indeed he has been generally acknowledged to have so completely identified himself with the noble portrait of the Roman given by the poet, that it was not till lately any actor ventured to appear in the same part. There is certainly no play which is better adapted to display the genius of Macready than that of Virginius.' This is to be attributed to the Spartan brevity and power of diction which characterise the whole piece;-every line brings before the mind a new and striking thought, naturally and vigorously expressed. The attention is also powerfully arrested by the frequent application of homespun household phrases to the deepest and most sacred feelings of the heart, or to the most exciting incidents. It is in these simple, delicate, and touching passages that we think Macready preeminently excels. In the wilder bursts of anger and indignation he is excellent also; but nothing can surpass the exquisite simplicity and natural pathos with which he pourtrays the tenderness of a father's love, the depth of a father's grief, and at last the small still flickerings of re-awakened reason and returning affection. It was, therefore, in the two last acts that he chiefly shone, especially in his address to his daughter in the last scene of the fourth act. His burst of wild fury after his child's destruction does not strike us as sufficiently energetic. Indeed, when it is recollected that at this very point his reason is about to be unhinged, whilst, at the same time, the thirst for revenge is struggling for the mastery, the human voice seems scarcely capable of producing the desired effect. As a whole, however, Macready's Virginius is a very perfect piece of acting; and, with such a Virginia as Miss Jarman, we do not envy that man who could witness it without being affected in no common degree."

Next Saturday we shall speak of Macready in propria persona; and, in the meantime, we think it right to express a hope that he and Miss Jarman will be patronised by the Edinburgh public to that extent to which their united talents so well entitle them.

Old Cerberus.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

A BALLAD ABOUT LOVE.

By the Ettrick Shepherd.

I AINCE fell in love wi' a sweet young thing,
A bonny bit flower o' the wilder'd dell;
Her heart was as light as bird on the wing,
And her lip was as ripe as the moorland bell.
She never kend aught o' the ways o' sin,

Though whil's her young heart began to doubt That wi' its ill paths she might fa' in,

But never-she never did find them out.

She oft had heard tell o' love's dear pain,
An' how sae sair as it was to dree;
She tried it and tried it again and again,
But it never could wring a tear frae her ee.
She tried it aince on a mitherless lamb

That lay in her bosom, and fed on her knee; But it turn'd an unpurpose and beggarly ram, And her burly lover she doughtna see.

She tried it neist on a floweret gay,

And O! it was sweet and lovely of hue; But it droopit its head, an' fadit away, An' left the lassie to look for a new: An' aye she cried, O! what shall I do? Why canna a lassie be happy her lane?

I find my heart maun hae something to loe, An' I dinna ken where to fix it again.

The laverock loes her musical mate,
The moorcock loes the mottled moorhen,
The blackbird lilts it early an' late,
A-wooing his love in the birken glen;
The yammering tewit and grey curlew,
Hae ilk ane lovers around to flee,

An' please their hearts wi' their whillie-ba-lu,—
But there's naething to wheedle or sing to me.

Quo' I, My sweet, my innocent flower,

The matter's as plain as plain can be,
That this heart o' mine it was made for yours,
An' yours was made for loving o' me.
The lassie she lookit me in the face,
An' a tear o' pity was in her ee;
For she thought I had lost a' sense o' grace,
An' every scrap o' fair modestye.

The lassie she thought an' thought again,
An' lookit to heaven if aught she saw;
For she thought that man was connectit wi' sin,
And that love for him was the warst of a'.
She lookit about, but she didna speak,

As lightly she trippit outower the lea;
But there was a smile on her rosy cheek,
That tauld of a secret dear to me.

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