"Gae bring the boy doon wi' ye, Tonald, to crack a wee time wi' their honours," bawled the landlord after the veteran, with that cunning look which seemed to "a new attraction fills the pewter."

say,

We waited but shortly till Donald returned, his eye lighted as if it had caught the radiance of a falling star (to borrow a figure of popular belief). An almost uncontrollable vivacity beamed from the old man's countenance, as he introduced to us Roderick, his son, who (he said) "had gaen roun' the warl, an' come't back again tae the ponny Carse o' Gowrie." All at once we led the youth on to a recital of the facts of his outset in life, as before related, and of his adventures in fortune-hunting. We easily learnt that he had not found America quite the El Dorado of his imagination. He, however, might have attained to comparative competency, through the tuition and care of his uncle, but for a very simple accident-the intoxication of home affection. He had imbibed too keenly the draught of nationality, poured into his heart in the dulcet and ever-powerful quavers of an old song, heard by him in the cottage of a backwoodsman. The lad's description of the workings of his heart was truly graphic and touching. The song was of his own country and of his own fireside. It was "The lass o' Gowrie," and the language of the minstrel went deep into his soul as "household words." We drew from the youth that he, too, had his home love-no doubt to him "the brawest lass in Gowrie!" His eye seemed

to say, to such callous souls as had never been touched

by "the lowe of love "

"Those days that followed me afar,

Those happy days o' mine,

Whilk made me think the present joys
A' naething to langsyne!

When time has past, and seasons fled,
Your hearts will feel like mine;

And aye the sang will maist delight
That minds ye o' langsyne!"

So powerful is melody when wedded with national feelings. Roderick fully determined within himself again to seek his "ain countrie;" and thus sent backward by the few snatches of an old song, overheard by him in a strange land, "the memory of music" introduces him to the author, and-to you, gentle Reader!

LOVE'S REMEMBRANCES.

LOVE's tendrils, warped the heart-strings o'er,

No rivalry can break,

For words, and looks, though simply framed, Affection's cords will wake

To music's sympathetic swell,

In soft and silvery tone:

The heart's Æolian harp will thrill
When those we love are gone.

One's earliest love the longest flings
Its balm o'er mem'ry's fields,
As floweret that the Spring first brings
The bud of promise yields.

Flower of the heart! my early love!
The sweetest and the best!

I mourn thy exodus, sweet dove-
Return thou to my breast!

An ark of safety in that breast
Thy wand'ring wing will find,
Deep grief, that longs to be confest,
Becloudeth else my mind.

Love trembles oft upon the tongue,
Or preacheth from the eye,
When, all unspoken and unsung,
Sweet bird of hope, thou 'lt fly!

I met her whom my heart had loved
In sunnier hours than now-

That maiden with the full bright eyes,
And high o'erarched brow;

We met when many months had fled-
They seemed as many years-
My soul a pensive feeling caught,
Too deep for feeling's tears.

We spoke not-but I mutely read
Love's logic in her look,

More eloquent than tongue e'er spake,
Or scribe transferred to book;
And fleetly o'er my mem'ry stole
Each long-remembered thought;
Ah! never to my mind, methinks,

Such burning words were brought!

CAMBRIDGE AND CANTABS.

As first in rank, the first in talent too.

BYRON.

WITH the chronicles of Cambridge much that is interesting of the past is associated. The spirit of genius seems to hover around this city of colleges. Who that has read the biographies of the illustrious dead, can fail to dwell with pleasurable feelings on the mention of its very name? Suggestive of veneration for the memories of the great and good of other years, the olden halls of Granta throw around the mind of the visiter to the time-honoured University the halo of a half inspiration; and, as he saunters amongst the sainted colleges, chapels, and cathedrals, viewing their gorgeous architecture, and ruminating on the lapse of time, the memory glows with ecstatic joy, not unmingled with regret-a joy springing from deep-rooted regard for the writings and achievements of the favourites of fame and fortune, who, in propria persona, left their footprints in the history of these same paths and grottos-a regret, incited by the unfortunate and sudden exit of not a few of the "studious sons of Alma Mater," cut off in the very zenith of their glory. The spirits of poetry, of painting, of sculpture,