less, we must take leave to assure the author, though he will no doubt laugh at us for saying so, and will rank us among the persons whom he is so fond of telling us, substitute an ideal for a real world, (that there are persons who have both an ideal and a real world, never seems to enter into his imagination,) that he is not, except in a very low sense of the word, a man of genius or a philosopher, to both of which characters he appears to pretend. He is a very shrewd and diligent observer, one who, in investigating mankind, trusts to his understanding and not to his fancy, one who does not start with a theory which he has to make out, and which induces him to cut off all the awkward corners and sharp angles in human nature, but who fairly and honestly repeats what he hears, though the speakers may utter ever so many oddities and contradictions. The first quality, as we have said, places him at an immeasurable distance a head of the ordinary fashionable novelists, who trust not at all to their understanding, but simply to a very crude and vulgar fancy, which tells them that each man will talk at all times according to the craft in which he was born, that lawyers are always lawyers, that a clergyman is simply a clergyman, and that one man in the middling class differs in nothing from another except in having the name Brown instead of Green, and in saying lack-a-daisy instead of good gracious. The second quality, of not having a theory to support, sets him equally above the class of novelists among whom Miss Edgeworth is queen. The follies of wise men-the sagacity of foolish menand the existence of that large class which it is impossible to pronounce either wise or foolish, of which these gentlemen and ladies take no account, are duly recognized in his pages. He has not the monstrous notion of making a consistent character by representing a horrible creature whose mind is eternally in the same category. But here our praises must stop. If he ventures to ascend one step higher on the ladder, and place himself on a level with the men who, along with an understanding to perceive the varieties and inconsistencies of character, have likewise an imagination to conceive the principle which reconciles them, and to present us with a well-compacted creature in whom these qualities, however dissonant in themselves, shall yet be so amalgamated that their dissonance shall not be felt-if he should attempt to reach the elevation upon which such men as these are seated, the odds, we fear, are

great that he stumbles and falls to the ground. He is extraordinarily deficient in dramatic powercannot even support an ordinary conversation for two pages together, a failing of which he seems to be conscious, and for which he makes some rather awkward apologies; so that, though even of those personages whom we have never met with, he describes traits with such clearness and force that we feel they must exhibit these particular characteristics, whether we shall be able to

recognize them as real men and women, entirely depends upon the accident of our having encountered them before. That this is not the case with higher works of art, is too obvious to need remarking. We never saw any creature from whom we could derive the least hint, the faintest analogy to assist us in our conception and admiration of Juliet; and yet our minds are never darkened with a shadow of scepticism respecting her reality or her womanhood.

On the contrary, we have had the honour of being introduced to the four Misses Woodstocks, though we cannot this moment recollect where and when; and consequently we are able to pronounce the following sketch capital, which, but for that fortunate event in our history, we should not have dared to do:

"The young ladies were not distinguished for any great share of personal beauty, nor were they remarkable for any deficiency in that respect. They were not romantic, nor were they deficient in sensibility. They could talk well, but did not utter oracles or speak essays. They were not merely acquainted with books, but with what books taught. They were also well

aware that the knowledge which they possessed was in all probability possessed by others; and that many with whom they might converse were far better informed than themselves. They did not set up for literary ladies on the strength of having read Locke's Essay, or being acquainted with a few Italian poets. In fact, they had read to good purpose, and had thought to good purpose too. The worst of the matter was, there were four of them; and they were so nearly alike in moral and mental qualities, and so much together, and in such perfect confidence with each other, that there was not opportunity and distinctness enough for any one of the four to make an impression, and preserve or strengthen it. For if, by chance, any susceptible youth, who might be desirous of choosing a wife for her moral and mental qualities, should be seated next to or opposite to Miss Woodstock, and should by hearing very sensible and unaffected language fall from her lips, or by observing in her smiles or more serious looks an indication of excellent moral feeling, find that his heart was almost captivated; probably on the following morning chance might place him near another sister with whose taste he might be fascinated, and whose most agreeable manners would make him almost regret that he had already lost so much of his heart; and while he might be balancing in his mind on which of the two his affection should rest, a farther acquaintance with the family would still farther unsettle and clude that, as it was impossible to be in love with four, embarrass his judgment; and he would at length conhe could not really be in love with any; and the result would be general commendation and respect; and the four young ladies would be left to enjoy their reputation of being the most agreeable, unaffected young women living. Vol. i. pp. 161-163.

So, also, it has been our lot to meet Miss Henderson, and as we owe that young lady a grudge on several accounts, we willingly take this opportunity of revenging ourselves. We must premise that Clara is the heroine and a foreigner.

'Clara was young, susceptible, romantic, well informed by means of books, was possessed of good judgment and discernment; she was more familiar with standard writers than most young women, and was not aware that there was any pedantry in talking about them; she had also a taste for science; she had seen and observed but little of the world of humanity, but had been one of her studies, so had astronomy, and she had observed more of the world of nature; botany even geology; she had also a knowledge of the Latin tongue. To say the least of it, she was pleased with her knowledge. Whatever she had acquired had been by means of books, and those books were not numerous; and whatever came to her knowledge through that medium, came with all the authority of an oracle, so that any one who contradicted what her elementary instructions had taught her, or started any different theory from that in which she had nursed her own mind, appeared ignorant of the matter altogether. Coming forth into the world, she was surprised to find that her knowledge was beyond that of many with whom she conversed, and then she placed too high a value on that knowledge. A mind constituted and situated as that of Clara Rivolta, was in great danger of receiving from the vanity and conceit with which would-be knowing ones are gifted, an impulse not favourable to its graceful and proper development.'

'Lady Woodstock and her daughters had been in

there really was somewhat more truth in the commendations than is usually the case. Mr. Henderson was of course highly delighted with his daughter's talents. Mrs. Henderson was lavish in her praise of them, and profuse in her exhibition of them. The young lady was puffed into a mighty conceit of herself, and she very kindly pitied the ignorance and incapacity of the great mass of mankind. The young lady and her father and mother were not aware, that it was to a constitution of mind by no means enviable or desirable, that Miss Henderson was indebted for the great rapidity of her progress and the multitude of her acquirements. There were two causes of that progress : one was a prodigious share of vanity, which would undergo any exertion or painful affliction in order to gratify itself; and the other was a total want of all power of imagination or principle of original and investigating thought, so that there was nothing to interfere with an undivided and close attention to any object of pursuit. The natural result of acquiring knowledge on these principles and from these causes was, that the knowledge was at last and best the mere lumber of memory, and the theme of vain prate and idle boasting; it was not food for the mind, it was not digested. There was scarcely a piece of music which Miss Henderson could not play at sight; but her style of playing was such as to weary rather than to fascinate; and to listen to the young lady's mechanical dexterity on the piano-forte, was called undergoing one of Miss Henderson's sonatas. There was also the same hardness and absence of poetry in her paintings. The outline was very correct, the colouring was accurate, the transcript complete, but there was no life in the living, no animation in the scenery. There was a provoking likeness in the portraits which she sometimes drew of her friends; and so proud was she of her skill in portrait-painting, that few of her from the harsh and wooden mockery of her pencil. acquaintance could keep their countenances safe Deriving a rich gratification to her vanity from her various accomplishments and miscellaneous acquirements, she fancied that her greatest happiness was in the pursuit of knowledge and the pleasures of science. Much did she despise the follies of the fashionable world, and very contemptuously did she regard the ignorant and half-educated part of the community, and that part, in her judgment, consisted of nearly all the world, her own self and one or two particular friends excepted. Into this select number Clara Rivolta was most graciously admitted.

"Miss Henderson, though gifted with a most ample and comfortable conceit of her own superior powers and acquirements, was still not backward but rather liberal and dexterous in administering the delicious dose of flattery to those whom she honoured with her notice and approbation, as being superior to the ordinary mass of mortals. Clara Rivolta received the homage paid to her mind and acquirements as the effusions of a ever, to mistake heat of head for warmth of heart. warın heart and generous spirit. It is possible, how

This was a mistake into which Miss Henderson was perpetually falling, both as it related to herself and to others. Not only was the young lady liberal in her praises of those whom she would condescend to flatter with the honour of her approbation, but she absolutely praised them at her own expense, expressing her high sense of their superiority to herself. But it should be added, that this kind of homage always expected a return with interest, and the language in which she

and specimen of that kind of homage which she should be best pleased to receive from her dear dear friends.

Mr. Henderson not knowing what means he might have to provide for his family, very wisely gave them as good an education as was in his power; and at the all as cheap as possible, it was his plan that the elder same time, in order to have that education for them should teach the younger, that she might be thus partly prepared, should need be, to undertake with a great stock of experience the task of instructing others. The young lady took instruction kindly and well. Her music-master, her drawing-master, her French-master, progress in every thing was really astonishing. Her never had such a pupil in the whole course of their experience. Masters say the same of all their pupils who are not paragons of stupidity. But in this instance

vanity of sentiment. She had read something in books 'To the vanity of intellect Miss Henderson added the about the heart, and about sentiment and feeling, and so on; and she thought that there must be something fine in that concerning which so many fine words bad been used. Thereupon, with that conceit she added sentimentality to the rest of her acquirements; and an acquirement in good truth it really was, seeing that it was by no means natural. Not the less fluently could the young lady discourse on that subject, because she knew nothing about it; but, on the other hand, she acquaintances and the world beside on the subject of set herself up as a judge and censor-general on all her sensibility of heart. She had enjoyed many opportunities of falling in love, and those which she had enjoyed she had not overlooked. Many and many a time was her heart lost, but never irrecoverably. Few were to pay serious court to a young lady of lofty thoughts the gentlemen who thought it very prudent to venture and lowly means. A very slight degree of notice was sufficient, however, to set if not her heart in flames, at least her tongue in motion to her confidential friends

concerning sentiment and sensibility, and all that sort of thing.

'In person Miss Henderson was by no means disagreeable; she was rather pretty. There was, it is true, a little deficiency in height, and a little redundancy in breadth; but still there was nothing remarkable one way or the other. She dressed in very good taste, and her ordinary manner was good. It is wicked, or at least very thoughtless, in young men to pay unmeaning attentions to any young lady, but especially to such very sentimental ones as Miss Henderson frequently had she been rendered unhappy by this thoughtlessness. Now, it is very silly for young men to boast of the hearts they win; and, in winning such a heart as we are now speaking of, there is certainly nothing to boast of, for any one was sure to succeed provided there was a vacancy. At the time of which we are writing, the fragrant Henry Augustus Tippetson was the favoured and honoured companion of Miss Henderson's walks; and it is difficult to say which was the prettiest animal of the two, Mr. Tippetson or his little white French dog. They were, at one time, always to be seen together, at a certain hour of the day, in the Green Park. They seemed to have a great fellow-feeling, and both looked as spruce and neat as if they had both been dressed by the same valet. Mr. Tippetson, though something of a coxcomb, and considered to be vain of his person, still was so far diffident of himself as to use the assistance of his little quadruped companion to attract attention to himself. Often has he acknowledged, or rather boasted, that his little dog has been the means of bringing him into conversation with those whom otherwise he should not have had an opportunity of addressing; and oftentimes it had been supposed that it was Henry Augustus Tippetson's private opinion, that his little French dog was considered by the ladies as a very pretty excuse for taking notice of the pretty owner of the same.

Now it was the natural unsophisticated opinion of Clara Rivolta that Mr. Tippetson was an empty-headed, effeminate coxcomb, not worth notice, and absolutely incorrigible by any other discipline but that of time. But Miss Henderson had discovered, or fancied she had discovered, that Mr. Tippetson was not so great a coxcomb as he appeared to be. She acknowledged, indeed, that he was very attentive to his dress and his person; and very candidly did she make allowance for a little error in that respect, as he was but young, and she had heard it said that it is better to be too attentive in youth than too negligent in age in that respect. As for Mr. Tippetson's lisping, she was very sure that was perfectly natural and unavoidable. The use of perfumery was become absolutely necessary from the frequency of crowded apartments. As to the apparent diversity between the studying and the learned Miss Henderson, and the lounging, indolent, unreading habits of Mr. Tippetson, the difference was rather apparent than real, according to the young lady's own account of the matter: for though Mr. Tippetson was not at present much in the habit of reading, he had been formerly, and his mind was by no means unfurnished; he was a man of great observation, and was constantly making remarks and observations on every thing he saw or heard.

So that Miss Henderson was quite sure that when Clara came to be better acquainted with the young gentleman, she must think better of him. Thus it is that foolery is tolerated. Look at a coxcomb at a little distance, and observe his silly airs. The animal is absolutely nauseous, and his whole manner and style villanous and contemptible. But a more intimate acquaintance makes a discovery of some bearable qualities; and familiarity renders the odious less odious; and then it is thought that there are more qualities existing in him than have

"Once more, my ever dear Clara Rivolta, I take my pen to address you, and perhaps it may be for the last time. We are separated by distance of place, and still more so by the cessation of a correspondence which gave me at least infinite pleasure and inestimable benefit. As I can no longer hope to receive your truly intellectual communications, I read over and over again those most delightful and improving letters with which you once condescended to honour me and indeed it was a condescension in you to stoop to let down your fine mind to correspond with me. I feel I acknowledge your superiority; and not only do acknowledge and feel it, but it is manifest to others too. Tippetson is your slave. Nay, start not, I repeat it, Tippetson is your slave. I am well aware that I possess not powers of mind to retain him. Clara, he is yours. Yes, my ever dear friend, Tippetson is yours. I surrender him entirely, unreservedly, calmly. Do you doubt it, my Clara? Do you distrust me? Oh, no, you cannot. See how steadily and firmly I write. My hand trembles not; my cheeks burn not; no tear blots the paper; nor do I repent what I have said, or wish it unsaid. Tippetson appreciates your merits. You have the power to rule and charm his mind. The world may call him frivolous, but can that be a frivolous or common-place mind that can comprehend and rightly appreciate the superior mind of Clara Rivolta? You, my dear friend, know that Tippetson is not frivolous, that he has powers of mind far above the ordinary average of human intellect. Take him, dear Clara, he is yours for ever. And do not think that in thus surrendering him to you, I renounce your friendship; nay, rather do I seem to have a stronger claim on it and on your gratitude for this surrender. But I may not enlarge. I must not endeavour to renew a correspondence, which you, no doubt, for the best of reasons, have declined. I have written by this day's post to Tippetson to the same purport that I have written to you. May Heaven bless you both with all imaginable happiness! Think nothing, I conjure you, of the pain which this sacrifice has cost me, that is now over and past. It is done. Every other consideration must give way to the sanctity of friendship. Farewell, a long farewell. Eve and unchangeably yours,

REBECCA HENDERSON.'

r

UNIVERSITIES AND PUBLIC SCHOOLS.

Extracts from a Work preparing for publication, under the title of Select Notices of Universities and Public Schools.' Pp. 80. London, 1828.

THE pamphlet before us has hitherto, we believe, been circulated only among the members of the Provisional Committee of King's College. It is merely a collection of extracts from a larger work which the author of it has long been preparing, but which he has deferred presenting to the public from a laudable anxiety to make his extensive materials still more useful by carefully arranging and condensing them. Judging from these specimens, we anticipate more advantage to the cause of education from the entire work than

from any which has been published for a long season; and if the founders of King's College should be able to effect no other good end than that of calling it forth, we should think their labours had not been in vain.

The pamphlet opens with the University of Edinburgh; the sketch of this institution, though probably only an outline of that which will appear in the forthcoming work, is, nevertheless, more complete than any we have seen elsewhere.

The characteristics of these regulations and of the university for which they were formed, seem to be, weakness and instability in the foundation, and considerable practical wisdom in the details. These symptoms mark all educational institutions in this country, at least, which are of modern origin; and we trust that any universities which may be hereafter introduced, will be as eager to profit by the improved notions which these bodies derived from their age, as they be will to seek their principles and groundwork iu the establishments of a more remote generation. This seems to us the true application of experience in education, and in most things else. Some would say, the last age was better than all the foregoing ages; what we must do is to add to the stock of wisdom which we find accumulated in the institutions which it produced something of our own. Others would say no: the principles of these institutions were laid in the early ages; what is required of us is to divest these foundations of all that has been built upon them since, and then to build for ourselves. Whereas, we apprehend, the true philosopher would say, each age has added something and has lost something. Study what idea each age has worked out, and if you find that the groundwork of institutions was but consulted for by our remote forefathers, and the details of their administration by our immediate predecessors, you must endeavour to consolidate both in your new establishment, unless you would have it remain in some important circumstance imperfect.

One of the most useful suggestions for the consideration both of new and old English University authorities, is the following extracts from the Library:*

Library Regulation.-The Library will be open for the purpose of giving out books to students every lawful day during the Winter Session, from 11 o'clock, A.M. to 2 o'clock, P.M., except on Saturdays, when it

Mr. Tippetson, the hero of the preceding extracts, is a very cleverly-managed character. To introduce any novelties into the treatment of an ordinary coxcomb, we should, à priori, have pronounced impossible; but our author has suceeded in throwing some new light upon the hackneyed subject. A far more elaborate personage is old Mr. Martindale, who, though belonging to the race of rich old bachelor patrons, has very specific and individual distinctions, which make it impossible that he should be confounded with his tribe. But partial extracts would do great injustice to that personage, as well as to Mr. Horatio Mark-will be shut at one o'clock precisely. ham, joint hero of the book with the Honourable Philip Martindale, who is the head partner in the firm,) a high-minded, clever and accomplished young barrister, with a touch of legal and literary coxcombry; and, therefore, we prefer recommending to our readers this book. They will find it very lively and amusing, written in a particularly quaint and dry style, and exhibiting, as we said before, unusual sagacity in the sketches of character. These qualities they must beware of mistaking for greater ones; but they must also beware of undervaluing them, or of preferring to them the tinsel merit of skill in astonishing by incidents. We ought, however, to have mentioned before, that the story in which these gifts are set is sufficiently entertaining and well sustained.

'In applying for books, it is necessary for students to bring with them a written list of such as they wish, and to present to the Librarian their matriculation

On this point we can give our readers an amusing piece of University History, with which probably they are unacquainted. A few months ago, a Grace passed the Senate of the University of Cambridge, for permitting Bachelors of Arts (under certain restric tions, which fully secured the Masters from any other danger of being forestalled in their demand for new works) to obtain books from the university library. This Grace was thrown out in the Caput, in consequence of one individual in that august body interposing his veto. This individual is the professor of civil law in that University, a science which requires more various and discursive reading for the comprehension of it, than perhaps any other in the whole compass of human studies!

LITERATURE OF THE PEASANTRY.

THE GHAIST; AN AULD SCOTS TALE.

We enter our protest against Schlegel's sweeping division of all poetry into classic and romantic; not only because the distinction is seldom apparent, as the one, contrary to all logic, frequently includes the other, but because it seems to exclude one important class of productions, which, for want of a more appropriate epithet, we shall call POPULAR. Without going into minute definition, we would rank under this head the songs, ballads, and tales, which form almost the only literature known to our peasantry and mechanics, and exert so extensive an influence over their feelings and opinions, that a shrewd politician remarked, if he had the making of the ballads of a nation, he would give any body who chose the making of the laws.

In this remark, the politician was partly right; but if, like most generalities, it be pushed to extreme cases, it will not apply. We know that the most despotic tyrant must often bend to popular opinion, and that he must always be careful not to offend popular prejudice. Joseph II. could not, with all his power, force the people of Vienna to put quicklime into their coffins; nor could Peter the Great compel the Russians to shave their moustaches. The passing of an edict is a very different matter from obeying and complying with its injunctions. The French Convention could easily pass and publish a decree that the soul is not immortal, and, to impress it the more forcibly on the mind, could order a figure of eternal oblivion to be set up in the bury ing grounds throughout France. But this absurd and impious edict could not eradicate the national belief, which continued to prevail in spite of the sceptical lawgivers and their foolish decrees.

These are cases in which the influence of popular poetry is, for the most part, paramount to all authority. It takes hold of the memory, and becomes a species of prejudice, which interweaves itself with every thought and every action. It, consequently, leads or confirms the popular opinion, and becomes an article of the national belief. Nor is this influence confined to the mere vulgar. It often extends to the middle, and sometimes to the upper ranks, who, in their more early years, when most susceptible of impression, meet with the popular poems and ballads in the nursery, or in the hands of their dependants.

If it be acknowledged, moreover, that literature, whatever be its species, and however little it may be cultivated, possesses over the mind an almost unlimited sway in polishing its original rudeness, extending its range of activity, and multiplying its sources of enjoyment, we must conclude, that the shortest excursion which a peasant can make in the fields of poetry and fiction, will give his thoughts and feelings a character altogether different from that of his unlettered neighbours. According to the original bent of his mind, and the species of literature with which he becomes acquainted, he will be changed from a commonplace rustic, to a shrewd, cautious, calculating man, or to a rapt, visionary swain, who lives alternately amidst delightful, but unreal, dreams, and distressing, but equally unreal, horrors. To the first class belongs Ramsay's 'Gentle Shepherd,' of whom he says,

Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill

He reads fell books that teach him mickle skill.'
And again,

• Whene'er he drives our sheep to Edinburgh port,
He buys some books of history, sang, or sport;
Nor does he want a routh of them at will,
And carries ay a pouchfu' to the hill.'

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.' These are the extremes, between which will be met with every shade of difference in rudeness and in polish, in practical wisdom and poetical dreaming. It is this which stamps the manners of a peasant, as much as either his natural disposition, or the peculiarities of the district where he lives. It effects a wonderful change even on his language, for though he uses the very same provincial vocabulary as others, yet will his sentences acquire a polish and a correctness of construction, which will strongly contrast with the harsh and vulgar collocations of his neighbours.

Of the truth of these positions we are well assured from personal observation, and we could easily give numerous living examples to prove it; but we must, for the present, decline this, as it would lead us too far from our immediate aim. Since, then, the subject which we propose to examine, appears to be of considerable moment both in a political and a literary view, we shall occasionally devote a few pages to some of the poems which work so powerfully and secretly on the thoughts and feelings of the people.

The specimen which we shall first select, is not, the cottage; and there it has of late become a we believe, much known beyond the precincts of is evidently intended to ridicule a belief in ghosts, great favourite among the Scottish peasantry. It by detailing, in mock-heroic blank-verse, (a novelty, or, as Southey would call it, an experiment in Scottish song,) a parody of a tale which seems to be the basis of more than half the legends relating to the re-appearance of disembodied spirits. Gibby,' takes shelter from a storm in a half ruinA traveller, who is in the tale named 'auld ous castle, to which he was attracted by a glimmering light. The tenant of the ruin could afford him no accommodation, unless he were willing to sleep in a chamber which had been long haunted by a ghost. To this, Gibby, after some demurring, was reluctantly obliged to consent, upon condition of having his dog, Bawty, for his companion, and a blazing fire lighted up on the hearth. After he had retired to his apartment, the ghost, of course, soon appeared in all its terrors, and led Gibby out into the storm to point out to him a concealed treasure; for which good office, a promise was exacted from him of burying the bones of the ghost in consecrated ground, in default of which, his spirit could not rest. Gibby, after this midnight adventure, returned quietly to his bed and slept till morning, hopefully dreaming of his good fortune. But, to his sad disappointment, he found, on awaking, that it had been all a dream; for Bawty, whom he had left tied up, to guard the golden casket, was lying snugly in the chimney-corner, and looked kindly up in his face.

The opening of the piece is quite a picture of an old peasant exposed to the pelting of a pitiless

storm:

An' frae the red nose fell the drizzlin' drap,
'Cauld was the night-bleak blew the whistlin' win',
Whilk the numb'd fingers scantly could dight aff,
Sae dozen'd wi' the drift, that thickenin' flew
In poor auld Gibby's face, an' dang him blin'.
Sair, sair he pech'd, an' faught against the storm,
But aft for foghten turn'd tail to the blast,
Lean'd him upon his rung, an' took his breath:
Poor Bawty, whingin', crap to his lee side,
Wi' 'is tail atween his feet, an' shook his lugs.'
Gibby's affection for his dog may almost match

⚫ Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

of Sterne's pilgrim for his ass; for 'Loutin' down, he happ'd him wi' his plaid, Clappit his head, an' cried "Poor fallow, whiskt; An' gif I'm spared to reach some biggit wa's,

Ye's win as near the ingle as mysel',

An' share my supper too.-But we maun on-
The night grows mirker, an' nae moon nor starns
We'll see the night.-Sae let us face the blast,
An' to a stay brae set as stout a heart.""
Sae cheer'd he his dumb brute, an' he was cheer'd.'

The prevalence of good-natured feelings of kindness towards the brute creation is one of the best indications of a well-regulated heart, though the sentiment makes but little impression on a peasant when it comes from the pulpit in the form of a studied discourse, compared with the indelible stamp which is left upon his memory by such lines as these. Shakspeare's well-known lines,"The poor beetle that we tread upon, In corporal suffering, feels a pang as great As when a giant dies,'

have, we doubt not, sunk deep into the hearts of thousands; and a better feeling than what we have quoted could not be expressed in a popular tale. The proverb which inculcates perseverance is also good, though not quite so strong as the verse by Burns, He that does the best he can, will whiles do mair,'-which has cheered many a peasant through the most hopeless difficulties.

Gibby's perseverance was crowned with suc cess; for, when he was 'Quite dowf an' dozen'd, through the drift he saw A light dim-blinkin', an' at last a house: 'Twas an auld biggin, that in per❜lous times (Whan folk rampauged an' fought for ilka thing) Had been set there to keep aff sudden skaith; An', in fierce brulziements, wi' warlike wights Had stoutly stood; but now 'twas tumblin' down, O'ercome by Time, (fell loun!) that a' o'ercomes. Showed Gibby what o' the auld wa's remain'd; The moon, just glimmering through a parted cloud,

An' whare the creepin' woodbin' spread its leaves,

Light shakin' wi' ilk blast o' win' that blew.
Blythe, blythe was Gibby, (Bawty, too, was blythe ;)
He chappit at the door, an', gif he could,
He wad ha'e whistled too; but, wi' the cauld,
He davert sae, he could na crook his mou'.'

The poet (for the author we hesitate not to call There is, perhaps, some want of keeping here. so) has sometimes forgotten his mock-heroic, and been fairly carried away by a higher spirit. The description of the old castle is indeed excellent, but it is too good, too much sustained and po

lished, to correspond with what follows. As there is nothing remarkable in the conversation with the landlord, we pass on to the haunted chamber:

'Whan the lang, drawlin', gaunt, an' drowsy e'e, Showed bed-time come, he was led up the stair,

(Where ne'er a foot for mony a day had gane,)

An' thro' an entry, lang and ruinous,

Whare, at the auld fail'd winnocks, the cauld blast
Gar'd Gibby shiver as he gaed alang.
The door, worm-eaten, creakit on its bars,
An' in he steppit, eerie, leukin' roun',
To ilka nook he thought might haud a ghaist.
Aneath, ayont his bed, an' up the lum,
But naething could he see warse than himsel.
A clear peat-ingle bleez'd on the hearth-stane,
Foregainst which Bawty crap, waggin' his tail,
Turn'd him about, an' laid him krusly doun,,
Thinkin' o' neither bogles nor the storm.
"Gilbert, gude night, soun' sleep, an' a blythe
mornin',"
Quo' the gudeman, an' parting, steek'd the door.

'Gibby said naething, but look'd wondrous dowf;
Fast as he could, hows'ever, into bed
He gat, amang the claise, out o'er the lugs,
An' sain'd himsel', and swat wi' perfect fright.'

The entrance of the Ghaist is given with considerable effect. Some of the touches would not have disgraced the author of Tam O'Shanter' himself.

"The auld door
Risp'd on its rousty bars. Poor Gibby glowr'd,
Bawty set up a lang an' fearsome howl,
And cowr'd aneath the bed: when, strange to tell,
The fire-flaughts glanced sae clear aroun' the room,
Ye might ha'e gather'd preens: the thun'er rair'd,
An' wi' an elritch skirl, a fell-like sight,
Wi' bluid a' barken'd, gousty stalk'd alang,
Steer'd up the ingle, gied a lang ho'w grane,
An' shook its bloody pow! An' thrice it pass'd,

Wi' slaw an' heavy step, by Gibby's bed,

Wha near-han'swarf'd, an' scarce could thole the fright.' The tale of the Ghaist follows, in which the poet has introduced some brief precepts of popufar morality. The spirit thus addresses the terrified Gibby:

'Sax towmond's syne, benighted here like thee,
Fremit, far frae hame-my hame to see nae mair,
Wi' gear weel laden, a' my ain, dear won,
O'er dear, alack! The best craft's honesty;
I wanted to be rich; let knaves tak' tent;
For whan I bless'd mysel' an' had it snug,
Mark how it ended.-In that vera bed

I laid my weary limbs, whan my base host,
In dead o' night came on me, nae ill dreadin,'
Reav'd me o' a'; an' that nane e'er might ken't,
He, wi' a muckle rung, dang out my harns.
D'ye see that ugly gash ?-but be na fley'd,
The sky-bald, by his ain ill conscience chas'd,
Did flee the kintra, an' ne'er kend the gude o't;
"Twill mak' you rich.-Rise up, and come awa',
I'll shaw ye where it's hidden. Now min me',
Under that hearth ye'll fin' my banes; them tak'
An' see safe yirded into haly grun';
Sae sall my wan'rin' spirit be at rest,
An' may'est thou never meet a fate like mine.'

The prospect of riches seems to have operated on our hero very powerfully, in dispelling his fears, as he immediately complied with the Ghaist's

command:

'Up Gibby raise-nae daffin' in his head,

An' fallowed his grim guide-dreary and dreigh,
He passed the muckle yett. The cauld north win',
That blew sae loud short syne, was now fair lawn;
The moon shone clear upo' the new-fa'n snaw,
An' made a haflins day. When they had gane
Thro' twa-three fields, the Ghaist at length stapp'd
short,

An' grained an' waved his hand: Lo! here (quo' he)

"Ilk bodee lies that ance to me perteen'd:
(Oh! it is little worth where I ha'e gane,)
I gi'e it a' to you. Mark weel the park:
An' now be sure, the yirdin' o' my banes
Dinna mislippin. Oh! remember me"
Nae mair he said, but whidded out o' sight.'

At the conclusion of this scene, poor Gibby was more collected and forethoughty' than might have been supposed, from the supernatural intercourse he had been holding.

'Wi' hair on en', an' ilka lith an' lim'
Quakin' wi' fright, Gibby, to fin a' meith'
Looked a' about, but neither tree nor buss,
Nor stane cou'd fin', thro' a' the snaw spread waste;
At last [he] bethought him o' his knarly keut,
An' stack it i' the yird wi' sicker birze:
"This rung" (quo he) will be a special mark;
But less some wildered wight in wan'rin by
Should flit it,-Bawty! ye maun watch't till day,
An' I sall row ye in my waukit plaid.'
The catastrophe, if we may call it so, is given

with much naïveté :

'Clear raise the morn on Gibby's drowsy head,
He grained and rax'd himself, an' thought on Bawty,
Poor fallow! freezin a' night 'mang the snaw.-
An' whare he'd get a pick-axe an' a spade
To houk the hidden treasure; bann'd himsel'
For owre lang sleepin'; started to the floor,
Whare, Bawty, fain to see his master safe,
Leuk'd kin❜ly in his face an' wagg'd his tail.
He coudna trust his een, but glowr'd about,
Rub'd them an glowred again, an' clearly saw
The dog, the plaid, the gartans, an' the keut,
He left them when he ga'ed to bed.
The goud was gane, sae was the grumly ghost,
An' Gibby's lairdship was for ever lost.'

Of the merits of this popular tale, we need say nothing, as we have been so copious in our extracts that our readers may well judge for themselves. To us it appears that its merit entitles it to be better known; and we take credit to ourselves for bringing forward from the obscurity of the peasant's cottage, this picturesque companion

to Burn's Tam O'Shanter.'

Who the author was or is, we are wholly ignorant'; most of the copies which we have seen, are signed ROBBIN FAGGOT, evidently a nom de guerre, though, on the slight evidence of the initials of this name, we have heard it ascribed to Ferguson. This cannot be well ascertained from the style;

for though we may safely pronounce that Burns | could not be the author of it on the evidence of the style alone, yet Ferguson had less mannerism and less genius; and fof course, his touches are more difficult to trace. The only strong objection against Ferguson, is the dialect, which partakes more of the western idiom than he could have given it. We should, therefore, be more inclined to ascribe it to Wilson, the humorous author of Watty and Meg,' but better known for his splendid work, The American Ornithology; though we confess we have but little foundation for the conjecture, besides the dialect and the peculiar cast of the poems which Wilson published before he went to America. After all, it may very probably be the production of some obscure peasant among the crowd of imitators who took to rhyming during the splendid career of Burns. A.

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equally so is the name of the officer (styled Conseiller Grand Maître des Coureurs de France' by the 2d clause of that decree,) who was intrusted with the duty of founding and superintending the new establishment. All we learn is, that the sovereign intended this task to be committed to a person in whose intelligence, capacity, and integrity he could confide,' and that this individual should remain at his elbow. There is some reason for believing that the office was united with that of his master of the horse,' which was held by his old favourite Alain Goyon; though it would seem that from the year 1479, the superintendance of the post was vested in the comp troller of the equerries of the stable,' whom, in that year, we find to have been one Robert Paon. V. Hörnigk affords us a memorable instance of the perfection to which this branch had been carried, when he informs us that Chauveau, herald to King Louis XI., brought letters to his master, at his chateau of Amboise, in less than three days

THE edict by which Louis XI. decreed the establishment of the first stations for the service of the post on the principal high-roads of France, is dated on the 19th of June, 1464, and contains one-and-twenty clauses. A station was directed to be maintained at every fourth mile. The sole object of this first attempt was to secure prompt despatch and relays of stout horses for the messengers who bore official communications from the sovereign in those turbulent times, or conveyed similar communications to him from the

:

higher servants of the state, who were employed for the regular conveyance of letters, or the conin the provinces. The introduction of post-houses, venience or necessities of travellers, was not contemplated at that time of day; nor were the relays expected to consist of more than four or five horses. A similar establishment is said to have been formed in three high-roads, in the time of Charlemagne, though, with this difference, that he made his subjects defray the expense of the regular conveyance of his couriers, orders, and despatches. Taboetius* and Bergert record this fact, and add, that he established three viatorias the first on account of his conquests in Italy; the second on account of his having brought Germany under his yoke; and the third with a view to Spain. For this purpose, he expended considerable sums in making roads and building bridges, and accomplished public undertakings which were beyond the capacity of most of his successors. A sufficient proof of the justice of this remark exists in one single circumstance, no pavement was seen in any of the French cities or towns until two hundred and seventy years after his decease. With Charlemagne's reign began and ended the first attempts at forming any regular post-establishments in France; for no vestige of them is to be traced from that period down to the times of Louis XI., unless, indeed, we admit, in counter-evidence, an old charter of Louis the Fat, recording a donation to the church of St. Martin de Champs,' in which his signature is accompanied by that of one Baudouin, in the quality of Grand Maître des Postes. It does not, however, by any means follow that any post really existed in France previously to the fifteenth century, besides that set on foot by Charlemagne. On the contrary, it is more than probable that this title of Grand Maître des Postes was a mere title of honour derived from the age of Charlemagne, and equivalent to a similar designation which holder of it was in no ways connected with the existed in Saxony a century back, though the post-office department.

effect, as well as the parties by whom it was first The year in which the decree of 1464 took brought to bear, are quite unknown even in France;

The indefatigable' vigilance which Louis XI. exercised, both as regarded external as well as domestic occurrences, his secret treaties, the intrigues of his neighbours, particularly of the prince, and subsequent duke, of Burgundy, and his frequent waverings as to the cause it behoved for messengers and envoys, that, at his death in him to espouse, occasioned so much employment 1483, there were no fewer than 234 couriers or equerries (chevacheurs), most of them apparently stationed in the various provinces. Charles IX., who found much less need for these personages, reduced their numbers to 120, and, at the same time, raised the superintendents of stations to the rank of regular servants of the crown. This measure was subsequently confirmed by an edict of Louis, dated in February 1509.

The first relays established in France, date from the year 1597; they were afterwards interwoven with the post-office department. In 1608, the title of Comptroller-General of the Post' wa exchanged for that of General of the Posts,' to whom were assigned very extensive powers over every person and matter connected with his office, whilst all appointments, dismissals, or promotions were made dependent on his nod.

It is worthy of notice, that no essential change was made in the machinery of this branch from the time of Louis XI. to that of Louis XIII., a space of nearly one hundred and fifty years. The posts were, at that time, exclusively reserved for the service of the sovereign and the state; nor was any private individual allowed to make use of them; and the edict of 1464 specifically prohibits all post-masters, under pain of death, from supplying horses to any persons who were not furnished with a passport from the King and an order from the Comptroller-General, because the establishment was wholly subservient to the purposes of the crown and state." Hence was derived the expression made use of in the letters of appointment to this service,- Maîtres tenans les chevaux courans pour le service du Roi, et Maitres Coureurs. These post-masters were, in case of necessity, bound personally to carry the despatches of the sovereign, the governors, lieutenant-generals of the provinces, and other chief officers of the state; and for this reason they were styled, in the old letters-patent, Chevaucheurs, or Equerries of the Stable. This, indeed, was the original title of the King's messengers, for which that of cabinetmessengers, or couriers, was afterwards substistuted.

The post was not employed for general purposes before the time of Louis XIII., when private persons began to take advantage of it for the transmission of letters and packets, in consideration of a moderate charge. This custom arose out of a permission, which had been previously given to couriers and estafettes, to convey the correspondence of private individuals when engaged in car

* De Regali Postarum Jure, p. 87.