session. I found out afterwards that what she told me of a pre-engagement was true; but it cost me some heart-achs to get rid of the affair. I have even tried to imitate in this extempore thing, the irregularity of the rhyme, which, when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on the ear. FRAGMENT. Tune-Gallawater. Altho' my bed were in yon muir, Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy- Were I a Baron proud and high, And horse, and servants waiting ready, The sharin't with Montgomerie's Peggy. September. There is another fragment in imitation of an old Scotch song, well known among the country ingle sides. I cannot tell the name, neither of the song or the tune, but they are in fine unison with one another. -By the way, these old Scottish songs are so nobly sentimental, that when one would compose them; to south the tune, as our Scotch phrase is, over and over, is the readiest way to catch the inspiration and raise the bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly characteristic of our old Scotch poetry. I shall here set down one verse of the piece mentioned above, both to mark the song and tune I mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, as the repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a thousand times. "When clouds in skies do come together There will surely be some pleasant weather She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; I'll act with prudence as far 's I 'm able, Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was just at the close of that dreadful period mentioned page viii;† and though the weather has brightened up a little with me, yet there has always been since a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness. However, as I hope my poor country muse, who, all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more charms for me than any other of the pleasures of life beside-as I hope she will not then desert me, I may even then, learn to be, if not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to sooth my misery. 'Twas at the same time I set about composing an air in the old Scotch style.-I am not musical scholar Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly laments before this verse. (This is the author's note.) † Of the original MS. see the remark, March, 1784, beginning, "There was a certain period," &c. enough to prick down my tune properly, so it can ne- But luckless fortune's northern storms The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went through the whole air. October, 1785. If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw his eyes over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following observations; as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil's dearbought experience.-I have, literally, like that great poet and great gallant, and by consequence, that great fool, Solomon," turned my eyes to behold madness and folly."-Nay, I have, with all the ardor of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart-shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a regular, warm intercourse with the deity. * * * (Here the MSS. abruptly close.) FRAGMENTS, MISCELLANEOUS REMARKS, &c. "Every single observation that is published by a man of genius, be it ever so trivial, should be esteemed of importance; because he speaks from his own impressions: whereas common men publish common things, which they have perhaps gleaned from frivolous writers." Shenstone. I LIKE to have quotations for every occasion : They give one's ideas so pat, and save one the trouble of finding expressions adequate to one's feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c. an embodied form in verse; which, to me, is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely of his muse "Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe; "That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so." What a creature is man! A little alarm last night, and to-day, that I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my spirits! There is no philosophy, no divinity, that comes half so much home to the mind. I have no idea of courage that braves Heaven: 'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in Bedlam. My favorite feature in Milton's Satan is, his manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be remedied-in short, the wild, broken fragments of a noble, exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was a favorite hero of mine. I am just risen from a two-hours bout after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common with me-but the port. "One."-Tis now "witching time of night;" and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spells; for I can't look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's criticisms on it. We ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness; we ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own character; and when, on full examination, we know where we stand, and how much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as property; and those who seem to doubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let us either pity their prejudices, or despise their judgment. I know you will say this is self-conceit; but I call it self-knowledge: the one is the overweening opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be, what he wishes himself to be thought: the other is the honest justice that a man of sense, who has thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. Without this standard, this column, in our mind, we are perpetually at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay the very weakness and wickedness of our fellow creatures. Away, then, with disquietudes! Let us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbarchan, "L-d send us a gude conceit o' oursel!" Or, in the words of the old sang; "Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again, Your thoughts on religion shall be welcome. You may perhaps distrust me when I say 'tis also my fa |