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shark, is I believe still alive, residing in Cork, and that Admiral Sir D. M., I think, was on the station at the time, in command of the La Seine frigate, and that he may bave seen the jaws of the shark, which were preserved, and put up at the "Admiral's penn, with the circumstances narrated.

“I avail myself of this opportunity of mentioning anther instance of voracity of the shark, which came under my own observation in 1814, when in command of the ship Lucy and Maria, engaged by the Hon. East India Company to convey his Majesty's 72d regiment from Calcutta to the Cape of Good Hope. On the passage, during a am, one of the privates was sitting in a port of the lower n-deck, eating peas-soup out of an English quart tin pet; and, by carelessness, let the pot, with a portion of the sup, fall from his hand overboard; almost immediately after this, it was intimated to me a large shark was caught by the bank; a rope was got over his body, and he was hauled on deck. As he was considered a very large one, most of the officers (sixteen in number) of the regiment, with myself, attended to examine the contents of the stomach, and, to our surprise, the tin pot entire, which the man had dropt verboard, was taken from the shark. Major-General Monckton, who commanded the regiment, was present; Captain Moses Campbell, now on the retired list, and Lieat. Gowan, on the recruiting-service, at present at Glasgow, were likewise witnesses to the circumstance.

I have to remark, on this event, from the greasy appearance of the tin pot by soup being in it, the shark must ave taken it for animal substance, (beef or pork,) as pork was boiled in the soup. I met Captain Moses Campbell in the Highlands last summer, when he brought to my recolaction the tin pot and shark story, adding, he had narrated the circumstance, but was afraid it was often doubted."—

P. 384-7.

We consider parents as lying under an obligation to Mr Innes, for putting in their way so useful and handsome a volume at this present-giving season of the year.

The Last of the Plantagenets; an Historical Narrative, illustrating some of the Public Events, and Domestic and Ecclesiastical Manners, of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries. Second Edition. London, Smith, Elder, and Co. 1829. 8vo. Pp. 408.

THIS is a work addressing itself fully more to the lover of antiquarian research than the mere hunter after excitement. The story advances with a tranquil and leisurely pace-delighting to linger upon minute portraits of the firesides of Old England, its solemn festivals of church and state, the gorgeous panoply and daring deeds of its warriors. It is not meant for the perusal of such as are excited only by strong passion and marvellous incident. And yet there is an interest in the tale of no common order.

the retirement of a monastery, was brought to his father's The story is of a son of Richard III. who, educated in tent the night before the battle of Bosworth-field. Had the fortune of the fight been good, he was to have been acknowledged the heir of the kingdom; but all his prospects were stricken down with the king his father. The young Plantagenet was found on the field, senseless, but still alive, by a Jew, who carried him to his home, with an intention of glutting his vengeance by the slaughter of a child of his persecutors, but was brought to better Richard Planthoughts by the interposition of his wife. tagenet abode with this couple till he was discovered weeping at his father's grave by an old servant of that monarch. He was doomed to be scared from this retreat likewise by the wakeful care of Henry, who summoned his new guardian to court, on suspicion that some intrigues were carrying on among the Yorkists. He was then transferred to the charge of his father's king-at-arms, who lived in retirement, exercising the profession of an illuminator of missals. On the rising of the friends of the house of York under Perkin Warbeck, he was intrusted to the care of Lord Lovel, one of their leaders. The party were routed before he could join them. After undergo

Sacred History, in the Form of Letters, addressed to the
Pupils of the Edinburgh Sessional School. By the
Author of the Account of that Institution, &c. Parting various adventures, he escaped into France, where he
I. Comprising the Period from the Creation to the
Death of Moses. Edinburgh. John Wardlaw. 12mo.
Pp. 231.

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THE well-known talents of Mr Wood, as an instructor of youth, cannot fail to secure the success of any educational work which emanates from him. In the task which he has now undertaken, we think he has made a must happy selection of a subject, and is likely to produce a book which will ultimately be found on the shelves of every youthful library, beside the "Tales of a Grandfather." "Notwithstanding the vast number of Libraries," says Mr Wood, "with which the present age abounds, a Sunday Library for Youth' seems still to be a desideratum. There is, indeed, no lack of books, nor of religious books, that have been written expressly for the young; but many of these, including a very large proportion of religious Tales or Romances, the judicious parent and guardian feel themselves under the necessity of rejecting. If the present humble attempt shall be more successful in this quarter, it will be indebted for that success to the deeply interesting nature of its subt." It is not, however, to the subject alone, that Mr Wood will be indebted for his success. He will owe it till more to the beautifully simple and lucid manner in which he has brought before the youthful mind the events of Sacred History. Mr Wood's style is clear, manly, apressive, solemn, and unmethodistical. There is no awkish whining in his book, but a great deal of good wase, valuable information, and sound religion. We sinrely wish it the most extensive circulation possible, to the utter exclusion and oblivion of that baleful quantity maudlin trash so frequently introduced into religious ircles with good intentions, but calculated only to produce the most emasculating effects on the intellect of man, Woman, and child,

took military service, and passed afterwards into the troops of Burgundy, where he won the notice and favour of the Duchess. She nominated him on her death-bed her messenger to carry some bequests to her relations in England. While engaged in discharging this mission, he saw and loved his fair cousin, the youngest daughter of Edward IV. His unguarded pursuit of her exposed him to discovery; he fell into the hands of Henry, who doomed him to perpetual imprisonment. He escaped, and sailed, as England could afford him no shelter, on a voyage of discovery; on his return from which, he retired, induced by the eloquent sermon of a monk, into a monastery. He was called, in the discharge of his ecclesiastical duties, to administer the last consolations of religion to the head of a religious house, in whom he discovered the beloved of his youth, and received from her dying words the first impressions of the reformed faith. On the destruction of the religious houses by Henry VIII., he supported himself by his skill as an architect, until discovered by Sir Thomas Moyle, whose benevolence enabled him to spend his old age in repose. In the retirement thus afforded him he composed his history, for the amusement and edification of the family of his benefactor.

Many of the characters introduced are drawn with great truth and felicity; in particular, the gentle ladybride, the stout King Richard, the vacillating De Mountford, the fierce and dissolute Bernard Schalken. There is also much graphic power in the narrative of some of the incidents. We could have wished that the author had omitted the few antiquated words with which he has occasionally interspersed his pages, as they only contrast disagreeably with the otherwise entirely modern structure of his sentences.

A Practical Formulary of the Parisian Hospitals, exhi-ving sung of the Nativity in a strain which the most orbiting the Prescriptions employed by the Physicians and Surgeons of those Establishments, &c. &c. By F. S. Ratier, M.D. Translated from the Third Edition of the French, with Notes and Illustrations. By R. D.ing of Christ's Nativity," and some other of his minor Edinburgh. R. Buchanan. 1830.

M'Lellan, M. D.

12mo. Pp. 280.

THE younger part of the medical profession in this country are indebted to Dr M'Lellan for putting into their hands a carefully executed translation of this very useful and practical work, exhibiting a correct view of the state of medical practice in Paris. The volume is also calculated to make the youthful members of the profession acquainted with many new modes of combining and applying remedies, and with the results to which these modes have in general led. To those students who have the prospect of attending the medical schools of Paris we would especially recommend the work; for they will find the information it affords regarding the hospitals and clinical courses of the greatest utility. Dr M'Lellan has added a considerable number of Notes of his own, which indicate an extensive and highly creditable acquaintance with his profession.

Stories of Popular Voyages and Travels, with Illustrations. Travels in Turkey. London. Hurst, Chance, and Co. 1830. Pp. 279.

WE had occasion, some time ago, to speak very favourably of a previous volume of this work, containing Stories taken from Popular Travels in South America. We can speak equally well of that now before us. It confines itself to the consideration of European Turkey, and contains, among many other things, a sketch of the History and Geography of the Empire, together with an account of the Manners and Customs of the Inhabitants of Constantinople, with a description of that interesting City. The whole is founded upon the narratives of Macfarlane, Madden, Walsh, Frankland, Andreossy, and other recent travellers. The work is very handsomely printed, and embellished with several fine illustrations.

The Edinburgh Memorandum-Book; or General, Commercial, and Juridical Remembrancer and Scottish Diary for 1830. Edinburgh. John Anderson, jun.; and William Hunter. 12mo. Pp. 156.

THIS is as good a work of the kind as could be wished. The lists are full and satisfactory, and the whole is got up with much neatness, and all due attention to the convenience of the reader.

MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE.

MILTON AND HIS CHRISTMAS ODE.

Ir there is any favour of Providence for which a man ought to be supremely thankful, it is for being born in the winter time. Encountering storms and snow from our birth, is like plunging into a cold bath the moment we get out of bed-it braces us for all that is to come. Fate owed some such strengthening medicine to Milton, for the darkness and evil tongues which were to come down on his latter days. Accordingly, we find that he was born on the 21st of December, (the 9th O. S.)-as wintry a time as a reasonable man could well desire.

It

must have been some of those undefinable sympathies, which so often direct the thoughts and actions of men,some yearning after that kind of weather to which he was first inured, that led him to dwell so often upon winter landscapes-dull, cheerless things, from which the herd of mankind turn away shivering. And nothing short of such a link can account for the stern puritan ha

thodox high-churchman (Laud himself, or, higher still, his amiable historian, John Parker Lawson,) might envy. Jesting apart, however, Milton's Ode "on the Mornpieces, composed about the same period, are worthy of more attention than has hitherto been paid to them, as affording an interesting picture of the earliest attempts of his mighty mind to embody its workings in distinct imagery, and clothe them in words-a process not unaptly shadowed out under the picture he afterwards drew of the lion at the moment of his creation,

"now half appear'd

The tawny lion, pawing to get free
His hinder parts."

We find, in these earlier productions of Milton, the same felicity and copiousness of classical allusion that accompanied him to the last; only it is not here husbanded and skilfully applied, but poured out with the profusion of one who has far more than he can tell how to make use of. The majestic phantoms of old times crowd so upon his fancy, that he can scarcely name the first, before a second has already stepped into its place. He runs over a catalogue of their names, as if every reader could, from his own stores, hang clusters of associations around them, as full and rich as his own. We can often trace in them anticipations of sublimity, to the full conception of which his mind was not yet adequate, giving to his verses a coustrained and laboured character. Thus

"My sorrows are too dark for day to know : The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white."

Even his language and versification is not what it afterwards became. In the poems of which we are now speaking, he approaches more nearly than he subsequently did to the poets of the Elizabethan age. There is sometimes a forced elevation of verse, contrasting strongly with a poverty of language, that reminds us of Marlow. The melody of the following passage in the Ode on "The Passion," is Spenser all over :

"For now to sorrow must I tune my song,

And set my harp to notes of saddest woe,
Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,

Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so,
Which he for us did freely undergo."

He resembles these old poets, too, in the startling unconcern with which he passes from the loftiest to the most commonplace language and imagery.

"With such a horrid clang,

As on Mount Sinai rang,

Thus

While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake, The aged earth aghast,

With horror of the blast,

Shall from the surface to the centre shake;

When, at the world's last session,

The dreadful Judge, in middle air, shall spread his throne."

And again

"That glorious form, that light insufferable,
And that far beaming blaze of majesty,

Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table
To sit," &c. &c.

lofty and sustained harmony of versification which he af Yet even in these poems, he bursts occasionally into that Thus the opening

terwards carried to such perfection.
of the Ode on the Nativity-

"This is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born," &c.

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Occasionally, too, we find passages, which, for deep-felt and delicate beauty, are not surpassed in any of his works. Of this kind is the beautiful image of Peace

"She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the burning sphere,

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing."

The effect of the divine afflatus on the priest at Delphos is likewise finely conceived―

“No mighty trance, or breathed spell, Inspired the pale-eyed priest."

And the attitude of kings awaiting Christ's advent—

"The kings sat still with awful eye,

liar an intercourse, he had become exceedingly like one of themselves. His dress was that of a jockey, and his language that of a stable-boy. If at any time he was compelled to listen to state matters, he invariably interrupted his ministers with a " Brr, brr," or, "Come up, my little man," or some such elegant phrase. The courtiers under this king were exactly what they are everywhere else—the imitators of their superiors; and the halls of the palace resounded, therefore, with the noise of their heavy boots and clanking spurs. Even the

most gallant among the young nobles, in place of chapeaux bras, carried long whips in their hands, which they cracked in the ladies' ears, instead of whispering soft nothings into them. Rude and unpolished as they were, they never condescended to speak, as people of cultivated minds always do, of plays, balls, love, dress, and such important matters; but, from morning to evening, their horses afforded an unchanging theme.

As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.', What seems to us most peculiarly striking in these poems, and most prophetic of Milton's future character, is their unimpassioned tone. The only things that seem to excite him are beauty, harmony, and moral enthusiasm. We can trace nowhere, that thrilling of the nerves and rush of blood which makes, in most men, the time of life he had then attained, one delicious dream of passion. Turning from the contemplation of these untimely blossoms, to the works upon which Milton's fame rests, we are struck with the isolated character of his genius. He stands in the line of our land's poets, among them, but not of them. His bigh finish has nothing in comthon with the gorgeous rusticity of his predecessors, and as little sympathy is there between his rapt and lofty musings, and the strong common sense and courtly polish of the wits who came after him. There is nothing national in his thoughts or feelings. He is more at home, and finds more kindred souls, in Athens, Rome, and on the mountains of Judah, than in merry England. His very language is foreign. His words are half Latin-gold-clocked silk stockings, as they ought-but in their comhis constructions have a classical denseness and compactness. There is a harmony in his blank verse, that we would seek in vain in any other English poet. His poetry has no human passion. Its tone is calm and equable. There is in it an exquisite feeling of the beauties of nature and art-a relish for harmony-a love of all that is good-a power of sympathising with all that is great, but there is little or no sympathy with individual man. The perusal of Milton is like the performance of an act of devotion. The world, its cares and joys, grow dim; we feel our minds expanded, and a sublime harmony diffused through all our thoughts. We are no longer at the mercy of every chance emotion, but are become images of the sustained and majestic progress of the universe.

It is said that courts are the paradise of women, but this certainly was not the case in the court to which we allude. The ladies enjoyed neither flattery nor amusements of any kind; and the poor queen, in particular, and her two beautiful daughters, were really to be pitied. They had nothing better to do than to yawn away their time in their gilded chambers, or to sit at the windows, and fret themselves to death at the eternal exercising the king held of his beloved quadrupeds right in front of the palace. At length they represented the irksomeness of their case to the monarch, in terms so touching, that at their united and earnest entreaties, he consented to give a ball, fixing, of course, upon one of the days usually set apart for the bleeding and doctoring of the horses.

THE TRUE ORIGIN OF THE GALOPADE.

Translated from the German of Langbein, by one of the Authoresses of the "Odd Volume," " Tales and Legends," &c.

A FEW leaves of the Chronicles of a country, the situation of which I do not choose to mention, and the name of which I am determined to keep secret, have fortunately fallen into my hands. The Chronicle contains the private memoirs of one of its kings, who, it appears, was passionately fond of horses, and of every thing connected with them. Nearly the half of his revenues was lavished apon the royal stud, which consisted of several hundred able steeds. They fed from marble mangers, and drank ent of silver buckets; and every thing relating to the manage was conducted in the same style of magnificence. As was to be expected, this intellectual, high-minded prince, spent the greatest part of his time among his our-legged favourites; and, by so constant and fami

It may not be generally known to our country readers, that the Galopade is now the only dance much patronised in the fashionable cies of the metropolis,

The night of the ball came, but what was the surprise of the ladies, who were all assembled in full dress, to see the courtiers enter the ball-room-not in dancing shoes and

mon riding apparel. His Majesty, however, occasioned them still greater surprise, when he declared, in the most condescending manner, that, booted and spurred as he was, he intended to open the ball with a dance entirely of his own invention. The reader already anticipates, that the royal breaker of horses could not have invented any other dance but the Galopade, now so much renowned. His Majesty led out the lady highest in rank, and, arranging the other couples in a large ring, he seized his partner round the waist, and then bounded forward with his astonished fair one in a wild and thundering gallop round the circle. The rest followed this obstreperous pair in the same manner, his Majesty directing with his whip the movements of the bipeds, who were making themselves as like quadrupeds as possible. A few matronly ladies, and some elderly barons, who were not quite rapid enough in their motions to please this extraordinary director of the ceremonies, were honoured with some pretty sharp hints from his rod of correction. His Majesty was in high spirits, springing forward at an amazing rate,-jumping, whirling, and tossing his partner from his right to his left arm, from his left to his right, till the dance became so wild, so hot, so hurried, that the ladies, with robes, petticoats, laces, and flounces torn to pieces by the spurs of the accomplished cavaliers, sank breathless and exhausted upon chairs and sofas.

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A LETTER FROM DUBLIN.

Dublin, 22d Dec. 1829.

or

faithful wife, the gentle expressive countenance of an
fectionate mother, the joyous sympathy of an unmar
uncle,-place us where a sight like this is to be seen,
we envy not a seat upon the bench, the woolsack,
throne. The play is over, and we have no doubt a v
excellent play too, though we cannot exactly take upor
to say whether it was "Hamlet" or "The Jealous Wi
The play is over, and the people have stood up in the
and put on their hats, and chatted, and looked
And now the fiddlers, who have been away fully lon
than the gentlemen in the upper gallery thought altoget
proper, have come back again, and Mr Pindar, after le
ing over his music-stand to say something exceedin
humorous to Mr Platt, which makes Mr Platt laugh
evident delight, draws his bow across the bridge of
violin, and makes a shrill squeaking noise, which is i
tated by the whole orchestra, until, harmony being

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THE first term of the year (as we always call the one which closes it in Ireland) is generally a dull one, and this year it has been particularly so. Except the blow-up between the great counsellor and his friend Pierse Mahony, which has now come before the world in the newspapers, there has been little of public interest astir in the hall of the Four Courts. The Royal Irish Academy meets as usual, to ballot for new members, and pass the accompts. The Dublin Society is in full correspondence with Lord Leveson Gower, who wants to withdraw or diminish the Government grant; make them charge for their lectures, which have hitherto been free to the public; alter the mode of admitting the members; and, in short, remodel the whole institution. Nothing final, bow-tained, they strike up one of the spirit-stirring airs of ever, has yet been determined on. The Society has just granted their gold medal to Mr Hogan, a Cork artist, who is now exhibiting here a magnificent statue of a dead Christ, which he has recently executed at Rome. The resolution entered into last Thursday by the committee of Fine Arts was, that, "Having viewed Mr Hogan's statue of the Redeemer after Death, together with a plaster cast of a Fawn, from a model executed by him at Rome, we are unanimously of opinion, that in both these works Mr Hogan has displayed a union of rare and high talent, fully meriting the distinction proposed to be conferred on him." This is, I believe, only the second gold medal granted by the Society since its foundation. The former one was to Sir Charles Giesecke, their own professor of mineralogy. The figure, which is recumbent, and of the size of life, is really admirable for so young an artist, and affords great promise of future excellence.

Our Diorama has expired, and is to be succeeded by a Minor Theatre, for which Mr Jones, the former patentee of the Theatre in Crow Street, obtained permission from the last Lord-Lieutenant; and then finding, as I understand, that he was unable to establish such a thing respectably himself, sold his privilege to a showman of the name of Scott, who promises great doings. At the Theatre- Royal, Auber's opera of Masaniello has had a great run, and Braham has been in excellent voice. He takes his benefit and farewell to-morrow night. Ayton, it is said, is come.

Fanny

Some of the booksellers of Dublin have had a meeting to establish a trade company similar to that of London, for publishing reprints of standard works, &c. They have caten one dinner on the strength of it already, and have referred to a committee to examine and report what further should be done. The University press is at length actively engaged in putting forth a complete edition of Archbishop Usher's works, under the inspection and revision of Dr Elrington, son of the Bishop of Ferns, and King's Professor of Divinity in Dublin. The only local literary news of much interest at present is the commencement of a new Literary Gazette, pretty much on the same plan as that of your Literary Journal, being devoted to literature, the fine arts, and local and personal sketches. There is much show of vigour and originality in the notices of its appearance which have already been made public, and there is a sort of patriotic feeling enlisted in its behalf, as a really powerful effort to raise Dublin and Ireland from the very low position which they occupy at present as a literary place and nation.

THE DRAMA.

THE highest happiness to be enjoyed on earth consists in seeing a Christmas Pantomime. Place us in any box not farther off than the fourth from the stage, surround us with a whole bevy of merry juvenile faces, and among these plant, at proper intervals, the graceful figure of a

Scotland, and a thousand heads, hearts, hands, and fe beat time to the strain. The pit sits down, the galler sit down, the boxes sit down. But expectation is on t toe. Hark! the bell rings! Up goes the curtain! N for "The Twelfth Cake, or Harlequin Rainbow!" W. we declare, there they all are in the back parlour of 2 Chocolate, the celebrated London grocer! Did you ev see a merrier party assembled on a Christmas night? M Rose, to be sure, seems a little afraid of the very poli attentions of Mr Alderman Guttlewell, who certainly h a head big enough to swallow Rose at one gulp; but t young sailor, Harry Spritsail, soon comes to her assi ance, and one may see with half an eye how the wi blows. Well, did you ever witness such a game at romp Nobody could say where it would have ended, but whev in the twinkling of an eye, down tumbles one of the wa of Mr Chocolate's back parlour, and in walks, from h magic chariot among the clouds, Iris, the Goddess of t} Rainbow. She is in a thundering passion; and, in or moment, our worthy friend, Mr Chocolate, is change from a celebrated London grocer into Pantaloon; and, like time, the polite Alderman Guttlewell is metamo phosed into Clown, Rose into Columbine, and Harı Spritsail into Harlequin. Iris takes her departure, ar off the merry quartett go on their perpetual race of fu and frolic. It is now that the interest becomes intens and that the eyes of all the little rosy boys and gir sparkle like diamonds, and their clear laughter ring among all the crystals of the chandeliers. But the trick

that follow,-the" quips, and pranks, and wanton wiles, -what uninspired pen shall essay to describe? By Jove there is actually Duddingston Loch, or some place ver like it, and there are several members of the Skatin Club gliding away upon skates, in a manner that would d honour to Messrs Cockburn, Torry, and Simpson;-boy sliding, too! just as we ourselves used to do on the No Loch some fifty years ago, and tripping each other in glo rious style, and flinging snow-balls, and then quarrelling,a regular fight "across the bonnets ;"-but, good Heaven Mr Paul Pry has fallen in; see! there is his head above the ice,-now, plump! he disappears altogether. For mercy' sake, bring ropes and a ladder! The Clown goes to the edgy of the hole, when, lo! up rises Mr Paul Pry's ghost, al least ten feet tall! Never mind! the Clown is a bold man he ties a cracker to the tail of the ghost's coat, and blows the gigantic phantom finto the air! Presto! Pass!—th wintry landscape disappears, and behold! a lovely summer garden, with flowers of all hues and odours; and there come that happy pair, Harlequin and Columbine, with hearts too light and gay for any movement but that of the dance-O! that we had been born a Harlequin! Yet, that funny fellow, the Clown, has a part of our envy See! he has got into a haunted kitchen, the most suspicious and mysterious-looking place we ever beheld. Only look at that huge Tom-cat sitting by the side of the fire, with his great red eyes and long black tail, which he whisks about so fearfully! Hark the clock

too.

strikes thirteen! The Clown proceeds to cast seven pancakes, and at the finishing of every pancake, rattle the pots and pans, fly about in all directions the tin dishes, enter the ghosts of murdered cows, sheep, hens, geese, and turkeys, pass through the air the wild forms of skeleton cats in pursuit of spectral mice, and horror accumulates on horror! Let us escape, or we shall die of fright-Ha! here is a "Grand moving Panorama, representing the voyage of his Majesty King George the Fourth from London to Edinburgh." We'll pay our shilling, and go in to see it. Upon our honour, Mr Hillyard, you, Mr Meldrum, and your numerous assistants, have got up one of the prettiest panoramas we ever cast our eyes on. The whole scene passes before us like magic. There go the hearts of oak sailing down the Thames, past Greenwich, and away round the Nore Light, just as the sun sets gloriously. Then rises the silvery moon, and the Royal squadron proudly paws the waves as it glides along the coast of merry England. The morning dawns at Fast Castle, and away we scud past Eamborough Head, Holy Island, the Bass, and Tantallon. Huzza! we are steering up the Forth, and now we are in Leith Roads! In please your Majesty, yonder is Arthur Seat, and the Calton Hill, and the Castle, and you may already hear the shouts of all Scotland coming to you in thunder from her exulting shores! Well done, Mr Hillyard!--we thought not to have lived that hour over again, but you have shown us the imperial pageant ence more.-Heaven and earth! how is this? But now we were in Auld Reekie, and behold! we are all at once burried away to the most " Gloomieferous Cavern of the Blue Devils." Immortal members of the Six Feet Club! look at these two blue devils! Were you aware that devils are, at least, the height of Melville's Monument? [These are not fellows to be trifled with in a steeple-chase! They disappear, and the Cavern of Gloom is in an instant converted into the " Variegated and Radiated Temple of Iris!" When did so much glory ever burst upon the soul? And here, in this palace of delight, Harlequin and Columbine are united for ever; and the curtain falls, and we go home, with the hearts of our children and grandchildren beating within us and around us; and our dreams, like theirs, for one long blessed night are full of paradise and joy!

God help thee, Old Cerberus! is this a style for a critic like thee to write in?" We know not; we only thank our stars that some of the feelings of boyhood are still lingering about us, like the last rays of evening upon the far-off summit of some huge, grey, and rugged moun

tain.

Old Cerberus.

Sac saft his noiseless footsteps fa'--
Lighter than shadows on the wa'!
Man's ear can catch nae sound ava,

E'en though you watch him, Turn but your back, the cheild's awa', And wha can catch him?

The throwgaun carle ne'er looks behind him-
Nae tether has been found to bind him-
The fleetest sleuth-hund canna wind him,
He's sic a rinner;

And man-gear-gathering man!-will find him At last the winner!

At times, it's true, he slacks the rein,
Claps on the drag-disease and pain—
Then slowly, as a wechtie wain,
He seems to pass us;

Let health return-crack! crack! again,
Awa he dashes!

Ae simmer day, 'mang meadow grass,
As I sat gamflin wi' my lass,
At e'en, I saw the grey-beard pass ;
I kend his auld pate→

He leer'd, and pointed to his glass,
And shook his bald pate!

Was ne'er sic pryin, pawkie thief;
Nae hidling hole frae him is prief;
He steals in by-I say't wi' grief-

Through door an' drapery,
And eats, without my grannie's leif,
Her weel-hain'd naipery!

His ample scythe maws a' thing down-
Sometimes a king-sometimes a clown;
Sometimes a tower-sometimes a town ;-
Yea! frae its station

He hurls into the abyss profoun'
Some thrawart nation!

What can resist his pond'rous jaw,
His teeth sharp as a tiger's claw!
Kirks, pyramids, he crumbles sma',
And ere he blin'

He crams them in his menseless maw,
Withouten din!

But hark!-deep-toned, methinks I hear
(While thoughtless mortals loudly cheer*)
Time's warnin' voice sound in my ear-
"Let me remind you,

For guid or ill, another year
Is left behind you!"

Edinburgh, 1st Jan. 1830.

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SONG.

"O! A COOD NEW-YEAR! A HAPPY NEW-YEAR!"

By Alexander M‘Laggan.

CHORUS.

O! a good New-Year,
A happy New-Year,

To every honest true ane!
To the lass we loe,

The friend we trow,

May joy come wi' the new ane!

I'll sing ye nought o' politics-
Of angry Whig or Tory;

The manner in which the first morning of a new year is ushered in, in Auld Reekie,

"Amid the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, is in a high degree striking to a moralizing mind.

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