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• Then that must be the coast of Norway afore us,' said the Shepherd; 'and a curious and romantic country it is, whilk I'm very fond o' seeing. Gin it hadna been

James Wilson, the great naturalist, wha lives out at Canaan, that mistrystit me aince, I had seen a' the Dophvines lang syne. But I hardly trow that we hae been a night an' a day swinging alang the floors o' heaven, for I haena ta'en aboon a dozen noggins o' the whisky yet, an' I think ye hae only gotten fourteen, whilk wad hae been but an unco scanty allowance in twenty-four hours in sic a climate as we war in.'

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Away, thou bonny witch o' Fife,

On the foam of the air to heave an' flit, An' little reck thou of a poet's life,

This is nae We hae

For he sees thee yet! he sees thee yet! 'Aha, Doctor, I ken where we are now! Norway, but the Western Isles of Scotland. by the changing o' the wind. Weel, this is really grand! been half-way ower the Atlantic, an' brought back again -to see sae mony islands, a' like dark spots o' ebony on a sheet o' silver an' gold! This is a scene that's worth the living for! Weel do I ken a' their shapes an' sizes, for I hae been ower them a' an' ower again. Yon far

But then, sir, we know not how long we slept,' said I; for above a certain altitude the human frame is sub-thest away ane is the Lang Island, stretching frae Barra ject to torpidity, and I remember that mine was such, that if you had not awakened me, I think I should never have awakened again.'

An we had fa'n baith in the sea sleeping, we wad hae gotten a terrible gliff,' said he; 'and really, if we had been near the land or near a ship, I wad hae likit to have seen it, for the fun o' the thing. But the truth is, that I hae nae inclination ava to light as lang as our provisions last, for I think it a grand ploy to swoop through the heavens wi' plenty to eat an' drink. Na, na, I hae nae wish to light this lang time yet, an' least of a' in the open sea. Think ye there's nae way o' tickling her to gar her spring up again?'

Why, there is one certain method,' said I; by throwing out our ballast.'

which is,

Ballast! where is't?' said the Shepherd, in astonish

ment.

'Why, all that superfluous stuff of victuals, wines, and spirits,' said I.

The deil be in your fingers gin ye touch them as lang as I hae the pith of a man in my fore-spaulds,' said he. * Ballast! My truly, billy, but ye ballast weel! Sic ballast as this winna dunt at our doors every day. No, gin ye were trailing ower the waves at our grey yaud's tail like a dolphin, wad I suffer ye to throw out these precious benefits; sae ye may fit on your cork jacket an' prepare for the warst, for that resource disna await you.'

"Finding it in vain to reason with this thirsty and ravenous son of the mountains, I began to look about me for some other resource, assured that there would be some way of letting the gas escape, should we perceive a ship or proper lighting place. I had long noted a small brass handle, attached to a tube which seemed to connect our tent and the balloon, but I did not understand it, for at the handle was written, If like to alight, turn this. But seeing that we approached nigher and nigher to the sea, I now watched for an opportunity of turning it and letting the gas escape; and accordingly, perceiving a large ship at a due distance before us and some small craft farther on, I tried the handle with all my might, but it would not budge. I tried it the other way, when it instantly turned with a jerk and a spring; and thereby letting forth a supply of gas, away mounted the balloon once more in the most beautiful slanting style imaginable. The Shepherd was actually delirious with joy. He clapped his hands, waved his bonnet, took a queich of whisky, and then sung out

SONG THIRD.

Hurray! hurray! The spirit's away,

A racket of air with her bandelet;
We're up in the air on our bonny grey mare,
But I see her yet! I see her yet!

We'll ring the skirts o' the gouden wain,
Wi' curb an' bit, wi' curb an' bit,
An' catch the bear by the frozen mane,
An' I see her yet! I see her yet!
Away again o'er mountain and main

To sing at the morning's rosy yett,
An' water my mane at its fountain clear-
But I see her yet! I see her yet!

to the Butt of Lewis 166 miles, an' containing about as many inhabitants. A waefu' wretched country as ever my fit was in, aince the inheritance o' the M'Leods an' M'Do

nalds; but, alak! they'll soon no hae as muckle land on the haill island as to bury the hinder-end o' them. Then, here is the fertile Isla, the barren Jura, the bonny little yonder is Sky; a fine island, an' maistly theirs yet. Then Colonsay, and the inhospitable Mull. Oh, but my heart is light at flying ower them in this style!-ay, beyond the flight o' the Hebridean eagle hersell! See how they flood of an ocean river! And then, here come the valscour away frae aneath us, as if borne by an irresistible leys and gentle hills of Lorn, with the towering cliffs far beyond them. But how insignificant their appearance from this point! Ah, auld Scotland, how my heart warms to thee! Wha could look on sic a scene, an' no turn a poet?

"Man never look'd on scene so fair
As Scotland, from the ambient air;
On hills in clouds of vapour roll'd,
On vales that beam with burning gold;
Or, stretching far and wide between,
Her fading shades of fairy green;
The glassy sea that round her quakes,
Her thousand isles, her thousand lakes,
Her mountains frowning o'er the main,
Her waving fields of golden grain ;
On such a scene, so sweet, so wild,

The radiant sunbeam never smiled."'

'That is very good, James, and very appropriate,' said I; 'who in the world can have written that?'

'Ay, what need you speir, Doctor,' returned he; 'wha writes a' the good sangs an' ballads in our keuntry, an' never ane either kens or thanks him for it?'

SONG FOURTH.

O for an angel's pencil new,

With canvass of the ocean's span!
For such a panoramic view

Ne'er met the eye of mortal man :
There flies Loch-Awe, like silver zone,
She's speeding to the south away;
And there's Cruachan's clifted cone,

Less than Mount-Benger coils of hay.
Now speed, now speed, our wondrous steed,
Though now thou'rt skiffing on the sky,
In kind Glengarry's snuggest bed
We'll find a shelter by and by.
There goes Ben-Nevis' sovereign head,
Soon o'er the Border will he be ;-
Ha, speed thee! speed! my wondrous steed,
The world's on wing from under thee!

We were very near the top of that broad unshapely hill that you call Ben-Knaves,' said I;' we might have cast anchor on it.'

'Ay, but how wad ye hae gotten aff it again?' said the Shepherd; I was very feared for a game at hardheads wi' some o' his rocks, but the current o' wind that streeks up his ravines carried us safely over. And now, hey for Glengarry! It is straight before us as the crow flies.'

'He is spoken of as a wild savage chief that,' said I, and one who will account very little of cutting off the heads of two Sassenachs like you and me.'

'An' that's nae lee neither—but only if we were gaun to cross him or bully him; whilk we hae nae call to do, for a mair kind an' ceevileezed gentleman I never crossed the door threshold o'.'

Here is a fine house, like the castle of a chief, on our left hand,' said I; ' I suppose that is the castle of Invergarry?'

No, no,' said the Shepherd, that is Lochiel's castle, bonny Auchnacarry. I have seen it a ruin, all black as ink wi' the flames that Cumberland's brutal soldiers raised in it-sae mean and grovelling was the malice they bore against a man that had frightened them sae aft on the field. Lochiel has now renewed it in mair than its primitive splendour. But he's a gouk; for instead o' leeving at that lovely romantic mansion, and spending his income amang his Camerons, he'll be snowking about the vile stinking shores o' East-Lothian. When I think o' the gallant, matchless heroism o' their forefathers, the very thought o' siccan chiefs as Clan-Ranald and Lochiel is aye like to turn my heart. Fient a ane o' them a' has the true an' proper feelings of a chief but Glengarry himsell, let them a' say o' him what they like!-And now we are coming very near the bit, Doctor, for as soon as we cross the corner o' that ugly black hill, then Invergarry is plump below us.' 'Then over it we must go,' said I, 'for how are we to bring down that inexhaustible machine? Hogg, you are accounted a powerful fellow; take a bottle and throw at it with all your force, perhaps you will be able to burst it.'

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Hand me up a bottle then, Doctor,' said he; but od, be sure it be a toom ane, else I winna fling it.' He then set himself firm in his basket, and holding with the one hand, he flung a bottle at the balloon with all his force, which only rebounded away into the air. He tried another, and another, all with the same effect; and I think I never saw aught so ludicrous as the Shepherd standing biting his lip, pelting the balloon with one bottle after another, and cursing her for a muckle unpurpose swine's blether. At length, perceiving the chief himself at his side, Hogg, with a voice like a trumpet, shouted out, Help, Glengarry! help, help! for the love o' M'Donnell's name an' the Jacobite Relics o' Scotland, bring us down, bring us down!'

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"Glengarry ran for his rifle, but when the Bard saw it cocked and pointed towards him, he roared out, Tak care what ye're about, ye deil's buckie, an' dinna haud at the basket!' Crack went Glengarry's rifle, and before one could have said Mahershallalhashbaz, we were plashing in Loch-Garry. Still the intractable machine, notwithstanding her wound, was dragging us on, whiles beneath the water and whiles above it; but always as the Shepherd's head came above, he uttered a loud Hilloa! in a half-choked style, while Lady Glengarry and her Misses were screaming with laughter at the miserable floundering figure we made in the loch. Glengarry was all activity; he manned a boat to our rescue, but before it could reach us, we were dragged ashore and bumping up the hill, away for Inch-Laggan; and I firmly believe, that if we had not fastened firm among the branches of an elm-tree, we had been taken to the heavens a third time.

tertainer, and haste to Edinburgh, being distressed about my lawsuit, but I could not make Hogg budge; so there I left him, sitting drinking and singing with Glengarry, and, for any thing I know, he is sitting there to this day."

LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES OF
EDINBURGH.

ROYAL SOCIETY.

Monday, 14th January.

Sir WALTER SCOTT in the Chair.
Present,-Sir George S. Mackenzie; Professors Hope,
Russell, Wallace, Brunton, Pillans, Graham; Drs Hib
bert, Kuox, Borthwick, Gregory, Russell; James Skene,
John Robison, Thomas Allan, Charles J. S. Menteith,
Patrick Neill, Esquires, &c. &c.

THIS was the most crowded meeting of the Society, both in respect to the number of members and of visitors, that has been held this season. Sir George Mackenzie read the first part of a paper, entitled " An Elucidation of the Funcommunication professed to be no more than an exposition damental Principles of Phrenology." The learned Baronet's of those first principles upon which all Phrenologists are agreed; and as these have been already repeatedly laid before the public, we do not see any necessity for troubling our readers with a recapitulation of them. No member offered any remarks upon Sir George's Essay. The Secretary announced the reception of communications from Dr Hibbert, on the Geology of the Volcanic district Laach, in the Prussian Rhine Provinces; from Dr Knox, on the Dentition of the Cetacea, with at attempt to fix the rank which the Dugong holds in the animal kingdom; and from Dr Edward Turner, a Chemical Analysis of Wad.

THE DRAMA.

CHARLES MATHEWS is the intellectual comedian of the present day. Liston is too much of a buffoon, and there is no one else to be named. Yates is clever, but he wants the original genius of Mathews. What we enjoy about Mathews is, that he does not need to wait till some one has conceived a grotesque and humorous character, before he can be grotesque or humorous himself. He is his own author. Not that he writes comedies and farces; but that he sees them written in human nature, and reads and studies them in everyday society. Mathews is delightful, not because he acts what is humorous, but because he feels it. Besides, his appreciation of the ridiculous is delicate and refined. He has the mind of a gentleman, and consequently pleases the boxes more than the gallery. His representations are full of minuteness. The little nice shades of character-its outs and ins-its small tortuosities-its oddities-its distinguishing peculiarities, which more obtuse spirits never think of he sees at a glance. Yet, there is seldom much bitterness in his mirth. He is too sensitive and social, and full of kindliness, to tolerate the vulgar caricaturist. He rejoices in tickling the fancy, but not in wounding the feelings. Most of his favourite portraits swim in a rich essence of bonhommie; we laugh at them, without being either ill-natured or losing our time. This is the great test of an actor's powers, and of the value of mirth—has it any thing improving in it? We laugh at a scene of bustle in an ordinary farce, when chairs and tables "So much unaffected kindness and hospitality I never are thrown down, and the dramatis personæ run knockexperienced as in the house of Glengarry, but we never ing against each other in all directions. But this is idle told him how we were set off, nor does he know till this | laughter, called forth by seeing our fellow-creatures make day but that we took the jaunt out of good-will and en- preposterous fools of themselves. As soon as the exciting thusiasm. Hogg even told him that he was engaged to cause of the merriment ceases, we almost regret that we another jaunt with a literary friend. He gave us £100 lost our time in giving way to it. There is more philofor our balloon, in which he proposed to go a-eagle-shoot-sophy, and a much deeper substratum, in the mirth exing, and take some jaunts to his estates in Knoidart and Morrer. He was delighted with this mad aerial visit of the Shepherd's, and the two sung Jacobite 'songs the whole night over. I was obliged to leave our kind en

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cited by Mathews. He opens up to us new views of human nature, he reads us a moral lesson in the midst of our cachinations, he shows folly her own image, and smiles her out of countenance,-he puts things in a new

light, and as soon as we see them in that light, we obtain new ideas concerning them, the more he makes us laugh, the better it is for both our head and heart. Mathews, moreover, is rich in thoughts. His mind continually overflows with them. He always seems to us, if we may so speak, to move in an atmosphere of jocund conceptions. His face, deeply marked, as it now is, with a thousand lines and wrinkles, is a study for a Shakspeare. There is in it the faces of a multitude. It is like a series of palpable and visible mental operations. His eye is full of all kinds of light. His nose twitches about, up and down, now to this side and now to that, like a merry mischievous imp, half buried among the dimples and little knolls and crevices of his cheeks, in which a thousand racy imaginations lurk. It is to us also matter of great consolation that Mathews is lame, and halts in his gait. It takes him at once out of the common class of men, and hangs up his picture indelibly over the chimney-piece of our memory. There is more humour in either of his legs, We have than in the whole body of any other man. fancied to ourselves that we saw little roguish faces hiding under his stockings, and peeping out from his shoes. Of all the comic actors we ever saw, Mathews is our favourite. This is little to be wondered at. He was admired by Lord Byron, and is esteemed by Sir Walter Scott.

-A three-act piece, called "Monsieur Mallet, or My Daughter's Letter," was produced on Wednesday evening, to introduce Mr Mathews to us as the Frenchman. He, of course, sustained the part admirably; but the drama is a very poor affair, and turns upon an incident which, though it does excellently for an anecdote, is wofully diluted when made into a whole play. Besides, the thing is ill written, and gives but little scope for good acting. Murray, as a stage-struck negro, was amusing; and Miss Pincott, as Monsieur Mallet's daughter, was simple and natural. If this young lady would act with a little more energy, we think she might make herself well liked. We expect to owe to Mr Mathews several exceeding pleasant evenings next week.

Old Cerberus.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

TO THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY.

By Lawrence Macdonald.

[We have pleasure in introducing to our readers as a worshipper of the Muses, one of the most successful and eminent of our Scottish Sculptors-Ed.]

"Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray!"

SPIRIT of Beauty! were it not for thee,
I would not gaze one hour on Nature's face,
How great soe'er her wondrous works might be ;
Nor yet desire to traverse boundless space,
Exploring all things, wheresoe'er a trace

Of wisdom, power, or goodness, meets the eye.
Thou hold'st the universe in thy embrace!—

The rolling earth!-the burning spheres on high! And all those worlds of light that wander through the sky.

Spirit of Beauty! in a foreign land,

I've seen thee mingle with the noontide sun, And o'er both earth and ocean wave thy hand; And when that glorious orb its course had run, And night's more silent, solemn reign begun,

I've seen thee with the pale moon mount the skies, As if mankind, and earth, thou sought'st to shun, So high in azure heaven thou seem'st to rise; Bat back again thou cam'st to dwell in woman's eyes!

Spirit of Beauty! may thou still prevail,
And o'er both Time and Ruin keep thy sway!
Though man's divinest works these may assail,
And with defacing fingers work decay,
Thou hast a power more mighty yet than they—
Pervading nature, and enlivening all ;—
Thou mak'st more beautiful the ruins grey

Than princely palace, with its stately hall; Witness the ivy'd tower, the garland-cover'd wall. Spirit of Beauty! Woman's lovely form

Is thy fit temple, and thy fairest shrine; Thou mayst take shelter there 'mid every storm That darkens o'er this earth, no more divine. Although in worlds above thy light may shine, The brightness that thou giv'st to woman's eyes Eclipseth all those heavenly orbs of thine;

To view the radiant soul that in them lies, 'Tis said that angels have been known to leave the skies.

STANZAS TO A LADY.

By Lawrence Macdonald.

"She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
Where all that's best of dark and bright,
Meet in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to the tender light

That heaven to gaudy day denies."

THERE is a pensive sweetness in thine eyes,
A mystery and a depth, like that of heaven
When viewed by night without the day's disguise!
Though 'gainst this world my spirit e'er hath striven,
Yet there be deeds of mine to be forgiven;

And, fair Madonna, I would pray to thee
For solace to a heart all wrung and riven;

To features less divine men bend the knee, And lovelier in the realms of fancy none may see.

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Nor with my fortunes aught of thee enshrine,

Because I could not brook the blight that then Would fall, and break that tranquil peace of thine. That aught like thee should ever wear a stain, Would make the heavens to blush, and double all my pain.

And while yon sun and starnies bright Their annual round renew, Blithe may we hail this festive night, To Kyle's sweet Minstrel due!" Gretna Green.

B. F.

LINES FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS'S BIRTH-
DAY.-JANUARY 25, 1830.

"He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a',
He'll be a credit to us a',

We'll a' be proud o' Robin."

BURNS'S Song on his own Birth-day.

'A' YE wha bow at friendship's fane,
Or own the Muse's sway;
A' ye, within whose tingling veins
Warm Love's soft pulses play;
True Scottish hearts assembled here,
This night to toast and sing
Deep Mem'ry o' the Bard o' Kyle,

In friendship's social ring!

An' sure frae out our isle ne'er sprang
A worthier wight than he;

Nor, frae the North, has pibroch rang
In strains mair bauld and free:
Though' spurned at Fortune's venal ha',
His genius rose sublime,

To hail our honour'd "Land o' Cakes,"
An'" days o' langsyne."

He sang auld Coila's haughs and streams,
Her leafy woodlands gay,
Her flowery straths and airy bens,

Where winsome lasses stray:

Frae his wild harp bauld strains he struck,
'Neath hoar Lincluden's shade ;*

In bonnie Doon's romantic neuks

He mourn'd his Highland maid.
His harp was heard on rocky Dee,
Where Aird's green forest grows;
At Beauty's glance on Catrine lea

The voice of Coila rose.+

When Gallia shook her threatening crest,
He woke that matchless strain,

That roused in every patriot breast
The Bruce's martial flame;

For echoing wide the slogan flew
All Scotland's vales alang,

And freedom waved her bonnet blue
The mustering ranks amang.

Though doom'd mid Zaara's deserts wild
The dread Simoom to brave,

Or where nae simmer breezes fan

The far antarctic wave,

Still memory should our bosoms charm,
And wake, o'er Robin's lay,
Remembrance of our native land,

In life's ecstatic May.

Though warldly cares our steps should trace, When wintry eild is near,

Or puirtith shaw his weezen'd face

To twine us o' our gear,

Ev'n then, forlorn and "tempest driven,"
His precepts sage and true,

By star-eyed Independence given,

Shall proudly bear us through.

Come, then, a toast,-let's pledge it fain,-
"May a', frae Tweed to Spey,
Fast link'd within the Muse's chain,
True brothers be for aye;

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SONG,

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS.
"But still the Patriot, and the Patriot Bard,
In bright succession raise her ornament and guard!"
Cottars' Saturday-Night.

As SCOTIA stood musing on days that are past,
Her eye all around her she pensively cast,

O'er her land of red heather and thistles so green :
A sigh came unbidden, when, far in a wild,
She Coila descried softly tending a child,

Whose looks beam'd with rapture, through ringlets pro

fuse,

As conn'd he the Legends of Wallace and Bruce,
Entranced 'mong the heather and thistles so green.

"Hail, Coila, still dearest! whom now dost thou nurse? A statesman or warrior? a blessing or curse

To my land of red heather and thistles so green ?"— "A child," she replied, "who is doom'd to inspire The sons of thy heather with patriot fire; And yet no Belhaven, to combat thy wrong, Nor Wallace of war, but a Wallace of song, Awakes to thy heather and thistles so green.

"From the thousands his spirit, resistless, shall lead,
As follow'd thy Wallace, a Bruce* may succeed
Our bard of the heather and thistle so green.
Though far hath the fame of thy heroes been heard,
Still farther the fame of thy Patriot Bard:
While roams the proud peasant thy mountains and plains,
So long shalt thou, SCOTIA, exult in his strains-
While blooms the red heather and thistle so green."

TO ALISON.

COME hither, my beloved one,

Of the dark and sparkling eye, And let thy bright and dimpled cheek On thy brother's bosom lie, While he traces in thy laughing face The buds, yet scarcely blown, Of the beauties of thy childhood, that So promisingly shone.

Oh, thou wast once a sickly thing,
Seem'd doom'd to early death;
And many an hour we sat by thee

To watch thy parting breath;

But heaven, that yearn'd for thee, relax'd Its hold, and thou at length

Fast overcam'st disease, and grew

In loveliness and strength.

Twelve long, long years I've been away-
And in that weary time

Thy little image solaced me
In many a distant clime;

And I had hoped-but let that pass
The day perhaps may be

Not distant, when I yet may do
All I had hoped for thee.

I left thee a mere child-and now
Thou art a woman grown;

• Prophetic of Sir Walter Scott.

Blending thy mother's playful charms

With beauties all thine own ;-
Thou hast her dimples and her smile;
Her buoyancy and mirth;
And, blest inheritance! thy heart
Reflects her modest worth.

Ay, hide thy blushes there, my sweet,
In the bosom where thou'st lain,
In years long past, in many an hour
Of restlessness and pain.

'Tis bliss to feel thy cheek once more
Thus on my breast recline-
Thy cradle once--and now thy home-
Would it were pure as thine?

Edinburgh, 9th Nov. 1829.

THE CIGAR.

W. B. H.

My spirits, confound them! had sunk below par,
So I said to myself--I will smoke a cigar ;
For I knew that if any thing earthly would do
For curing those devils by men called "the blue,"
'Twould be an Havannah, to me dearer far
Than Persian, or Russian, or Turkish cigar.

Whenever I meet with the crosses of life-
A bill from my tailor-a scold from my wife-
A riot in Ireland, a murder in France,-
I take out my herb with a calm non-chalance,
And, fragrantly whiffing, look grave as a czar—
'Tis a noble specific, a genuine cigar!

Some live upon books, and some live upon beer,

Marion de Lorme, comprising the reign of Louis XIII.; and the Mémoires du Marquis de Dangeau, from the original manuscripts in the King's Library.

SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.-Sir Thomas Lawrence had been a member of the Royal Academy for thirty years, and succeeded to the Presidency on the death of Mr West. He is supposed to have derived an income of about L.10,000 a-year from his profession. On the day previous to his death, he had worked on a splendid portrait on which he was engaged, of the King in his robes; but the last finished work which left his hands is the exquisite portrait of Miss Fanny Kemble, which has been drawn on stone by Mr Lane, and is just published. It is a very remarkable fact, that no portrait whatever exists of Sir Thomas Lawrence, either on canvass or in marble: he having never sat for one, nor painted one of himself; which latter almost all the great masters of former times did. The Royal Academicians who are now most in the public eye, after Sir William Beechey, and Messrs Northcote, Thomson, Stothard, and Westallwho are all at that age when it is not likely that they would willingly enter upon the active duties of the Presidency-are Howard, Etty, Turner, Westmacott, Chantrey, and Wilkie. The President is chosen by ballot, and the day of election is the 25th instant. Every academician has a vote, and the choice is determined by a second ballot on the two who have the highest number of votes; the object of election is then recommended to the approval of the King. It is said that Wilkie has the best chance. We learn that Mr Thomas Campbell has undertaken to prepare a life of Sir Thomas Lawrence, for which he is to receive one thousand guineas.

FINE ARTS.-There is now in course of publication at Venice, a collection of the Statues belonging to the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts, and of other classical sculptures which are the objects of public admiration in that city. They are of a large quarto size.

PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY'S CONCERT.-The first Subription Concert for the season took place in the Assembly Rooms last Tuesday. It was respectably, but not crowdedly attended, a good number having been kept away by the intimation that none but subscribers could be admitted. Of the instrumental music, the gem of the evening unquestionably was the Overture to "Semiramis," upon which Rossini has exhausted all the richness and variety of his genius. It is full of striking and beautiful movements, and, notwithstanding its length, was enthusiastically encored. We observe that some critics have at

Some with racing and gambling can run through the tacked this overture:-it may be scientifically defective in one or two

year,
Some dote upon beauty, and would not resign
A fair woman's smile, or for gold or for wine;
But a queen might pass me in her glittering simar
Unregarded-if I had my tranquil cigar.

To the doctor a patient gives highest delight,
To the alderman turtle's an exquisite sight,
At tithe-time a fat bishop's joy is complete,

A lady loves jewels, a client's a treat

points, but it is full of genius, which, we regret to observe, the said critics do not appear to have found out. The three vocalists of this concert were, Miss Inverarity, Miss E. Paton, and Miss Louisa Jarman. Each of these young ladies sung two songs; but Miss Inverarity's "Il braccio mio" was the only one which obtained an encore. Miss Inverarity, who upon this occasion made only her second public appearance, has an amazingly powerful voice, which, under the superintendence of Mr Murray, she has evidently cultivated with no little assiduity. There is still, however, a considerable want of sweetness and refinement in her style;-if she can acquire these, we doubt whether she will have a rival in Edinburgh. Miss E. Paton is always lady-like and pleasing. Her songs were "Fra tante ango

To the gentlemen flocking in crowds round the bar,- scie." and "There's a tear." Miss Louisa Jarman is as yet new to But the purest of pleasures is in a cigar.

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an Edinburgh andience; but from the two appearances which she has now made, we hesitate not to pronounce her a decided acquisition to the musical world here. Her voice, though not of very great volume or power, is sweet and clear, and her style chaste and elegant. In her "Una voce poco fa," on Tuesday evening, there was perhaps a little want of brilliancy; but the ballad of “ Alice Gray" was full of pathos and expression, almost reminding us of Miss Noel.

MUSIC-M. de Solomon, a musical professor at Paris, has just invented a little machine, by which, it is said, all instruments may be tuned without difficulty, even by the youngest musician.-The mu sical intelligence from Germany is wholly on the subject of Paganini, the celebrated violin-player. The sums he is said to have accumulated since his departure from Frankfort, that is, in the space of three months, are enormous. He is reported to be fond of moneya pardonable weakness, when it is considered that the wealth he amasses is for an only child, a boy of four years of age, to whom he

UNIVERSAL MECHANISM, as consistent with the Creation of all
Things, with the appearances of Nature, and with the dictates of
Reason and Revelation, by G. M. Bell, Esq., is nearly ready for pub-is anxious to ensure an independence before his own health, already

Seation.

Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, designed to illustrate their peculiar Modes of Thinking and Acting, will shortly be pubEnbied in Dublin.

A new novel, entitled Forester, will appear immediately.
The Pacha of Egypt, besides sending young men to Europe to pur-
me their studies, has commenced a newspaper at Boulaq, the port of
Cairo, which is to be published twice a-week. It is entitled News of
Egypt, of the common folio form, fand in two columns, the one
Turkish, and the other Arabic.

Amongst the anomalies of the day, we observe a Treatise on Boring published by Virtue.

Among the numerous volumes of Mémoires announced at Paris, we notice the continuation of Mémoires d'une Femme de Qualité, from the death of Louis the Eighteenth to 1829; the inedited Ménores de Madame la Duchesse de Chateauroux; the inedited Méaires de Madame la Marquise de Pompadour; the Mémoires de

precarious, is entirely broken.

REMARKABLE SPECIES OF PETTY LARCENY-THE ATLAS versus THE LITERARY JOURNAL.-We were not a little amazed to observe, under the notice "To Correspondents" in last week's Atlas, the following paragraph:-"There has been, for some time past, a species of petty larceny carried on by our provincial contemporaries, which we are surprised to find committed by a respectable paper, the Edinburgh Literary Journal. Our articles are weekly copied wholesale without acknowledgment. (!) As the Journal does not require aids of this kind, we hope it will have the courtesy, in future, to give credit to the source from whence it derives its intelligence."-There must be some mistake here. We have no desire to quarrel with the Atlas; but really the accusation contained in the above passage is one of the coolest things we have seen for a long while. With the exception of a single line or two of literary gossip, which we take indiscriminately from the Court Journal, the Literary Gazette, the Spectator, the Athenæum, and, it may be, the Atlas, and

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