ground, was most rigorously looked after; indeed, we had "Stretch the tired limbs, And lay the head Upon our own delightful bed." our harmless implements of war, we used to commence the action with the utmost regularity. I have not heard that any Bonaparte ever went out from amongst us, but this I know, that our attacks, skirmishes, rescues, and retreats, were conducted with a military truth which would have done honour even to the boyish days of the grand Napoleon himself. The ice, too, was the scene of many a well-remembered exploit. One winter the frost was so severe, that carts crossed on the ice at the fording place for ten or twelve days. When it began to give way, we amused ourselves by cutting large squares with hatchets, and detaching them from the great body of the ice, managing our frail rafts with long poles, and steering down the water and through below the bridge. Two or three of us had one afternoon hewn out a tolerably-sized raft; it was thawing fast, and the river was running broad and deep; we pushed away, got into the middle of the current, and made for the centre arch of the bridge, intending to sail through, and land at a green bank on the other side. By some mismanagement in the steerage, our flat-bottomed bark "missed poles," and, before we could say "Robinson Crusoe," crash went the brittle raft against the pier of the bridge, and was in a twinkling smashed into a thousand pieces, leaving her crew in a most uncomfortable situation. Luckily for us she went down, or rather, we went down, not at, but a few yards from, a dreaded place called "the deep hole," caused by the constant eddying of the water, where even a member of the Six Feet Club would have been deprived of daylight. We floundered out from among the broken ice, wet to the skin, and shivering like leaves in the winter blast, laughed at by many, and pitied by few, got home, and did not attempt the icerafts till-next opportunity. Dear to the memory are all these, and a thousand more, reminiscences of our early years, and endeared to us is the scene of all these recollections,— 66 Dear is the school-boy spot with no companion save our own thoughts, and reflecting ON REVISITING THE RHYMER'S glen, NEAR ABBOTSFORD. There was an old woman who lived near the school, sad pleasure in going over the scenes of our early days, and who lives there yet for aught I know. She was a good honest creature, but a singular one. She concocted a certain villainous compound of treacle and raw sugar, which was, in common parlance, denominated clagum-a vile name, it must be confessed. Many a goodly fellow's stomach did it disarrange, and many a dinner did it cause to stand over. Be that as it might, however, we were wont to smack our unsophisticated lips very sweetly after discussing a penny-worth of Nannie's far-famed mixture. This old woman kept a calender, and the fact was intimated to the natives by a sign above her door, which ran thus:-" A mangle kept here." One night, some of the wags about school took the liberty to erase one letter and transpose two others, so that, next morning, to the astonishment of the beholders, the horror of Nannie, and the infinite delight of the perpetrators of the mischief, it read, "An angel kept here." The old woman was exceedingly wroth at this doubtful sort of compliment. Nannie was not a beauty, and she well knew she had little claim to such a title. This trick was not forgotten by her for many a day; she laid the blame on the whole community, and insisted that the master should flog the whole school, in order that the real offender might not escape; but Nobody, who certainly "did the deed," was as scarce in those days as he is now. The winter season was another fruitful source of joy and amusement, and, while snow and ice lasted, we made good use of them. First, as to snow, the suburbans and we were wont to contest the possession of the old bridge with the most eager violence. The appearance of hundreds of snowballs, flying like lightning from both sides, had a most picturesque effect: the balls often met midway, and split with a report which told with what birr they were thrown. With caps drawn down, and jackets buttoned up, and the arms of our advanced guard full of I seek the haunts of olden time; I mark, in rapture, all the past, Thrice ten long tedious years have pass'd Each year the world new changes knows, What changes hast thou mark'd of men, And brought the deer o'er hill and dale, Thy sod has oft with blood been dyed, Long since the mighty spell is broke, The scenes that can return no more, W. B. THE EDITOR. This little song is also by the same author. There is a pretty wildness in it, and it might be successfully set to music: SONG. O bury me deep in the trackless sea, Let the freshening breeze around me hover; Let the soft bed of coral my pillow be, And the circling waters lap me over. With their robes of green, and their eyes of pearl, Let the nymphs of ocean my vigils keep; Let my bed be deck'd with the sapphire and beryl, And the waves' gentle murmur lull me to sleep. For I have loved the ocean wide, And fearless rode o'er the rising billow; There let me repose beneath its tide, Dearer to me than the downy pillow. O bury me deep in the trackless sea, Let the freshening breeze around me hover; Let the soft bed of coral my pillow be, And the circling waters lap me over. W. B. THE EDITOR, Indicative of a yet higher order of genius, and of a more glowing imagination, is the following composition, by one who has not hitherto come before the world as a poet, but who certainly promises yet to distinguish himself in that department of literature. Let us request your attention to this production : THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.-A VISION. By J. W. Ord. No human form could I espy, no habitation there, And there they hiss'd with the hissing wind, like brother 'gainst a brother. Away and away I wander'd, o'er the far and desert waste; I went as if my life in heaven depended on my haste; And through the long and weary night I hurried on my way, For I sicken'd at the dreariness I had beheld that day; And when the dawn flush'd o'er the earth, I laid me down to rest, The frowning heavens my canopy, my bed the cheerless waste. And, lo! within my dreaming sleep, the winds and storms were gone, Like a child's sweet face was the smiling sky, so cheerfully it shone; And perfumes faint came o'er the sense, as from sweet gardens nigh, Upon the breeze swift odours pass'd, as love-thoughts on a sigh. At length, oh heavenly thing! I saw, afar unto the west, A glorious sight, which yet doth dwell like music in my breast: It was the first green lovely thing that yet had struck my sight, And I felt as a loosen'd captive feels, when he looks on heaven's loved light; I ran as runs the wild deer proud, when he hears the clarion ring, Or the Arab's thirsty war-horse, when he snorts the desert spring. 'Twas a lone and beauteous flower, which shed its perfume on the air; Like a stately herb which angels love, it stood in grandeur there : I thought on the rose and the violet, and I thought on the hairbell blue, And the sensitive plant, and anemone, with its cup of sil ver dew; And I thought on the tulip and hyacinth, and the flowers beneath the wave, And the poison-staying asphodel, which was sown on the dead man's grave; And I thought on all earth's fragrant flowers-and many and sweet are they of flowers of passion, and scent, and love, which breathe in the poet's lay ;— But dearer, lovelier, sweeter far, was that odour-breathing flower, Which shed such perfume, faint and deep, the dreary desert o'er. It was not yellow, nor white, nor red, nor purple, nor green, nor blue, Nor like those flowers which poets clothe with fancy's every hue; Its leaves were rimm'd as the eve clouds are, with the sun's last parting beam— A soft, and a rich, and a golden shade, like a moon-reflecting stream. And a warm and odorous scent breathed up, like a breeze of the gentle west, And a rosy glow tinged every leaf, like the depth of a maiden's breast; You might have deem'd it a heaven-loved flower, just fall'n from the summer sky, And the dewdrop gleaming in its cup, the tear of an angel's eye. And a bubbling fount beside its foot gave music deep and wild, Gentle, and soft, and musical, as the breathing of a child; And its crystal depths were still and clear, as a winter moonbeam's light, And its heaving breast was full and fair, as a virgin's bosom bright; And the delicate murmuring melody, which at every throb was heard, Was deeper, sweeter, more intense, than the song of the forest bird, A song like a zephyr sighing 'mong the gay and amorous trees, As it fondles and kisses the panting leaves in its wanton gallantries; A LOVER'S HOUR. A star was twinkling in the west, Oh beautiful, oh beautiful, are the dreamy things we see, Are they glimpses dim of hidden joys and bright Elysian gleams The gifts of the guardian spirit kind that watches our couch in sleep, And thus gives token of coming bliss to those who mourn and weep? Or are they glittering nothings, which attract the mental eye Visions of things which dwell not in the earth, nor sea, Unreal spirits sent to haunt the child of poetry? Rustling o'er the pebbled strand, Here is Soft flow'd our thoughts that twilight hour, Old Cerberus. The man who wrote that has a highly Old Cerberus. Tired! My dearest EDITOR, I could listen to such compositions, enhanced, as they are, by the rich, mellow, and manly tones of your voice, for a whole year. THE EDITOR. We shall not tax your patience quite so long, for there are only three other effusions which we intend to separate at present from these mighty heaps be.. fore and around us. The first is entitled HUMAN LIFE. Like a boat on the wave When a storm's in the sky, Like the rose o'er a grave When the winter is nigh, Like a star when it streams Through the clouds in their flight, Like the fabric of dreams 'Mid the slumbers of night,— Like the lamp that is lit In the mist o'er the moor, Or the bubbles that flit By the rude rocky shore, Is the vision of life in this tempest-tost clime, As the bark-as the star- Is mysterious-unknown,— As the rose fades away From our hopes and our tears,—— As the meteor-lamp flies To its deep water cave, And the wind-bubble dies On the first dashing wave So sinks to his doom-but a span from his birth, I felt thy bosom quickly prest To love a maiden so gentle as thee; Our hearts were calm as that evening sea. Old Cerberus. (Still much agitated.) An hour such THE EDITOR. Apropos of the dead, here is a sad and gentle poem, which will tend to soothe your somewhat perturbed spirit. It is the last we shall produce: THE CHURCHYARD. By Thomas Brydson. At most times I feel it a dreary thing I live and I move where those have moved, I think of a home and of friends beloved,- There's a voice in the dark rank grave-weeds too, Yet mournfully pleasing it is, I ween, To read on the tomb of some long-lost friend, (While memory brings us the days that have been,) How his life was blameless, and calm his end :— Then mingles a ray with our spirit's gloomHeaven in contrast with mortal doom. But many moods of mind there be Coming and going like light and shade O'er the green fields of summer-and blessed is he THE EDITOR. The many peris who still surround our gates must exert their patience for a time, for we cannot yet give them admission to our paradise. Old Cerberus. Why should you? Are there not innumerable drivellers, who ought to be kept as far from you as midges from the sun;-creatures that buzz in your ear; and when you will not deign to listen to them, seek for revenge, by attempting to sting you, although a wasp might as well attempt to sting Ben Lomond? THE EDITOR. Nay, let us part in peace with our contributors ; we have a liking for them all. Old Cerberus. I have long been distressed to think that any of your immortal lucubrations should be conveyed to the press, just as if they were the writings of any ordinary man; but I have now, by the present expedient, obviated the difficulty. The triumphal car, as it hebdomadally gleams along Prince's Street, will be at once recognised, and many an anxious anticipation will be awakened as to the contents of the succeeding Number. THE EDITOR. Our best thanks are due to you. [Re-enter Peter, followed by the eighteen Printer's Devils. The EDITOR gives a quantity of manuscript to each, and then presenting his hand to Old Cerberus, leads him out to the door, followed by Peter and the Devils. Old Cerberus ascends the box, and the eighteen Devils seat themselves in the car. The crowd assembled round the house give three cheers. Old Cerberus and the Devils bow respectfully to the EDITOR, and the horses set off at full speed. Exeunt the EDITOR and Peter into the house. The Scene closes. REMINISCENCES AND RELICS OF ROBERT BURNS. WE were lately enabled to lay before our readers some interesting relics of Scotland's favourite poet, Burns, and also to give a full account of the discovery of a new and highly interesting portrait of the bard. Some farther in formation upon this subject has since been put into our hands, which we have much pleasure in now communicating to our readers. The portrait already mentioned having been shown to Mr Alexander Smellie, the son of the gentleman who printed the first edition of Burns's Poems, he addressed a letter to Messrs Constable and Co., which, with their permission, we now subjoin, and which cannot fail to be read with interest: "Edinburgh, 8th Jan. 1830. "GENTLEMEN,-As I have been requested to give my opinion of the original portrait of Burns recently discovered, I think it right to state the opportunities I had of judging of his likeness. From the beginning, I think, of January, 1787, when the first Edinburgh edition of his poems was begun to be printed by my father, till about the middle of April of the same year, I sat every day at the opposite side of the desk, reading to Burns the manuscript of his poems, while he corrected the proofsheets. Some time after this period, I occasionally met with him in Mr Hill's house. I also frequently saw him at the meetings of the Crochallan Fencibles, a convivial club, consisting of many of the first literary characters of the day, which met in a tavern kept by one Douglas, in the Anchor Close, where the members of that corps used to pit the Poet and my father against each other in contests of wit and irony. Though I had thus such ample opportunities of seeing him, it is somewhat curious that I do not recollect any thing at all remarkable about his eyes, which some persons have described as being so keen and penetrating. I cannot, however, forget the peculiarity of manner which he exhibited on his first appearance in my father's printing-office. dressed much in the style of a plain country farmer, in a grey coat, striped vest, and his usual buckskin breeches and boots. He walked three or four times from one end of the composing room to the other, cracking a long whip, to the no small annoyance of the compositors and pressmen; and although portions of the manuscript of his poems were lying before every compositor in the house, he never once looked at what they were doing, nor asked a single question. He frequently repeated this odd practice during his visits to the printing-office, and always in the same strange and inattentive manner. We had been told, when the poems were first sent to be printed, and before Burns had made his appearance in the printingoffice, that they were the composition of a common illiterate ploughman; and though I was at that time a young man, the cracking of the whip, and the strangely uncouth and unconcerned manner of Burns, always impressed me with the notion that he wished to assume the clownish appearance of a country rustic in a greater degree than what naturally belonged to him. He was house, Dumfries, in 1796, when I was introduced to her "I saw the original portrait, by Nasmyth, in Mrs Burns's by Mrs Riddel of WOODLEY PARK, (not of Glenriddel, as she has been so often erroneously designated,) a lady much celebrated by Burns, and the writer of a very ingenious critique on his poetical works. I well remember, one evening shortly after his funeral, of this same lady, in a fit of enthusiasm, proposing to me to accompany her to the burial place of Burns. We accordingly went together, and at the dead of night planted laurels on his grave. Mrs Riddel, on my return from Dumfries to Edinburgh, gave me a letter of introduction to the celebrated Clarinda, who at that time resided in the Canongate. Clarinda was so kind as to read to me a number of the letters which she had received from Burns, many of which I have never seen in print. "Before I saw this portrait of Burns by Mr Taylor, I had never seen any thing at all like him, except the engraving done by Beugo for the first Edinburgh edition of his Poems, which was, in my opinion, far liker than the portrait by Nasmyth, from which it was taken. This may have been owing to the engraver's having, if I mis. take not, had frequent sittings of the Bard, during the progress of the engraving, in addition to Nasmyth's portrait lying before him. From another source we have been supplied with two curious relics of Burns. The first is probably the last letter he ever wrote, bearing date “July 16th, 1796," which "The Portrait which I have now seen in the hands is two days later than any other hitherto published. He of the engraver, I think a remarkably striking likeness-died upon the 20th of the same month. It is a letter, adso much so, that I recognised it the instant it was shown to me. It is, in my opinion, much liker than that done by Nasmyth. Of this I conceive there cannot be the smallest doubt in the mind of any one who has a distinct recollection of the features of the celebrated original. I pointed out to Mr Horsburgh, the engraver, what I thought a small defect in the Portrait, which he said he would endeavour to correct in the engraving. “After what I have stated, I need not add that I have not the smallest doubt of the authenticity of this invaluable Portrait.—I am, gentlemen, your most obedient servant, ALEX. SMELLIE."* dressed from the Brow, near Dumfries, to the late Mr James Gracie of that town, and is in these words, which we copy verbatim from the original, now in our possession: 66 "My dear Sir,-It would be doing high injustice to this place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms have derived great benefit from it already; but, alas, my loss of this week, and I return to town the beginning of next appetite still continues. I shall not need your kind offer week, it not being a tide week. I am detaining a man in a burning hurry. So God bless you! R. Burns. Weden. Morn." We consider the other relic, which we obtain from the same source, still more curious: These reminiscences are characteristic and striking. From another gentleman of respectability in Edinburgh we received, a few days ago, a communication containing some curious particulars illustrative of Burns's popular and beautiful song, "My Nannie, O." We willingly" give his letter a place also: 6 To the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. "SIR,-None of the editors or biographers of our immortal Poet seem to know any thing of the heroine or history of the beautiful song, My Nannie, O.' Mr Lockhart, though latest of them, refers this song to the time when the Poet lived at Mossgiel, and ascribes it to one of the many minor love attachments to which the Poet, he thinks, was so prone. This is a mistake. The circumstances which gave rise to it were these :-Burns published at Kilmarnock, as is well known, the first collected edition of his poems, which was printed and published by John Wilson, bookseller and printer there, a worthy and respectable man, whom I knew well. While the work was in progress, Burns resided in Kilmarnock, that he might be at hand to furnish manuscript for the press, and revise the proof sheets. During that season, he was a frequent visitor at the house of Mr Wilson, who was opulent and hospitable, and possessed taste and talent enough to relish the charms of Burns's conversation. Mr Wilson had recently before married a daughter of Mr William Sheriff, farmer at Broomhouse, in East Lothian; and Agnes, an unmarried daughter of Mr Sheriff's family, familiarly called Nannie by her sister, was on a visit to Mrs Wilson at the time the printing of this volume was going on. Nannie was eminently beautiful, with sweet, engaging manners, and Burns was delighted with so fascinating a young creature. As he often spoke in her praise, her sister-whom I have often heard mention the circumstances-suggested that he should make her the subject of a song. He said, That would not be difficult, but that it would be necessary to place her among scenery somewhat more poetical than the houses and streets of Kilmarnock. He soon produced the admirable song, "My Nannie, O;' in the MS., and also in the first edition of which, he described her as residing Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows'-which hills she had never seenbut which term Stinchar, he afterwards altered to Lugar --both of them streams in the south of Ayrshire-on account of the softer name. The lovely Nannie, who was maternal aunt to my wife-the latter being, indeed, named after her married, soon after, Mr Morton, a respectable young man, whom she accompanied to the West Indies, where, some years after, both of them died, leaving two children, with a competency for their support. "Though I would prefer anonymous publication, yet if you think authentication of the facts I have stated of importance, you are welcome to subjoin, in place of my initials, my name and address as in the envelope.—I am, &c. J. G." "About seven or eight years ago," says our informant, Mrs Burns presented me with a volume of 'The World,' with many of Burns's holograph remarks written upon it; and on one of the blank leaves are the following lines, written with a pencil, much defaced, yet pretty legible, and in Burns's hand." We are not aware that these lines have ever before appeared in print. They may aptly be entitled,— A TRIBUTE TO THE GENIUS OF FERGUSON. "Ill-fated genius! heaven-taught Ferguson! To shed its influence on thy bright career. In all the splendour fortune can bestow." These lines are every way characteristic of Burns. We are at all times glad to be the means of rescuing from oblivion aught that may belong to the memory of the illustrious dead; and there is no one to whose memory we are more anxious that justice should be done than to that of Robert Burns. THERE were read, 1st, "Notices on Coal, under the New Red Sandstone near to Leicester, by Mr Foster;" communicated by Henry Witham, Esquire; on which Professor Jameson made some observations, tending to prove that this position of coal strata is not so unfrequent as has been supposed; and 2d, A paper "On the Circulation of the Blood in the Fœtus, in Man and in the lower Animals,” by Dr John Aitken. We regret that the utter impossibility of rendering the subjects of these interesting communications intelligible to our readers, unaided by the diagrams which accompanied the one, and the specimens which acattempting a sketch of their contents. companied the other, obliges us to forego our intention of Before the termination of the meeting, an experiment of a highly interesting nature was exhibited by Mr Reid. It Mr Alexander Smellie was thirty years Secretary to the Society had occurred to this gentleman, that if the heat given out of Scottish Antiquaries. by a small ball of chalk, exposed to the united action of oxy |