for a while thought we talked wildly, but he and all the house soon became converts to our opinion. They were dragged captive in triumph at our chariot-wheels. Our eloquence was irresistible

"Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage;"

we were shewn to bed by a great number of people bearing torches ; and we awoke at cock-crow, alas! in the disenchanted composure of common humanity, and thought, with a slight sensation of shame, of the summit of Dunnequech.

From three to five this day have we not been stirring our stumps? We know not which of the three sisters is the most engaging-but now that they have cleared decks, let us open this parcel of books, (the post gig from Inverary to Oban is a great

convenience to the inmates of Larach-a-ban,) and see if it contains any thing worth perusal. Two thin volumes of verses published at

Boston, America with a letter -let us see-from the author's brother-our amiable and enlight ened friend Henry M'Lellan, now at Liverpool, it would seem, about to embark for his native land; and pleasant be his voyage, and happy his return. We have been very for tunate in our American friendships, and for their sakes love the New World. Aye there is feeling and fancy here he writes like a Scotsman, and does not his name tell the land of his ancestors? We can get by heart any little poem that touches it, at two readings; and laying the open pamphlet it is no more-on its face on the table-we shall recite to Mary, Anne, and Elizabeth. Fair creatures, listen to "The ChurchBell."

Win thy thoughts from Earth away,
Let thein be with Heaven to-day.
Think not now of sordid gold,
Nor of gaudy flags, unrolled,
Nor of learned books, the lore
Prized by Pagan men of yore,
Nor thy vessels tossed at sea,
Nor thy lands so dear to thee,
But unto thy God repair,

To his holy place of prayer.

The difference is indescribableslight-between poetry and noand, as far as the mere words ge, poets never know that-nor can you poetry but people who are noconvince them that their clippings are merely poor verses. These simple and natural lines we have now recited are very touching, and trite as the subject is, please, by appealing directly to feelings that in perpetual flow are welling in every hu

man heart. Trite-trivial com monplace what senseless, soulless use is often made of these words! Birth, marriage, death, are the commonest occurrences in the lot of man. You read of them in all the

newspapers-but also in Shakspeare. Who ever wearied of the Lord's Prayer? Many touches are sprinkled up and down these poems, de scriptive, we perceive, of the features of American scenery, that bespeak no unskilful hand; and many mild meditations

"The harvest of a quiet eye,
That broods and sleeps on its own heart."

There is, we think, an affecting tone of cheerfulness and solemnity in the following strain; we are heedless of any slight verbal defects in the expression of sentiments so consolatory and ennobling; nor can we read it without affectionate respect for the character of the writer, who must be a good man.

BURIAL OF A FILGRIM FATHER,
IN 1630.

We anxiously hollowed the frozen ground,
And heaped up this lonely harrow,
For the Indian lurked in the woods around,
And we feared his whistling arrow.

When the surf on the sea-beach heavily beat,
When the breeze in the wilderness mut-

tered,

And we left the dust of our brother to lie

In its narrow habitation';

Bless us-Proctor-my good fel

high,

eight of the hungriest men you perhaps ever saw, are to dine with us at sunset t! Why, you receive the intelligence with all the serenity of a martyr. You must kill a cow. Mrs Proctor-pray, ma'am, by the hands of what high-priest may have been traced on the wall of this lobby or trans these enigmatical Egyptian hieroglyphics? Ho! ho! Salmo Ferox, Twenty-two pounds and a half, you say; these other semblances are gentry of the same kidney;

and the original must have had gizzards like the Irish Gulloroos. Taken by Mr Lascelles! We are sorry he is not here now for we have seen all the greatest philosophers, orators, poets, and pugilists of the age, but should have more real satisfaction in shaking hands with the greatest of all living anglers. These enormous fish, you say, Proctor, are found in all parts of the deeper quarters of the loch-rarely rise at a fly-and are taken only by such tackling as you have now in your hand— eight large double hooks on wiretwist, sufficient for a shark-baited with a trout the size of a herringthe trolling-line of twine, sixty or eighty yards long? What devils! and M. Lascelles has killed a greater number of them than any man in Britain? Aye-one of his finest specimens stuffed and in the Manchester museum? You please us by telling us that he has fished all the best streams and lakes of England and Ireland, and says them all can hold that not one of

up head with

Loch Awe. That the smaller trout fishing is his great delight, and the grey trout trolling merely made an accessory to it in passing from one part of the loch to another, is of it self enough to confirm us in the conviction that he is an illustrious artiste. Those flies are of his dressing? They are exquisite. And his whole arrangement of feathers, downs, silks, &c. &c. beyond all praise-eh-splendid? And he brought down a beautiful boat of his own from Liverpool with every thing complete about her? and his sons you say are fine fishermen ? Why you make us sad, Mr Proctor. We are dwindling-dwindled into the most absolute and abject insignificance of any creeping thing that crawls on the face of the earth, or on the heads of its inhabitants. We are no angler-not we; and as for sons -we are too plainly an aged bachelor-Proctor-barren as that block. But shove off-only don't laugh and we shall try a cast or two along the Hayfield shores.

Mr Lascelles says that Cheval lier of Temple Bar is the only man that understands the proper shape and proportion of a rod? True. This is one of Chevallier's Tip-toppers. Thank you-we always use our own flies, though we admire those of our friends-and we have found this imp with the green body, half black heckle, and brown mallard wings, in all waters and at all seasons very bloody. We generally make a few circles in the air-so-ere we drop the devils. You seem rather surprised-why the old buck can handle his tool pretty tidily for one of the antique school;-and hang it -we wish this admirable Crichton, this miraculous Lascelles, were here-in his own boat the Liverpoolian; were he to give us five-why we'd play him the game of twenty for a greasy chin, and a gallon of Glenlivet. Lie on your oars--for we know the water. The bottom of this shallow bay-for 'tis nowhere ten feet-in places sludgy, and in places firm almost as the greensward-for we have waded it-of yore-many a time up to our chin-till we had to take to our fins-there! Mr Yellowlees was in right earnest, and we have him as fast as an otter. There he goes snoring and snuving along as

deep as he can-steady, boys, steady and seems disposed to pay a visit to Rabbit Island. There is a mystery in this we do not very clearly comprehend-the uniformity of our friend's conduct becomes puzzling— he is an unaccountable character. He surely cannot be an eel. Yet for a trout he manifests an unnatural love of mud on a fine day. Row shoreward Proctor-do as we bid you she draws but little water run her up bang on that green brae then hand us the crutch-for we must finish this affair on terra firma. Loch Awe is certainly a beautiful sheet of water. The islands are disposed so picturesque-we want no assistance but the crutch-here we are with elbow-room, and on stable footing

and we shall wind up-retiring from the water edge, as people do at a levee, with their faces towards the King. Do you see them yellowing, you Tory? What bellies! Why we knew by the dull dead weight that there were three-for they kept all pulling against one another, nor were we long in discovering the complicated motion of triplets. Pounders eachsame weight to an ounce same familywallop-all bright as stars.] Never could we endure angling from a boat. What loss of time in getting the whappers wiled into the landing net. What loss of peace of mind in letting them off, when their snouts, like those of Chinese pigs, were within a few yards of the gunwale, and when, with a last convulsive effort, they whaumled themselves over with their splashing tails, and disappeared for ever. Now for five flies. Wind on our back-no tree within an acre-no shrub higher than the bracken-no reed, rush, or waterlily in all the bay-what hinders that we should, what the Cockneys call whip with a dozen? We have set the loch a-feed. Epicure and glutton alike are rushing to destruction. Trouts of the most abstemious ha-bits cannot withstand the temptation of such exquisite evening fare; and we are much mistaken if here be not an old dotard, a lean and slippery pantaloon, who had long given up attempting vainly to catch flies, and found it is much as he could do to overtake the slower sort of worms. Him we shall not return to his na

tive element, to drag out a pitiable existence, but leave him where he lies, to die-he is dead already--"For he is old and miserably poor!"

Two dozen in two hours we call fair sport, and, we think they will average not less, Proctor, than a pound. Lascelles and North against any two in all England. We beseech you-only look at yonder noses. Thick as frogs as powheads. There -that was lightly dropt among them -each fatal feather seeming to melt on the water like a snow-flake. We have done the deed, Proctor-we have done the deed. We feel that we have five. Observe how they will come to light, in succession, a size larger and larger, with a monster at the tail-fly. Even so. To explain the reason why, would perplex a master of arts. Five seem about fifty, when all dancing about together in an irregular figure, but they have sorely ravelled our gear. It matters not; for it must be wearing well on to eight o'clock, and we dine at sun

set.

Why keep so far out from shore? We are not bound for Cladich, but Larach-a-ban. Whirr! Whirr! Whirr! SALMO FEROX, as sure as a gun. The maddened monster has already run out ten fathom of chain-cable. His spring is not so sinewy as a salmon's of the same size, but his rush is more tremendous, and he dives like one of the damned in Michael Angelo's Last Judgment. All the twelve barbs are gorged, and not, but with the loss of his torn-out entrails, can he escape dry death. Give us an oaror he will break the rope-therewe follow him at equal speed sternforemost-but canny-canny-for if the devil doubles upon us, he may play mischief yet by getting under our keel. That is noble. There he sails some twenty fathom off, parallel to our pinnace, at the rate of six knots and bearing-for we are giving him the butt-right down up

on Larach-a-ban, steady, as if towards spawning ground in the genial month of August, but never again shall he enjoy his love. See he turns up a side like a house. We shrewdly suspect he is pretending to be dead, and reserving his strength for a last struggle at the shore. Aye—that is indeed a most commodious landingplace, and the hypocrite, ere he is aware of water too shallow to hide his back-fin, will be walloping upon the yellow sand. A dolphin! a dolphin! large enough to carry on his shoulders a little green fairy aquatic Arion, harp in hand, and charming the Naiads with a dulcet song.

"Hurra! hurra! hurra! Christopher for ever!" We look around; and lo! the Cladich breakfast-party waving their bonnets round their heads at our enormous capture. When they talk about it in Glasgow, it will be thought a ggegg. Let us weigh the monster-up with him by the gills and fasten him to our pocket steel-yard. He had there wellnigh broken our back. TWENTYSEVEN POUND JIMP!!! Nay-naynay, boys-no crowning, no crowning of the old man. Yet, if you will have it so we forgive the enthusiasm of youth. That is classical, and with joy we submit our brows to the Parsley Wreath. All we want now is a Pindar. And nothing will pacify you, you madcaps, but to bear us, shoulder-high, up to Larach-a-ban ? And you are so kind as to cry that bone never bore a nobler burthen? What will Lascelles say when he hears of our triumph! It will go hard to break his heart. No-he is a fine generous creature, we are told, envious of no other great man's reputation, though justly jealous of his own. O thou glorious setting sun! slow sinking behind the crimson ridge of old Cruachan, thou seemest to say in that solemn light of thine, celestial monitor

CHRISTOPHER, REMEMBER THOU ART

MORTAL!