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tinguished himself by his inclination for learning; and, what was remarkable in a Jew, he confined not himself to his own contracted sphere of Hebrew literature; but, boldly bursting through the prejudices that fettered his countrymen, he expatiated abroad into the more ample and diversified fields of Greek and Roman science. He made himself an eloquent master of the language of Athens, and became thereby enabled to defend, and do justice to, his country, and to celebrate, in the universal and harmonious language of Homer and Herodotus, the institutions, man

countrymen. He was not only an accomplished scholar, but an ingenious and accomplished general; he, for a long time, checked and baffled, by his talents, the victorious arms of Vespasian; and when, at last, necessity compelled him to philosophize on the advantages or the expediency of submission, he had already secured the esteem and admiration of his noble opponents, who knew virtue too well in themselves not to value it in at once an accomplished and undaunted enemy. Like the Grecian General Polybius, to whom his character and circumstances bear considerable resemblance, he, after fighting bravely against the conquerors of the world, and sharing at last the fate of a captive, was at once admitted into their friendship and most familiar confidence; and, at last, with his pen, commended that magnanimity and skill in arms which at once had extorted his admiration and compelled his submission. Happy had it been for his countrymen had they been influenced by his excellent counsels, as the Greeks were by those of the virtuous general of Megalopolis!

undistinguishing sway, the mind becomes firmer. We learn to look on the tyrant with less fear on finding before us immediate proof that all must submit to his decrees. Familiarity with what may at first terrify, weans us from an undefined fear. Thus, so far from being frightened by a visit to which I had looked forward as too much for her, my companion gradually became more cheerful. She talked gaily of the past, thought hopingly of the future. The fears which once dwelt upon her mind disappeared—like the clouds imperceptibly dispelled by the sun from the landscape at our feet. The sluggardners, and achievements, of his sublime and extraordinary Seine shone more brightly to the beams, now glittering along its surface, and gilding at the same time the majestic dome of the Invalides. Throughout the vast wilderness of buildings stretching indistinctly in the distance, tower after tower successively stood out more boldly to the eye, till, as we loitered on the chapel steps, the whole of that wide-spread city was displayed to our gaze, with scarce a speck to conceal the heights beyond. A view more imposing can scarcely be enjoyed. There lies the immense capital of one of the greatest nations of the world, lulled, as it were, to rest,--for little but a low confused hum reaches the ear. Yet, even from this point, some of its darkest as well as brightest features are seen; though the princely Tuileries fills some of the landscape, it scarce attracts so much attention as that humble bridge, near which stands the last receptacle of misfortune, that gloomy charnel-house of guilt, the foul Morgue, which I could never pass without a shudder, thinking by what crimes it was filled. The assassin's steel, the gambler's despair, the wretchedness of his ruined children, ever rose to view as I glanced at the loathsome structure. These associations were less endurable than all we had felt while moving through the silent tombs of the dead, and were only effaced when our eyes fell on an edifice devoted to nobler purposes, the Salpetrière, where aged females are comfortably sheltered from the ills of poverty and years. The excited feelings were soothed by reflecting on this more grateful subject, and we resumed our survey with renovated strength. The spirits of my companion improved with the day. She talked cheerfully of all we had seen, and looked calmly to the time when she too might dwell in this house of death, which was now deemed so sweet and inviting, that the prospect of repo-writer of these remarks means here to speak, and not of sing within its precincts was no longer unwelcome. The opening buds that gemmed each grave carried her forward to a land

"Where souls do couch on flowers;"

and a few leaves were gratefully plucked, to be cherished as memorials of this interesting visit. She had got over a secret unacknowledged fear of beholding the grave, and her mind became serene. We departed almost reluctantly from a spot which I had dreaded to approach in her com pany. From that hour her health improved ;-such was the happy effect of contemplating that which at a distance seemed so forbidding! The cause of this improvement is obvious. Imagination was no longer on the stretch, and another proof was thus afforded, that

The works of Josephus are voluminous, and bear testimony to his diligent and persevering genius. His largest, though not his best, work, is his Archæology, or Jewish Antiquities, in twenty books, wherein he deduces the history of Judea from the creation to the age of Nero, and which is chiefly valuable from its filling up the chasm that separates Old and New Testament History. His Jewish War, in seven books-his most eloquent work—details, along with some preliminary recapitulation, the terrible incidents of that singular war that commenced under Nero, and terminated in the extirpation of the Jews, and destruction of their capital by Vespasian and Titus.

It is only of the style of the Jewish historian that the

the credibility of his statements as compared with the Bible, and as inducing or justifying against their author a charge of credulity or of incredulity. The style of Josephus in his Archæology is somewhat irregular and discrepant. His mind and his pen seem to vacillate between the redundancies of Grecian eloquence, which, being fashionable in his day, he rather affected, and the simplicity of Hebrew narration, as presented to us, unadorned and unaffected, by the historians of the Old Testament, to which his mind, as it necessarily resorted to them for information, had also a propensity to adhere, as a native, in laudable imitation. There is a perpetual conflict, as it were, between the concise simplicity of Judea and the splendid exaggeration of Greece; a heterogeneous mixture of the splendid with the simple in writing, as, in architecture, the intermixture of Palestine plainness with Grecian magnificence in the tombs of the valley of Jehoshaphat. Accordingly, the naked narrative of Moses is in many places spoiled, as it passes through the hands of this historian, by unnecessary exuberance. The story of Joseph, so exquisitely impressive by its touching and forcible simplicity, where every word is, as it were, a weapon; the dedication of the temple by Solomon, one of the finest passages to be found in any writing, are vitiated and reduced in their effect by the cumbersome and spurious eloJOSEPHUS, of all the Jews the most celebrated for his quence with which the sentiments are overloaded. It is genius and learning, was the son of Matthias, an honour- in the history of times less ancient, and of transactions able citizen of Jerusalem, who was connected, by descent, within the compass of his own experience, that his mind, both with the regal and priestly branches, and hence making no reference to the simple annals of Judea, and transmitted to his son a twofold honour, that was doubly left free and unfettered to its own scope of splendid illusdear in the eyes of his fellow-citizens. His son soon dis-tration, manifests its peculiar power. In his Archæology,

"To please the fancy, is no trifling good
Where health is studied; for, whatever moves
The mind with calm delight, promotes the just
And natural movements of the harmonious frame."
Morayshire, March, 1830.

JOSEPHUS AND HIS STYLE OF WRITING.
By William Tennant.

I heard the thunder growling in the skirts of night, and rolling its burden round on the dark heavy rooms of the west. Gross white mists were detached from the lowhung clouds, and crept lazily up the channels of the streams. Then came the sound of rain from over the southern fell, rushing and sonorous. It was altogether such a night as makes the traveller spur on to reach his inn, while he fancies, in the low-hung shadows, relieved by the incessant twinkling in the air, those shapes that blast the unwholesome night by blue forest or cave, or wide moorish fen, and his heart quails beneath the brood

conciled, the helplessness of night, and the angry spirit of the storm.

his account of the divisions that rent, tormented, and dispeopled the palaces of Herod; of the death of King Agrippa; in his Jewish war, his description, most masterly in its kind, of the siege of Jotapata; of the attack in the streets of Gamala; of the entrance of the Idumeans by night, during a storm, into Jerusalem; of the naval battle on the sea of Genesareth; of the captures of the fort of Masada; of the bloody conflicts in and round about Jerusalem; of the triumphal entry into Rome of Vespasian-are not surpassed either by Livy or any other Greek or Latin historian. He is undoubtedly the most sublime of all historians; his genius being decidedly Jew-ing sense of mysterious danger, of things dim and unreish, and partaking largely of that fervency and soaring superiority which characterise the writings of his extraordinary countrymen. Perhaps he is too sublime for history: his narrative flows along in epic pomp and dignity, broken sometimes into bursts of tragic vehemence it is like the long and richly-flowing river of gold and silver, to which he himself likens the triumphal entry of Vespasian. As his narrative part is thus splendid, the argumentative portion, consisting of his orations, is, in a corresponding degree, eloquent; more discursory, perhaps, but not displaying less ratiocinative invention than the speeches of Livy. Indeed, of the Greek or Roman historians, Livy is the only one that may pretend to rival him in vivacity or splendour; and, if the Roman histo rian at all exceeds him, it is in the compression, the condensed force and invigorated majesty, of the language, rather than in the brightness and magnificent flow of the images. Of modern historians, or of modern writers, there is only one great living name that can aspire to an equality with him, or with the historian of Rome, in vivid expansion of imagery, all-illuminating splendour, and graphic energy of language.

As connected with the Old and New Testaments, and as throwing light on the incidents, characters, manners, and localities noted in Scripture record, the works of Josephus cannot be too much valued by a Bible student. They are by far the best commentary and expositor one can use in reading the Old and New Testaments. Devongrove, Clackmannanshire,

26th February, 1830.

THE APOLOGY.

IN THREE PARTS.

Admonished by the above signs of the coming storm, I made for the door of my little hostelrie, and was on the point of entering, when the nearing voice of some one crying bitterly made me pause and turn. The person in distress I soon saw to be a little bareheaded and barefooted boy, who came running along the twilight road, and who, as I questioned him of the cause of his crying, gave me to understand that he had seen the fire in the west, and was horribly frightened, as he had yet two miles to run to get to his home. He had been sent, he farther told me, to a town some miles off, to fetch a surgeon for a gentleman who had fallen from his horse, but had been unsuccessful in his quest, as the only practitioner of the place was not at home, nor would be at home that night. On hearing this, I instantly determined, as I had instruments in my pocket, to follow the boy, and see the bruised gentleman, to whom I might be of some service. To satisfy my hostess, lest I should not return to her house that night, was the work of the same minute; and instantly I was off with the boy, who, though the steepdown rain now began to smooth his dun and weatherbleached hair, and almost in the same moment to drop from his long forelock, whilst the fire-haunted shadows darkled against his face, yet seemed so glad at my accompanying him, as to have forgot all his fears. Despite the horrors of the storm, we soon reached a small range of thatched cottages, near which, the boy told me, the accident had happened; and a horse tied at the door of one of them, led us at once to the proper place. On entering, I saw my patient, a gentleman apparently about thirty years of age, leaning back pale and exhausted upon a bed, and ministered to by a woman far advanced in life, whose

By Thomas Aird, Author of " Religious Characteristics," appearance, notwithstanding the visible poverty of her

&c.

Speak of me as I am: nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice.-Othello.

PART I.

ONE afternoon in May last, being on a pedestrian excursion through the south of Scotland, I was overtaken by a violent thunderstorm, which drove me for shelter to a small village inn. It was evening ere the tempest ceased, and judging it inexpedient to pursue my walk farther that night, I set myself to look for some amusement to help me to beguile a tedious hour or two. After watching from my window awhile the village children, some of whom busied themselves in damming up the little water-courses by the wayside, while others churned with their bare feet the puddles on the road, I sauntered forth, and found my way into a small garden behind the house. The warm reeking rains had freshened and broadened every leaf; plant and tree stood surcharged with moisture, and seemed perceptibly to vegetate into more luxuriant growth; the lizard rustled through the green fresh grass, and the loathsome toad trailed his lazily stretching limbs from the fat loamy bed of rank weeds. By degrees, however, I became unobservant of outward things, and fell into a reverie of "sweet and bitter fancies," which kept me pacing, I know not precisely how long, the oozing walks of that remote garden. I was startled and aroused by a gleam of lightning, and, after listening a few seconds,

present habitation, seemed to speak of better days that she had seen. I introduced myself as a graduate in medicine, who, having heard of the accident, and their messenger's want of success in procuring the aid of a surgeon, had volunteered his services if necessary. The gentleman, on hearing this, sat up and tendered me his arm, which I instantly bled. I then bound up his head, which I found bruised on one side almost to a fracture, and cut by the stones of the road, upon which he had fallen. The storm had now subsided, and my patient, contrary to my advice and the earnest entreaties of his hostess, expressed his determination to ride home without delay, as his house was distant only three miles. After giving the little messenger, who lived in the next cottage, his due guerdon, he turned to the kind old woman, who fluttered over his departure with an earnest blessing, and an entreaty to know of his welfare on the morrow, and said to her " I will not offend you by speaking of remuneration, but God bless you for your kindness; I will see you often. Yet, meanwhile, may I request to know to whose motherly care I have been so much indebted at this time?"

"I was proud of the name of Bonnington," was the old woman's answer, "when I was a wife, and the mother of my own Harry and Emily; but they are all gone from me long ago."

At this her wounded guest started as if he had been struck to the heart with a barbed arrow, and, trembling like a leaf on a high tree, he turned half round imploringly

to me; then, fixing his gaze on the old woman before him, he gasped forth, "Good God! what has brought me into this house! Do you know who I am, my kind hostess?" "I think not, sir. But I am afraid you are yet very unwell."

"No wonder-no wonder, if you be indeed his mother that boy Harry Bonnington's. Dare you guess who is in your house this moment?"

"Mysterious Providence!" said the woman, returning his gaze with equal intensity; "who is this one before me?"

"My name was Hastings once; do you know me now?" cried my patient, sinking back on a chair, and covering his face with his left hand, whilst he extended the other. "There is the bloody right hand,” he added, “which made you childless."

There was here a deep pause. The unhappy man sat with both his hands upon his face. Before him stood the bereaved mother, perplexed in the extreme, yet evidently struggling to overcome her strong emotions.

"If God has brought about this meeting, unhappy man, to me," she at length said, "let us each be wiser and better by it. This cannot be without perfect repentance and forgiveness; and we must mind our respective parts. What would you have me say to you else?"

"In truth, I do not know," was his answer. "I could tell you, indeed, why my face has long been pale; but it more becomes me to go out of your presence without any parade of repentance. It was an awful deed, thou poor mother! But yet the blow that has ruined us all was not meant for him."

"So she told me, my child Emily, when she pled for you before this heart, and gave a mitigated name to your offence. We are two in a strange relation to each other; but if both may find the same mild Judge in Heaven at last, why should we farther distress each other on earth? Yours is the guilt of dreadful rashness, and mine is the sore bereavement."

“Will you give me a pledge of your forgiveness?" asked he eagerly.

"Name it," said the woman, evidently surprised. "I have no mother," proceeded the unhappy gentleman; "and never knew a true mother's care; I have no relatives; I am a desolate man; and would have you become a mother even to me. And if I might be something like a son to you, it would give me a taste of happiness; and I owe the duty to you a thousand times. I have wealth enough, and I think I could fulfil some offices of kind at- | tention. Now, if you judge me aright, if you care not over much for the opinion of the world, if your heart can bear the sad memorial which my presence must ever be, will you become a mother to me? Will you give me a chance for a little joy, by allowing me to redress somewhat the wrongs I have done you, in cutting off the natural stay of your age?"

"You are strangely generous," said the old woman, after a pause; "yet I believe not the less truly so. Your proposal, however, is so striking, that I confess myself afraid to take it."

"I dare not urge you farther at this time," said the gentleman; "but will you permit me to see you again ere long, and renew my request ?"

"God's best peace be with you, sir!" said the old woman, in a kind voice, yet not answering his question directly. "Amen," said the gentleman, and added nothing farther, beyond taking a simple leave of his hostess, who followed us to the door, and assisted me in helping him to his horse.

"And now," said he, turning to me with a kind smile, what must be done with you? whither shall we dismiss you?"

"I believe I must see you safely home," was my reply; or, in other words, I must tax your hospitality for a night. My name is Calvert, and, if you please, Doctor is a good travelling addition."

"My name is Bremner," said my companion, “and we are brothers, it seems, in the profession. But I trust you will never need my services as you have kindly given me yours to-night. As for your proposal to accompany me home, it is exactly what I wished, and I trust we shall not part so soon."

I made it my farther duty, as we proceeded, to keep my hand upon his horse's bridle, lest any of the occasional flashes which were yet visible far off might provoke the spirited animal to any sudden plunge, which his rider, in his present exhausted state, was less able to guard against ; and in this way we went on till we reached Mountcoin, the place of Bremner's residence.

On the morrow, instead of taking leave of my new friend, I agreed to stay with him a month; before the expiry of which term, I had the pleasure of seeing Mrs Bonnington's first scruples yield to his generous solicitations, and her rest set up for life at his house. It was a lofty and heart-touching sight to see him act towards her in all respects like a good son; and his attentions were specially valuable, as her health was very feeble.

On the evening previous to the proposed day of my departure from Mountcoin, Dr Bremner voluntarily opened up to me the following particulars of his life.

(Part II. in our next.)

STEPHEN KEMBLE AND THE SON OF NEPTUNE. AN ANECDOTE.

KEMBLE was perhaps the best Sir John Falstaff which the British stage ever saw. His fine countenance and his commanding figure fitted him admirably for the part, for Sir John was a "proper man ;" while the natural protuberance in front made him the very beau ideal of the inveterate sack-drinker. The following anecdote was told me by a person who frequently heard Kemble tell it himself.

Kemble was performing with a company in a seaport town somewhere on the coast of England, when a ship, which had been long at sea, came into port, and sent her crew on shore, with plenty of money, and full of fun and frolic, to enjoy themselves, after their long cruise, according to their various tastes and pursuits. "One of this kidney" found his way to the box office of the Theatre, which at this time was open only three nights a-week, and, enquiring for the Manager, told him, with all the characteristic bluntness of a British sailor, that he " want. ed a play!"—" Very well," replied the Manager, "come to-morrow evening, my good fellow, and you shall have two plays." This, however, did not at all accord with Jack's fancy. He was not disposed to wait till to-morrow evening; he wanted his play performed that night. After a good deal of wrangling, and seeing that the sailor was bent on having his own way, the Manager touched upon the expenses, telling him that it would require a considerable sum of money. "Money!" said Jack, with a look of the most infinite contempt, "Damme, how much will it take?"" About thirty pounds," answered Stephen. Jack said not a word, but, drawing his purse from his bosom, counted down thirty guineas in the calmest manner possible. The bargain was now of course fairly concluded, but a question remained to be asked. "What play should you like performed, sir?" said the obsequious Manager, as he pocketed the gold pieces with evident satisfaction. "Play!" said Jack, chuckling at the idea of being “sir'd."

*

"Let me see. Ay, ay, give us Falstaff,

Sir John Falstaff-You have a fellow here who does that devilish well. Ay, ay, sir," said the tar, with increasing good humour, as he ran over his theatrical reminis

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cences,

"let me have the old boy with the round forecastle, built like a Dutch lugger, and lurching like a Spanish galleon in a heavy sea. Damme! give me Sir John Falstaff! What a prime commodore the old fellow would have made had his worship lived in them times. Shiver my timbers! but I could have sailed the whole 'varsal world with him, and stood by him in wreck or fight, damme, to the last plank!" Having pronounced this eulogium on the character of stout Sir John, the affair was closed, and all the arrangements made to Jack's complete satisfaction. One clause in particular was most pointedly urged, that not a single soul was to be in the house but himself! "Remember," said Jack, "not a lubber of them must be seen, either in the hold, the shrouds, or the tops, or, by the Diomede! I'll have him keelhauled by the fiddlers!" So saying, the tar departed, mightily pleased with his bargain, with himself, and with the whole world. Night came; a few of the orchestra people took their accustomed places; the house was well lighted, and every thing in readiness, when, just at the hour, Jack burst into the lower gallery, and, running across the seats, much in the way in which he would have run along the jolly boat, he placed himself, with hat on one side, and arms akimbo, in the centre of the front bench. By way of overture, he called for "Jack's Delight" and the "Sailor's Hornpipe;" and these being played to his liking, he bawled out, "Now, my lads, clew up your mainsail, and pipe all hands aboard!" The curtain immediately drew up, and the play of" Henry Fourth, Part First," commenced. Jack sat out the first scene with a good deal of patience; but when his favourite made his appearance in the second scene, along with the Prince,

"Three cheers our gallant seaman gave!"

Nature have begun "their work of gladness to contrive,"
who would sit still within doors, nor hasten, at the earliest
call, to participate in the general joy? Not I-
"For I have loved the rural walk, through lanes
Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep,
And skirted thick with intertexture firm
Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk
O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink,
E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds."

Dear as are the inland scenes of merry England, which none knew better to paint than her beloved Cowper,with all her happy homes "bosomed high in tufted trees," her rich, level meadows, enclosed by well-kept hedges, and bounded by brooks, cottages, and alder-trees-what are they in the power to soothe, to elevate, and purify the soul, compared with the silent majesty and sterner beauty of Loch Ness, now spread before me, with her vast expanse of deep and waveless water, her towering and variegated rocks, her numerous glens, opening up like narrow gullies or ravines, yet filled with smoking huts, falling streams, and waving trees—a wild, and beautiful, and populous solitude!

The scenery of the Highlands is usually described after the style and fashion of British painters, by pourtraying the most striking and prominent objects, without regard to those minor graces and embellishments which soften and adorn, if they do not individualize, the scene. By a few powerful and masterly touches, the leading traits are "bodied forth," a general resemblance is attained, and neither artist nor author seeks for more. One splendid exception, indeed, is to be found in our literature-the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, which has familiarized thousands with every bush, and brake, and dell within the range of the Trosachs. But there the spell rests-it extends not farther north. Hence, though strangers, visiting our scenery, are prepared to gaze upon mountains, capt by mist or snow, and to luxuriate by the side of lakes and waterfalls, few anticipate wandering through wildernesses of native birch and oak, or of witnessing the myriads of Alpine plants and shrubs which here climb the loftiest steeps, and lend an indescribable sweetness and beauty to the landscape. Standing by these lonely rocks at sunrise, or in a calm summer evening, and contrasting their bare and rugged peaks with the profusion of green, glossy plants, flowering shrubs, and tangled brushwood, which clothe their sides and cluster round their bases, a fresh wild fragrance is breathed from cliff and dell, a thousand times more delicious than the richest perfumes. This exuberance, though most predominant in the inland glens and passes, is seldom far distant. Even in the most dreary and desolate tracts, Nature, as it were, redeems herself, and nooks and slips,

in a tone which would have drowned a dozen Brahams. Sir John bowed low to this token of marked approbation, and the play proceeded, while Jack sat with his whole soul in his eyes, enjoying the rare humour of the "unimi. tated and inimitable Falstaff." He continued in evident delight as long as Sir John remained on the stage, but whenever he made his exit, the play was performed in dumb show, and amid a torrent of reproaches from "the audience," who kept bawling at the top of his voice to his Grace of Northumberland and other distinguished characters." Avast there! sheer off, ye lubbers! Belay your jawing tackle, you there with the carving knife! Sheer off! sheer off! Bring Falstaff in, and be damned to you!" Thus did Jack alternately applaud and condemn during the whole performance. When it was finished, and the green "mainsail" had been once more dropped "on deck," he rose and was preparing to depart, when one of the players met him at the door of the gallery, and informed him that all was not over, for that the "After-watered by some solitary rill or spring, blossom forth, like piece" was yet to be performed. "Is Falstaff to be in it ?"" No, sir."-"Oh! then, damn the afterpiece! Good night, good night!" And so saying, he walked out, perfectly satisfied with his thirty guineas' worth.

Stephen Kemble used to relate this anecdote with infinite glee and humour; and it certainly affords an amusing trait illustrative of the character of a class of men whose equals in bravery and absurdity cannot be found on the face of the globe.

HIGHLAND SCENERY AND PEASANTRY.

By the Editor of the Inverness Courier. WHO has not felt his heart expand and his fancy kindle at the first warm suns and cloudless skies which tell us of the coming spring? Rough and variable as the season has hitherto been, we have now a glimpse of "better days." The snow has disappeared from all but the loftiest mountains and deepest dells-the sun is not only visible, but is felt. A new spirit has gone forth, as certain of our reformers say; and when all the powers of

the "happy island" amidst the Sands of Lybia, to humanize the desert. In the midst of the gorgeous fertility of the south, these oases of the wild would bloom undistinguished, but here their soothing and vivifying power is deeply felt. They are (speaking fancifully) like the dews and flowers of Milton's genius sprinkling the hoar austerity of his creed; or like that exquisite touch of tenderness and beauty with which Shakspeare relieves the dense horrors brooding over Macbeth's castle

"This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breast
Smells wooingly here."

One only drawback is felt in traversing these moun tain scenes. Go where we will, we meet with the low black huts of the peasants,-" murky dens," as Johnson calls them,--which never fail to convey a dull and painful feeling to the mind. How different from the snug, cleanly, white-washed cottages of England! Nor is this impression illusory. The condition even of the crofter, or small farmer, is inferior to that of the English peasant,

and, what is worse, not one of the artists, as far as I can learn, has yet availed himself of it.

The old house of Gosford, where the noble proprietor resides, is a large irregular building, with all that air of neatness conveyed by white-washing, surrounded by various small enclosures formed by tall clipped hedges, that give an appearance of snugness to the whole. Immediately in front, on the opposite side of a lawn, of no great extent, stands the main body of the new house—a building of more architectural pretensions than beauty. It was built by the late Earl, but never completed; and, as there is some defect about the materials, probably never will. The length of the house is too great in proportion to its depth; the eastern façade is plain and heavy; the western more ornamented, and, but for the excessive slenderness of the pilasters and antae, well designed. The old house, plain as can well be conceived, but massive and solid, on the one hand, and this unsuccessful attempt at something fine on the other, are no unapt representations of our British noblemen in the earlier and later periods of last century. The former proud and dignified, yet withal affecting a sturdy deportment, that distinguished the wealthy independent baron from the empty-pocketed, title-gilded creature, whose only element is a court. The latter more highly educated, and attempting to superinduce upon himself that Continental polish, of which God and Nature never meant an Englishman to be susceptible. The two houses stand there as monuments of a change in the tone and manners of society.

and he is destitute of the consolation, poor as it is, which the latter possesses, that his old age will be sheltered, or his offspring reared, by the humane institutions of his country. In winter, too, his exertions are paralyzed by the rigours of the climate, and during this stern blockade, confined day after day in a dark smoky hut, destitute of the means of employment, and often of the necessaries of life, his situation must be deplorable in the extreme. Very frequently, in such cases, if money can be begged or borrowed, or raised by joint contribution, smuggling is resorted to; and though much has been done to suppress this illegal traffic, it still holds undisputed sway in the wilder straths and glens. The nature of the country offers such facilities for carrying it on, and all classes of the people, high and low, are so partial to the beverage, that one need not wonder at its continuance. In many places, the exciseman dare not venture his neck among the cliffs and dens where Donald is at work; frequently, too, like the mole, he labours under ground, and in winter the heights and fords are impassable. The only chance of seizure which the revenue officer has, is to intercept the men and women as they sally forth from the "bothy," to vend the spirits, a mean catchpoll employment, yet one which the noblemen and gentlemen of Scotland, of a former day, thought not unsuited to the genius of Burns. With all his left and right-handed policy, Donald grows not rich-" with all his thrift he thrives not.” The elder cottars, and those burdened with large families, may be said to vegetate rather than live, and hundreds are at this moment, I am persuaded, suffering hardships and The new house is, of course, not inhabited; and the privations, at which, in the sister country, Captain Rock three large public rooms, which constitute almost the and his followers would rise en masse. Still they are whole body of the house, are occupied by the late Earl's large strongly attached to their native hills: let them but re-collection of paintings. These rooms-three in numbermain in their huts, and they ask no more. The feudal chain is broken, but the force of habit and early associations bind the Highlander as firmly to his native strath as if it were impossible for him to gain a subsistence elsewhere. Perhaps this is but another proof of the abjectness of his condition; so low has he sunk, that even the desire to rise, to enjoy, or to excel, is dead or stagnant. It is only, however, in large crowded cities, that the poor are truly miserable. When men are congregated together in large masses, and every avenue to labour seems closed, then the wretched being whom want is staring in the face, feels the utter helplessness of his situation, and becomes the prey of despair. Then it is that the iron enters his soul, and deeds are sometimes done at which humanity shudders. But the Highlander is never so wholly destitute. On the hill-side, bleak though it be, he sees around him the means of future subsistence the elements of humble comfort. Spring will again unlock the stores of the earth, and winter withdraw the last of his lingering forces. Then, when our burns and streams, instead of being choked with snow-wreaths, and silenced by frost, are again murmuring by bank and brae-when the larch and birch trees are full of leaf, and every The first painting that arrests the eye, which, on first "broomy knowe," moistened with genial showers, is re-entering a room where there are a number of works of dolent of spring, the poor Highlander forgets his load of suffering, and, hoping all will yet be well, exults in the change which scatters joy among the rational and irrational creation.

Inverness, April 2d.

GOSFORD-HOUSE AND ITS PAINTINGS.

OUR readers probably are not aware that the Earl of Wemyss, with a spirit and liberality worthy of his rank, has intimated to the artists of Edinburgh, through Allan, that they are welcome to visit, and even to take copies from, his pictures. Had he refused such a permission on application being made for it, or had he even waited to be requested, we should have heard enough of innuendoes about wealthy men who shut up from the man of taste treasures they themselves cannot appreciate. As it is, scarcely any one knows of the generous offer;

are very large and beautifully proportioned. Left, as they now are, it is difficult to say how they might look with the necessary additions of carpets, ottomans, chandeliers, and all the other requisites of magnificent apartments. At present their bare floors and white ceilings have rather a desolate appearance; and the gilding along the springs of the arches contrasts tawdrily with the whole. The pictures likewise suffer from each room having a large side window instead of a top light.

It would be absurd, or worse, to pretend, on the strength of one visit, to appreciate such a numerous collection of paintings. Some pictures there are which arrest us at once, and impress us more deeply the longer we examine them. Some there are which blind even the most practised connoisseur at first to their inherent emptiness; and others, at first rather repulsive, win upon us insensibly, like a homely but amiable woman. Besides, some thirty of the best pictures have spent a winter in town, and have not been unpacked since their return. If, however, the reader do not think an old man's prattle tedious, he may follow me through the different apartments. I begin with the dining-room :

art, wanders in uncertainty from one to another, is a cru. cifixion by Imperiali. On closer inspection, we find it a respectable, but by no means a masterly painting. It is only when we return to the door, that we discover it is the prominent manner in which the crucifix stands out from the dense body of darkness, that struck us. It is a kind of panoramic painting. The next is a painting by Gentileschi, over the fire-place-Bathsheba in the bath. It is in the bold, unsubdued style of the Italian masters, where no one colour fades into another. The drawing is less powerful. There is a finicalness in most of the attitudes. Even Bathsheba, although the trunk is finely drawn, and truly coloured, is not quite exempt from this. The easiest figure is the negro standing behind her. There is in this room a picture of the triumph of Constantine, attributed to Julio Romano; but, to judge by the style and execution, it must be the work of some earlier artist. There is also a "stag-hunt," by Snyders, re

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