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on which for an hour we shall all become poets | familiar yet inscrutable mystery, to our senses and poetesses. Who said that Windermere and our souls express sanctity and purity of was too narrow? The same critic who thinks the immortal essence enshrined within, by aid the full harvest moon too round-and despises of all associated perceptions and emotions the twinkling of the evening star. It is all the that the heart and the imagination can aggloway down-from head to foot-from the Bra-merate round them, as instantly and as unhesithay to the Leven-of the proper breadth pre-tatingly as the faculties of thought and feeling cisely to a quarter of an inch. Were the can agglomerate round a lily or a rose, for reeds in Poolwyke Bay-on which the birds example, the perceptions and emotions that love to balance themselves-at low or high make them-by divine right of inalienable water, to be visible longer or shorter than beauty-the Royal Families of Flowers. This what they have always been in the habit of definition-or description rather-of human being on such occasions since first we brushed female beauty, may appear to some, as indeed them with an oar, when landing in our skiff it appears to us-something vague; but all from the Endeavour, the beauty of the whole profound truths-out of the exact sciencesof Windermere would be impaired-so exqui- are something vague; and it is manifestly the sitely adapted is that pellucid gleam to the design of a benign and gracious Providence, lips of its silvan shores. True, there are flaws that they should be so till the end of time-till in the diamond-but only when the squalls mortality puts on immortality-and earth is come; and as the blackness sweeps by, that heaven. Vagueness, therefore, is no fault in diamond of the first water is again sky-bright philosophy-any more than in the dawn of and sky-blue as an angel's eyes. Lowood Bay morning, or the gloaming of eve. Enough, if -we are now embarked in Mr. Jackson's pret- each clause of the sentence thaɩ seeks to elucitiest pinnace-when the sun is westering-date a confessed mystery, has a meaning harwhich it now is-surpasses all other bays in fresh-water mediterraneans. Eve loves to see her pensive face reflected in that serenest mirror. To flatter such a divinity is impossible-but sure she never wears a smile so divine as when adjusting her dusky tresses in that truest of all glasses, set in the richest of all frames. Pleased she retires-with a wavering motion-and casting "many a longing, many a longing, lingering look behind,” fades indistinctly away among the Brathay woods; while Night, her eldest sister, or rather her younger-we really know not which-takes her place at the darkening mirror, till it glitters with her crescent-ture, though of spiritual mould, comparable moon-coronet, wreathed perhaps with a white cloud, and just over the silver bow the lustre of one large yellow star.

As none of the party complain of hunger, let us crack among us a single bottle of our worthy host's choice old Madeira-and then haste in the barouche (ha! here it is) to Bowness. It is right now to laugh-and sing-and recite poetry-and talk all manner of nonsense. Didn't ye hear something crack? Can it be a spring or merely the axeltree? Our clerical friend from Chester assures us 'twas but a string of his guitar-so no more shrieking-and after coffee we shall have

“Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay your golden cushion down!" And then we two, my dear sir, must have a contest at chess-at which, if you beat us, we shall leave our bed at midnight, and murder you in your sleep. "But where," murmurs Matilda, " are we going?" To Oresthead, love -and Elleray—for you must see a sight these sweet eyes of thine never saw before-a

SUNSET.

We have often wondered if there be in the world one woman indisputably and undeniably the most beautiful of all women-or if, indeed, our first mother were "the loveliest of her daughters, Eve." What human female beauty is, all men feel-but few men know-and none can tell-further than that it is perfect spiritual health, breathingly imbodied in perfect corporeal flesh and blood, according to certain heavenframed adaptions of form and hue, yet by a

monious with all the meanings in all the other
clauses-and that the effect of the whole taken
together is musical-and a tune. Then it is
Truth. For all Falsehood is dissonant-and
verity is concent. It is our faith, that the souls
of some women are angelic-or nearly so-
by nature and the Christian religion; and that
the faces and persons of some women are an-
gelic or nearly so-
gelic or nearly so-whose souls, nevertheless,
are seen to be far otherwise-and, on that disco-
very, beauty fades or dies. But may not soul
and body-spirit and matter-meet in perfect
union at birth; and grow together into a crea-

with Eve before the Fall? Such a creaturesuch creatures-may have been; but the question is-did you ever see one? We almost think that we have-but many long years ago;

"She is dedde,

Gone to her death-bedde

All under the willow tree.'

And it may be that her image in the moonlight of memory and i.nagination, may be more perfectly beautiful than she herself ever was, when

For

Upgrew that living flower beneath our eye." Yes-'tis thus that we form to ourselves-incommunicably within our souls-what we choose to call Ideal Beauty-that is, a life-indeath image or Eidolon of a Being whose voice was once heard, and whose footsteps once wandered among the flowers of this earth. But it is a mistake to believe that such beauty as this can visit the soul only after the original in which it once breathed is no more. as it can only be seen by profoundest passion -and the profoundest are the passions of Love, and Pity, and Grief-then why may not each and all of these passions-when we consider the constitution of this world and this life-be awakened in their utmost height and depth by the sight of living beauty, as well as by the memory of the dead? To do so is surely within "the reachings of our souls,"--and if so, then may the virgin beauty of his daughter, praying with folded hands and heavenward face when leaning in health on her father's

knees, transcend even the ideal beauty which shall afterwards visit his slumbers nightly, long years after he has laid her head in the grave. If by ideal beauty, you mean a beauty beyond whatever breathed, and moved, and had its being on earth-then we suspect that not even "that inner eye which is the bliss of solitude" ever beheld it; but if you merely mean by ideal beauty, that which is composed of ideas, and of the feelings attached by nature to ideas, then, begging your pardon, my good sir, all beauty whatever is ideal-and you had better begin to study metaphysics.

the western sky, keeps fading away as it fades, till at last all the ineffable splendour expires, and the spirit that has been lost to this world in the transcendent vision, or has been seeing all things appertaining to this world in visionary symbols, returns from that celestial sojourn, and knows that its lot is, henceforth as heretofore, to walk weariedly perhaps, and wo-begone, over the no longer divine but disenchanted earth!

star can "burst its cerements," imagination in the dim blank droops her wings-our thoughts become of the earth earthly—and poetry seems a pastime fit but for fools and children. But how different our mood, when

It is very kind in the moon and stars-just like them-to rise so soon after sunset. The heart sinks at the sight of the sky, when a chaBut what we were wishing to say is this- racterless night succeeds such a blaze of light that whatever may be the truth with regard to-like dull reality dashing the last vestiges of human female beauty-Windermere, seen by the brightest of dreams. When the moon is sunset from the spot where we now stand,"hid in her vacant interlunar cave," and not a Elleray, is at this moment the most beautiful scene on this earth. The reasons why it must be so are multitudinous. Not only can the eye take in, but the imagination, in its awakened power, can master all the component elements of the spectacle-and while it adequately discerns and sufficiently feels the influence of each, is alive throughout all its essence to the divine agency of the whole. The charm lies in its entirety-its unity, which is so perfectso seemeth it to our eyes-that 'tis in itself a complete world-of which not a line could be altered without disturbing the spirit of beauty that lies recumbent there, wherever the earth meets the sky. There is nothing here fragmentary; and had a poet been born, and bred here all his days, nor known aught of fair or grand beyond this liquid vale, yet had he sung truly and profoundly of the shows of nature. No rude and shapeless masses of mountains -such as too often in our own dear Scotland encumber the earth with dreary desolationwith gloom without grandeur-and magnitude without magnificence. But almost in orderly array, and irregular just up to the point of the picturesque, where poetry is not needed for the fancy's pleasure, stand the Race of Giantsmist-veiled transparently-or crowned with clouds slowly settling of their own accord into all the forms that Beauty loves, when with her sister-spirit Peace she descends at eve from highest heaven to sleep among the shades of earth.

"Glows the firmament with living sapphires," and Diana, who has ascended high in heaven, without our having once observed the divinity, bends her silver bow among the rejoicing stars, while the lake, like another sky, seems to contain its own luminaries, a different division of the constellated night! 'Tis merry Windermere no more. Yet we must not call her melancholy-though somewhat sad she seems, and pensive, as if the stillness of universal nature did touch her heart. How serene all the lights-how peaceful all the shadows! Steadfast alike—as if they would brood for everyet transient as all loveliness-and at the mercy of every cloud. In some places the lake has disappeared-in others, the moonlight is almost like sunshine-only silver instead of gold. Here spots of quiet light-there lines of trembling lustre-and there a flood of radiance chequered by the images of trees. Lo! the Isle called Beautiful has now gathered upon its central grove all the radiance issuing from that celestial Urn; and almost in another moment it seems blended with the dim mass of mainland, and blackness enshrouds the woods. Still as seems the night to unobservant eyes, it is fluctuating in its expression as the face of a sleeper overspread with pleasant but disturbing dreams. Never for any two successive moments is the aspect of the night the same,— each smile has its own meaning, its own character; and Light is felt to be like Music, to have a melody and a harmony of its own-so mysteriously allied are the powers and provinces of eye and ear, and by such a kindred and congenial agency do they administer to the workings of the spirit.

Sweet would be the hush of lake, woods, and skies, were it not so solemn! The silence is that of a temple, and, as we face the west, irresistibly are we led to adore. The mighty sun occupies with his flaming retinue all the region. Mighty yet mild-for from his disc, awhile insufferably bright, is effused now a gentle crimson light, that dyes all the west in one uniform glory, save where yet round the cloud edges lingers the purple, the green, and Well, that is very extraordinary-Rainthe yellow lustre, unwilling to forsake the rain-rain! All the eyes of heaven were violet beds of the sky, changing, while we bright as bright might be the sky was blue gaze, into heavenly roses; till that prevailing as violets-that braided whiteness, that here crimson colour at last gains entire possession and there floated like a veil on the brow of of the heavens, and all the previous splendour night, was all that recalled the memory of gives way to one whose paramount purity, lus-clouds-and as for the moon, no faintest halo trous as fire, is in its steadfast beauty sublime. yellowed round her orb, that seemed indeed And, lo! the lake has received that sunset into "one perfect chrysolite ;"-yet while all the its bosom. It, too, softly burns with a crimson winds seemed laid asleep till morn, and beauty glow-and, as sinks the sun below the moun- to have chained all the elements into peaceains Windermere, gorgeous in her array as overcast in a moment is the firmament-an

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evanishing has left it blank as mist-there is | shows the long lake-shore all tumbling with a fast, thick, pattering on the woods-yes- foamy breakers. A strong wind is there-but rain-rain-rain-and ere we reach Bowness, here there is not a breath. But the woods the party will be wet through to their skins. across the lake are bowing their heads to the Nay-matters are getting still more serious- blast. Windermere is in a tumult-the storm for there was lightning-yea, lightning! Ten comes flying on wings all abroad-and now we seconds! and hark, very respectable thunder! are in the very heart of the hurricane. See, in With all our wisdom, we have not been wea- Bowness is hurrying many a light-for the ther-wise-or we should have known, when people fear we may be on the lake; and faithwe saw it, an electrical sunset. Only look ful Billy, depend on't, is launching his life-boat now towards the West. There floats Noah's to go to our assistance. Well, this is an adArk-a magnificent spectacle; and now for venture.- -But soft-what ails our Argand the Flood. That far-off sullen sound proclaims Lamp! Our Study is in such darkness that cataracts. And what may mean that sighing we cannot see our paper-in the midst of a and moaning and muttering up among the thunder-storm we conclude, and to bed by a cliffs? See-see how the sheet lightning flaff of lightning. |

PROLOGUE.

THE MOORS.

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tesque and fantastic ash, with a crooked back, and arms disproportionately long, like a giant in extreme old age dwindling into a dwarf, to jut out from the hole in the wall, and should your leaden eye chance at the time to love the ground, to put his mossy fist right in your philosophical countenance! In short, it is very possible to know a country so thoroughly well, outside and in, from mountain to molehill, that you get mutually tired of one another's company, and are ready to vent your quarrel in reciprocal imprecations.

So was it once with us and the Highlands. That "too much familiarity breeds contempt" we learned many a long year ago, when learning to write large text; and passages in our life have been a running commentary on the theme then set us by that incomparable caligraphist, Butterworth. All "the old familiar faces" occasionally come in for a portion of that feeling; and on that account, we are glad that we saw, but for one day and one night, Charles Lamb's. Therefore, some dozen years ago we gave up the Highlands, not wishing to quarrel with them, and confined our tender assiduities to the Lowlands, while, like two great Flats as we were, we kept staring away at each other, with our lives on the same level. All the consequences that might naturally have been expected have ensued; and we are now as heartily sick of the Lowlands, and they of us. What can we do but return to our First Love?

ONCE we knew the Highlands absolutely too well-not a nook that was not as familiar to us as our brown study. We had not to complain of the lochs, glens, woods, and mountains alone, for having so fastened themselves upon us on a great scale that we found it impossible to shake them off; but the hardship in our case was, that all the subordinate parts of the scenery, many of them dull and dreary enough, and some of them intolerably tedious, had taken it upon themselves so to thrust their intimacy upon us, in all winds and weathers, that without giving them the cut direct there was no way of escaping from the burden of their friendship. To courteous and humane Christians, such as we have always been both by name and nature as far back as we can recollect, it is painful to cut even an impudent stone, or an upsetting tree that may cross our path uncalled for, or obtrude itself on our privacy when we wish to be alone in our meditations. Yet, we confess, they used sometimes sorely to try our temper. It is all very well for you, our good sir, to say in excuse for them that such objects are inanimate. So much the worse. Were they animate, like yourself, they might be reasoned with on the impropriety of interrupting the stream of any man's soliloquies. But being not merely inanimate but irrational, objects of that class know not to keep their own place, which indeed, it may be said in reply, is kept for them Allow us to offer another view of the subby nature. But that Mistress of the Ceremo- ject. There is not about Old Age one blessing nies, though enjoying a fine green old age, more deserving gratitude to Heaven, than the cannot be expected to be equally attentive to gradual bedimming of memory brought on y the proceedings of all the objects under her years. In youth, all things, internal and extercontrol. Accordingly, often when she is not nal, are unforgetable, and by the perpetual looking, what more common than for a huge presence of passion oppress the soul. The hulking fellow of a rock, with an absurd tuft eye of a woman haunts the victim on whom of trees on his head, who has observed you it may have given a glance, till he leaps per lying half-asleep on the greensward, to hang eavesdropping, as it were, over your most secret thoughts, which he whispers to the winds, and they to all the clouds! Or for some gro

haps out of a four-story window. A beautiful lake, or a sublime mountain, drives a young poet as mad as a March hare. He loses him self in an interminable forest louring all roun

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It has long been well known to the whole world that we are a sad egotist-yet our egotism, so far from being a detraction from our attraction, seems to be the very soul of it, making it impossible in nature for any reasonable being to come within its sphere, without being drawn by sweet compulsion to the old wizard's heart. He is so humane! Only look at him for a few minutes, and liking becomes love-love becomes veneration. And all this even before he has opened his lips-by the mere power of his ogles and his temples. In his large mild blue eyes is written not only his nature, but miraculously, in German text, his very name, Christopher North. Mrs. Gentle was the first to discover it; though we remember having been asked more than once in our youth, by an alarmed virgin on whom we happened at the time to be looking tender, "If we were aware that there was something preternatural in our eyes?" Christopher is conspicuous in our right eye-North in our left, and when we wish to be incog., we either draw their fringed curtains, or, nunlike, keep the tell-tale orbs fixed on the ground. Candour whispers us to confess, that some years ago a child was exhibited at six-pence with WILLIAM Wood legible in its optics-having been affiliated, by ocular evidence, on a gentleman of that name, who, with his dying breath, disowned the soft impeachment. But in that case nature had written a vile scrawl-in ours her hand is firm, and goes off with a flourish.

the horizon of a garret six feet square. It happy that our dim memory and our dim imamatters not to him whether his eyes be open gination restore and revive in our mind none or shut. He is at the mercy of all Life and all but the characteristic features of the scenery Nature, and not for one hour can he escape of the Highlands, unmixed with baser matter, from their persecutions. His soul is the slave and all floating magnificently through a spiritof the Seven Senses, and each is a tyrant with ual haze, so that the whole region is now more instruments of torture, to whom and to which than ever idealized; and in spite of all his Phalaris, with his brazen bull, was a pointless present, past, and future prosiness-Christojoke. But in old age "the heart of a man is pher North, soon as in thought his feet touch oppressed with care" no longer; the Seven the heather, becomes a poet. Tyrants have lost their sceptres, and are dethroned; and the grayheaded gentleman feels that his soul has "set up its rest." His eyes are dazzled no more with insufferable light no more his ears tingle with music too exquisite to be borne-no more his touch is transport. The scents of nature, stealing from the balmy mouths of lilies and roses, are deadened in his nostrils. He is above and beyond the reach of all the long arms of many-handed | misery, as he is out of the convulsive clutch of bliss. And is not this the state of best happiness for mortal man? Tranquillity! The peaceful air that we breathe as we are westering towards the sunset-regions of our Being, and feel that we are about to drop down for ever out of sight behind the Sacred Mountains. All this may be very fine, but cannot be said to help us far on with our Prologue. Let us try it again. Old men, we remarked, ought to be thankful to Heaven for their dim memories. Never do we feel that more profoundly than when dreaming about the Highlands. All is confusion. Nothing distinctly do we remember —not even the names of lochs and mountains. Where is Ben Cru-Cru-Cru-what's-hisname? Ay-ay-Cruachan. At this blessed moment we see his cloud-capped head-but we have clean forgotten the silver sound of the name of the country he encumbers. Rossshire? Nay, that won't do-he never was at Tair. We are assured by Dr. Reid's, Dr. Beattie's, and Dugald Stewart's great Instinctive First Principle Belief, that oftener than once, or ten times either, have we been in a day-long hollow among precipices dear to eagles, called Glen-Etive. But where begins or where ends that "severe sojourn," is now to us a mystery -though we hear the sound of the sea and the dashing of cataracts. Yet though all is thus dim in our memory, would you believe it that nothing is utterly lost? No, not even the thoughts that soared like eagles vanishing in the light-or that dived like ravens into the gloom. They all re-appear-those from the Empyrean-these from Hades-reminding us of the good or the evil borne in other days, within the spiritual regions of our boundless being. The world of eye and ear is not in reality narrowed because it glimmers; ever and anon as years advance, a light direct from heaven dissipates the gloom, and bright and glorious as of yore the landscape laughs to the sea, the sea to heaven, and heaven back again to the gazing spirit that leaps forward to the hailing light with something of the same divine passion that gave wings to our youth. All this may be still finer, yet cannot be said, any more than the preceding paragraph, much to help us on with our Prologue. To come then, if possible, to the point at once-We are

Have you ever entered, all alone, the shadows of some dilapidated old burial-place, and in a nook made beautiful by wild-briers and a flowering thorn, beheld the stone image of some long-forgotten worthy lying on his grave? Some knight who perhaps had fought in Palestine-or some holy man, who in the Abbeynow almost gone-had led a long still life of prayer? The moment you knew that you were standing among the dwellings of the dead, how impressive became the ruins! Did not that stone image wax more and more lifelike in its repose? And as you kept your eyes fixed on the features Time had not had the heart to obliterate, seemed not your soul to hear the echoes of the Miserere sung by the brethren?

So looks Christopher-on his couch-in his ALCOVE. He is taking his siesta—and the faint shadows you see coming and going across his face are dreams. "Tis a pensive dormitory, and hangs undisturbed in its spiritual region as a cloud on the sky of the Longest Day when it falls on the Sabbath.

What think you of OUR FATHER, alongside of the Pedlar in the Excursion? Wordsworth says

"Amid the gloom, Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elm

Appear'd a roofless hut; four naked walls
That stared upon each other! Ilook'd round,
And to my wish and to my hope espied
Hin whom I sought; a man of reverend age,
But stout and hale, for travel unimpair'd.
There was he seen upon the cottage bench,
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep;
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side.'
Alas!" stout and hale" are words that could
not be applied, without cruel mocking, to our
figure. "Recumbent in the shade" unques-
tionably he is-yet "recumbent" is a clumsy
word for such quietude; and, recurring to our
former image, we prefer to say, in the words
of Wilson---

"Still is he as a frame of stone
That in its stillness lies alone,
With silence breathing from its face,

For ever in some holy place,
Chapel or aisle-on marble laid,

With pale hands on his pale breast spread,
An image humble, meek, and low,
Of one forgotten long ago!"

No "iron-pointed staff lies at his side"-but "Satan's dread,” THE CRUTCH! Wordsworth tells us over again that the Pedlar

"With no appendage but a staff, The prized memorial of relinquish'd toils, Upon the cottage-bench reposed his limbs, Screen'd from the sun."

On his couch, in his Alcove, Christopher is reposing-not his limbs alone-but his very essence. THE CRUTCH is, indeed, both de jure and de facto the prized memorial of toils-but, thank Heaven, not relinquished toils; and then how characteristic of the dear merciless old man-hardly distinguishable among the fringed draperies of his canopy, the dependent and independent KNOut.

We

Was the Pedlar absolutely asleep? shrewdly suspect not-'twas but a doze. "Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep"-" Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs"-induce us to lean to the opinion that he was but on the border of the Land of Nod. Nay, the poet gets more explicit, and with that minute particularity so charming in poetical description, finally informs us that

"Supine the wanderer lay,

His eyes, as if in drowsiness, half shut,
The shadows of the breezy elms above
Dappling his face."

It would appear, then, on an impartial consideration of all the circumstances of the case, that the "man of reverend age," though "recumbent" and "supine" upon the "cottage bench," "as if asleep," and "his eyes, as if in drowsiness, half shut," was in a mood between sleeping and waking; and this creed is corroborated by the following assertion—

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borately painted by the hand of a great master in the aforesaid Poem.

Him had I mark'd the day before-alone,

And station'd in the public way, with face
Turn'd to the sun then setting, while that staff
Afforded to the figure of the man,

Detained for contemplation or repose,
Graceful support," &c.

As if it were yesterday, we remember our first interview with the Bard. It was at the Lady's Oak, between Ambleside and Rydal. We were then in the very flower of our agejust sixty; so we need not say the century had then seen but little of this world. The Bard was a mere boy of some six lustres, and had a lyrical ballad look that established his identity at first sight, all unlike the lack-a-daisical. His right hand was within his vest on the region of the heart, and he ceased his crooning as we stood face to face. What a noble countenance! at once austere and gracious-haughty and benign-of a man conscious of his greatness while yet companioning with the humble—ar unrecognised power dwelling in the woods. Our figure at that moment so impressed itself on his imagination, that it in time supplanted the image of the real Pedlar, and grew into the Emeritus of the Three Days. We were standing coping of the wall our Kit, since adopted by in that very attitude-having deposited on the the British Army, with us at once a library and

a larder.

And again—and even more characteristically

"Plain was his garb :

Such as might suit a rustic sire, prepared
For Sabbath duties; yet he was a man
Whom no one could have pass'd without remark.
Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs
And his whole figure breathed intelligence.
Time had compress'd the freshness of his cheeks
Into a narrower circle of deep red,

But had not tamed his eye, that under brows,
Shaggy and grey, had meanings, which it brought
From years of youth; whilst, like a being made
Of many beings, he had wondrous skill

To blend with knowledge of the years to come,
Human, or such as lie beyond the grave."

In our intellectual characters we indulge the pleasing hope that there are some striking points of resemblance, on which, however, our modesty will not permit us to dwell-and in our acquirements, more particularly in Plane and Spherical Trigonometry.

"While yet he linger'd in the rudiments

Of science, and among her simplest laws,
His triangles-they were the stars of heaven.
The silent stars! oft did he take delight
To measure the altitude of some tall crag,
That is the eagle's birthplace," &c.

So it was with us. Give us but a base and a
quadrant-and when a student in Jemmy Mil-
lar's class, we could have given you the alti-
tude of any steeple in Glasgow or the Gorbals.

"He had not heard the sound Of my approaching steps, and in the shade Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. At length I hail'd him, seeing that his hat Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim Had newly scoop'd a running stream.' He rose; and so do We, for probably by this time you may have discovered that we have been describing Ourselves in our siesta or midday snooze-as we have been beholding in our mind's eye our venerated and mysterious" Auld Langsyne"-just as the Pedlar Double.

We cannot help flattering ourselves—if indeed it be flattery-that though no relative of his, we have a look of the Pedlar-as he is ela

Occasionally, too, in a small party of friends, though not proud of the accomplishment, we have been prevailed on, as you may have heard, to delight humanity with a song-"The Flowers of the Forest," "Roy's Wife," "Flee up, flee up, thou bonnie bonnie Cock," or

"At request would sing
Old songs, the product of his native hills
A skilful distribution of sweet sounds,
Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed
As cool refreshing water, by the care

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