soms its inmost feelings, with the boundless confidence arising from an innocence and affection that are almost infantine. If all letters were written as directly from the heart as his, letter-writing would indeed afford a most faithful picture of the character. But what mind, or what heart, could bear the full and unreserved disclosure which he makes of his own feelings, without any diminution, but, on the contrary, with the constant increase of our love and admiration ? His letters afford a proof, that those letters give the most faithful picture of the character, which are addressed without effort, and without any desire of effect, to a few intimate friends. Sevigne's letters afford an equally striking example of the same kind. For who can read them without feeling assured that the ruling passion of her life was that intense maternal love which appears to have been equally her delight and her torture, and to have formed, indeed, the very soul of her existence? These instances, however, form very rare exceptions to the general character of familiar letters, which may, in a few cases, afford displays of wit and talent, which are the more striking when they are thus expended on trivial subjects, but which very seldom indeed afford any tolerable picture of the writer's genuine feelings. What degree of light biography, especially when the subject of it is also the author, throws on his real character, and on the structure of private society, and in what respects the moderns have an advantage, in this particular, over the ancients, among whom the expense of publication, and the limited number of readers, tended to discourage the production of such fugitive works, or, indeed, of any but those highly-finished productions, which could stand the most rigorous criticism-these are subjects of great importance, but opening by far too wide a field of discussion, to be comprehended within the limits of the present essay. The desultory remarks which have been made, and which must be now concluded, may probably tend, in some measure, to explain the reason why Auto-biography at once excites such a strong and enduring interest VOL. X. as it has done, and is the source of so much valuable instruction' with regard to the latent springs of human character. THE LITERARY LEGACY. No. VI. MR EDITOR, I BEG leave to inform you, that Mrs Dorothy Connel, of Maigrumbraes, my late worthy Uncle's housekeeper, has been kind enough to send me a whole bagful of the finest black puddings, I think, that ever sputtered in a pan. Half-a-dozen of them I herewith transmit for your acceptance, which will save me the trouble of saying one word more in praise of their superlative excellence. "The proof of the pudding's the preeing o't." But Mrs Dorothy's present, though a valuable one, and "dear welcome to me," is much enhanced by the envelopes in which every individual pud. ding was carefully wrapped. Wastepaper is a commodity, you know, that experience hath taught me to examine well before I deliver it out for general purposes; and I leave you, my dear Sir, to estimate the fulness of my joy, on perceiving the wrappers, one and all, covered with poetry, rhyme, crambo, or whatever else you may please to call it, written in the gude auld hand of our forefathers. On due examination, I found that the manuscripts in question commemorated the exploits of an auld Witch Wife; faithfully recorded, no doubt, but too highly seasoned with the marvellous, ever to admit of their being received into the polite circles of modern credulity; though there was a time when our Carline's prowess was acknowledged by no less than three counties, and her achievements the theme of more believers, perhaps, than ever lauded the condign punishment inflicted on Satan's nose by the Glastonbury saint's red tongs. The poen opens with a view of Linclouden Nunnery, a venerable ruin, situated on the conflux of the Nith and Clouden. The Cistertian vestals of that eminent seminary, according to the notes, excelled all their contemporaries in chastity of heart, speech, and behaviour, from the reign 5 B of Malcolm Canmore, down to the year 1400, or thereabouts, when Archibald, surnamed the Grim, Earl of Douglas, escorted by a party of his Galloway cavaliers, from the Castle of Thrive, a strong-hold of the Douglas, situated on a small rocky island in the Dee, visited the ladies rather early on a July morning, and discovered, to his great surprise, a goodly congregation of spruce young pilgrims of the other sex, devoutly worshipping at their respective shrines. On closer inspection, the major part of the pious sisterhood stood confessed, as women wish to be who love their lords.' Confounded at the immorality of their ways, and zealous for the honour of Holy Mother Church, the good old earl, in the peremptory tone of a Douglas, commanded the lasses to doff their veils and be gone. To mend the matter, his lordship garrisoned the hold with a detachment of Beadsmen, and appointed a decent old friar to superintend their devotions. In this state of regeneration, the concern went on to the Reformation, when the good fathers gradually dwindled away, and their dwellingplace as gradually fell into the state of dilapidation in which we now find it, without experiencing a visit from John Knox's disciples. The site of Linclouden Nunnery is peculiarly beautiful and inviting. Here it is that the neighbouring peasantry resort of a Sabbath afternoon, to read their Bibles, and commune with the heart-for the spot is still deemed hallowed; and here it was that Burns beheld the Vision of Liberty, so beautifully pourtrayed in his Öde beginning with "As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flowers wave i' the dewy air." But I am travelling from my subject. The poem being of considerable length, I humbly propose, with your permission, to publish it in four cantos, beginning with the first; and accordingly do myself the honour of handing you No. I. by way of sample. THE GYRE CARLINE; A TALE. LINCLOUDEN Nunnery stands by the Nith, And looks, i' the gloamin' grey, lands rang Wi' her mellowest minstrelsie. Sweet as the moorland echo's reply As blithely he plays i' the curling mist The holy song of the choir arose, The early traveller's whistle it staid, And the milkmaid's roundelay. And sweetly the bugle awoke, in his den, The deer o' the distant hill; Came Wat o' Dalgonner Mill. And stoutly he pull'd the bell; "Waes me,” quo' auld Watt, as he wip'd "I ha'e come indeed frae a heartless hame, Wi' a sorrowfu' tale, I trow. "Our winsome Willic, the plume o' his kin', Is raving delcer'd, I ween; And meikle I dread he has met wi' his dead, Frae the glamour o' graceless een. “Nor drouth has he quench'd, nor broken of bread, Since the grey cock 'woke the morn; When senseless we faund him stretch'd on the grass, At the root o' the bogle thorn. "But ay wi' a sigh, he lifts up his e'e, Like a star on the lonely hill; And calls on the name o' that righteous man, The holy Father M'Gill." Nor call'd he in vain, for a kindlier heart Ne'er dwalt in a Christian breast; As mony a soul that was washen and bleach'd By his fatherly hand can attest. Oh stay, blessed shade! on the evening cloud, And list to my rural lays; Tho' often I lap on thy lonesome grave, In my youthful and truant days. Nor demon possess a firstling o' mine, Though Legion his name shou'd be." A gallant steed, o' the stateliest growth, The miller he mounted his dusty dun, And when they arriv'd on Dalgonner Mill hill, The bonnetless gulchers ran Wi' their sonsie auld dames to the louping-on-stane, And welcom'd the godly man. And when they lap down on Dalgonner Mill-green, For gravely he hied him away, Wi' a canoniz'd smile, to the sick-bed stock Where poor Willie Jardine lay. There laid ae loof on his burning bree, By an evil spirit possest; Quoth he, "As pastor of our holy Church, And cloth'd wi' her spiritual power; Fiend, demon infernal, whate'er be thy 66 name, Or bearing, I do thee conjure, By this blessed hood o' the Seer's gray cloak, That smote the astonish'd stream; Tho' often I leugh where the altar stood, By these thumb-nails of Goliah the Great, And sang where the godly kneel'd; Nor dream'd o' the ghost that guards thy bones, When turret and tower I speel'd. But, sainted man! with a contrite heart, name Be carol'd through Christendie! Come hither, ye vain, ye unthinking men, Fit food for devouring fire! And turn owre a new and a holier leaf On the grave of a godly friar. And, worthy divines, when your flocks are assail'd By the felon fox o' the hill, Aye flee to the fauld wi' a fatherly care, Like the holy Friar M'Gill. "Go saddle," quo' he, "the souplest steed That ever in stall arose, And cannilie brush my mantle o' grey, And also my blue boot-hose. "For Satan's disciples shall never enthral The liegeman wha cleaves to me, Presented to me in a dream; "And by a' the deaths o' this terrible jaw, Whose might and miraculous power Made hosts o' unholy Philistines flee Like chaff of the thrashing floor; "From our suffering brother thy fangs have inthrall'd, This instant to get thee gone, And harmless and skaithless for ever to hold As sacred his flesh and bone! "And, Christian, I charge thee to wake from thy trance, And answer a querie of mine; How came it to pass, that the agent of hell Got into that bosom of thine ?" The comely youth from his pillow arose, And lifting a languid e'e; "Yestreen, as I kneel'd at the grey gowkstane, And fervently pray'd," quoth he, "The white-flowing beards o' the mar tyr'd saints, Afar I beheld with amaze, 748 The Literary Legacy.-No. VI. And nearer and nearer the vision approach'd, Upon my delighted gaze: "But just as a saft, an invisible hand, Was closing my steadfast e'e, That graceless limmer, Meg Oliphant, shook Her Bridle of Might o'er me : "And never wist I o' the horrible change That waited her weird hurray ;' Till, prancing, I paw'd, i' the loaning sae loun, A steed o' the bonniest grey. "She pu'd the witch-gowan that blumes on the bank, Wi' an eldritch, unearthly whew; THE BRIDE OF BALACHAN. (Continued.) "At gloamin fa', when wild revelrie Is heard on the greenwood glade, Ye comely dames o' fair Niddesdale Beware o' the Fairy Rade.” Old Rhyme. THE tidings of Miss Dinwoodie's elopement were soon disseminated amongst our wedding-guests, and failed not to paralyze the gaiety of their march. Horse and foot, man, woman, and child, made a full pause, not knowing whether to advance or turn tail, and naturally enough jostled themselves into gossiping parties; And graithing o' scarlet, that glisten'd each publishing its own particular wi' gould, The Jezebel owre me threw. Syne withershins round the hemlock she ran, As wild as the wanton rae, Till its mantling shaws wi' the saftest silk Had claith'd her frae tap to tae. "Then lightly she lap on her side-saddle, And awa like the wind she flew, Brushing the broom wi' her riding skirt, Like an arrow from the yew. opinions of the bride's deportment, more or less tinged with scandal, as the foul fiend prevailed, and all of them marvelling who the gay gallant might be; whilst a few of the more sedate and sober-minded pushed on for Balachan Grange, anxious to con tribute their respective mites of counsel and condolence. Foremost of this goodly company were Mr and Mrs Morrison, a couple altogether worthy of Nanse Dinwoodie's esteem, and also of the truly affectionate welcome « And aye she flew owre the tither hill- they experienced, not only from that tap, And skimm'd the down and the lea; And never a rein o' her bridle she drew, Till staid by the Solway Sea. "But O the frightfu' cauldrons o' wrath And dool that were boiling thereMine eyes glimmer dim, my blood's rinning cauld, And my tongue can muve nae mair." I feel no hesitation whatever in attaching this curious old legend to the main body of my Legacy. The author is unknown, and likely to remain so, but the notes are all in Uncle's handwriting; which convinces me, to use a town phrase, that these here manuscripts constituted a part of his vast collection, and may probably have been delivered over to Mrs Connel for general purposes by the deceased. I herewith enclose another portion of the auld affair, and continue to remain, amiable woman, but every body else whose acquaintance was worthy of cultivation." Lang look'd for come at last!" quo' Nanse, as she led the miller and his young spouse ben the house, her cheek glowing with shame, and her eye glistening with sorrow. "O, Miller Morrison! this is a dreadfu' trial ! I ha’e thol'd affliction without complaint; I ha'e beheld warld's gear vanishing without a murmur, and met fair death face to face wi Christian composure; but nane o the name could ever bruik disgrace "We certainly ha'e cause to reflect on oursels," quo' John Dinwoodie, as he entered the parlour with Jamie Scott and Willie Dandison at his back, "inasmuch as we advised her to the match; though I declare to the Searcher o' hearts, that neither o'us exercised an undue influence. The The gudewife was descended from a younger branch of the Annandale Dir woodies, and, if I am rightly informed, both she and her husband traced ther pedigrees to the same worthy source. GAB. KILLIGRI lad's weel enough in respect o' personal appearance. He has gotten his ain gude share o' worldly substance, and a character without blemish. What mair had the like o' us to look for? It was her part to say how the affections were inclined; and had she only expressed the smallest dislike for Gawin, though I respect the lad much, he never wou'd hate faund an advocate in me: but naething o' the kind ever escaped frae her lips." "Little did she say," observed the gudewife," when we mentioned Hughie Twaddle's dying request, and advised her for the best: but O, John Dinwoodie! that little might ha'e satisfied us baith, that heart and hand wou'd never gang thegither! Woman's affections are only playthings i' the estimation o' worldlyminded men; and laying them on the altar o'family convenience, has clouded mony a fair face, and broken mony a gentle heart. Poor lass! I dread she has been judging rashly o' the gudeman and me. We never thought o' controlling her; for she was a bairn that promised fair to comfort us in our auld days; and her kindly obliging turn was the theme o' gentle and simple. Even Habbie himsel', wha downa look a woman body i' the face, just doted on her; and weel he might-for never did a poor destitute lad experience mair kindness. She made down his bed, and creish'd his shoon, and scrubbed his luggie wi' her ain hands." An impetuous rush of tender recollections overpowered the gudewife so effectually, that she threw herself in the arm-chair, and burst into tears. Miller Morrison was taking measures to fodder his tooth from a spleuchan of goodly magnitude, in order that he might tender a few words of consolation with stimulated sincerity, when Josie Whauple introduced himself sans ceremonie, having run every foot from Gowdieglen, a distance of four measured miles, and enticed Nanse Dinwoodie to the door, by means of a significant wink. "Gudewife," quo' Josie, in a low whisper, "is your Aggie come hame yet?" She hasna been seen by ane o' the family this whole blessed morning," replied Nanse; "and what's become of her I know not. The dispensation is truly afflicting!" "I saw her i' the Linn," quo' Josic, "lang before ane o' ye was asteer, and couldna contrive what she could be seeking." "Saw her i' the Linn !" exclaimed Mrs Dinwoodie: " and what was she about, and when did ye see her, Josie? Was there ony body wi' her, and what gate did she gang? Come in owre, laddie, and tell us a' ye ken, for there's nane here but friends and weel-wishers." Josie Whauple was by no means backward in complying with Mrs Dinwoodie's request. He laid aside his bonnet, seated himself between the gudeman and Miller Morrison without scruple, and told the following artless tale: "I gaed down to the Linn," quo' Joseph, "a wee blink after the sun raise, to cut birk whistles, and wha shou'd I see but your Aggie coming linking up the burnside. Weel, thought I, thou has ta'en the wings o' the morning, sure enough, to sing a bridal sang; but I'll ding a hole i' the ballad. Wi' that I lifted a stane, thinking the plash o't wou'd mak' her jump; but just as I was gaun to fling't i' the burn, a bonnie young lad, a' clad in green, lap out amang the brakens, and spang'd down the brae like a wull-cat. I never saw a chield lowp like him." "In green, did thou say, Josie?" quo' Miller Morrison. "What sort of bonnet had he on? and did ye observe his breeks—were they gun-mouth'd, or button'd at the knee? Had he a gude head o' hair, dark or light coloured? and saw ye aught in his face that hadna the appearance o' being kirsen'd?" wore a braid lawland bonnet," replied Josie Whauple, " green trews, and a green plaid. His yellow hair glistened like gould, his een like twa morning stars, and a blither face I never beheld. He jumped the burn where our greyhound stood yowling and couldna get owre, climbed the mermaid craig like onie gait; and when he gripped Aggie, I thought there was something in his looks that didna belang to this warld. After the twasome had cuddled a blink, they linked awa, arm in arm, to the Elf-knowe, and I saw nae mair o' them." "He Cross-examined by Willie Dandison." Are ye sure now, Josie, that ye're no telling a downright lie?" May I never steer frae the stool I |