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ery, deal in old rags, in eggs, in salt, in tobacco, and such trifles; and manufacture horn into spoons. I believe most of those who come through Selkirkshire reside, during winter, on the villages of Sterncliff and Spittal, in Northumberland, and in that of Kirk Yetholm, Roxburghshire.

"Mr. Smith, the respectable bailie of Kelso, can give the most complete information concerning those who reside at Kirk Yetholm. Formerly, I believe, they were much more desperate in their conduct than at present. But some of the most atrocious families have been extirpated; I allude particularly to the Winters, a Northumberland clan, who, I fancy, are all buried by this time.

"Mr. Reddell, justice of peace for Roxburghshire, with my assistance and concurrence, cleared this county of the last of them, about eight or nine years ago. They were thorough desperadoes, of the worst classes of vagabonds. Those who now travel through this county give offence chiefly by poaching, and small thefts. They are divided into clans, the principal names being Faa, Baillie, Young, Ruthven, and Gordon. All of them are perfectly ignorant of religion, nor do their children receive any education. They marry and cohabit amongst each other, and are held in a sort of horror by the common_people.

"I do not conceive them to be the proper oriental Egyptian race; at least, they are much intermingled with our own national out-laws and vagabonds. They are said to keep up a communication with each other through Scotland, and to have some internal government and regulation as to the districts which each family travels. I cannot help again referring to Mr. Smith of Kelso, a gentleman who can give the most accurate information respecting the habits of these itinerants, as their winterquarters of Yetholm are upon an estate of which he has long had the management."

The following is Mr. Smith's interesting communication on this curious subject :"I remember that about forty-five years ago, being then apprenticed to a writer, who was in use to receive the rents as well as the small duties of Kirk Yetholm, he sent me there with a list of names, and a statement of what was due; recommending me to apply to the landlord of the pub. lic-house in the village, for any information or assistance which I might need.

"After waiting a long time, and receiving payment from most of the feuers or rentallers, I observed to him, that none of the persons of the names of Faa, Young,

Blythe, Fleckie, &c., who stood at the bottom of the list for small sums, had come to meet me, according to the notice given by the baron officer; and proposed sending to inform them that they were detaining me, and to request their immediate attendance. The landlord, with a grave face, inquired whether my master had desired me to ask money from those men? I said, not particularly, but they stood on the list. "So I see," said the landlord, "but had your master been here himself, he did not dare to ask money from them, either as rent or feu duty. He knows it is as good as if it were in his pocket. They will pay when their own time comes, but do not like to pay at a set time with the rest of the barony, and still less to be craved.'

"I accordingly returned without their money, and reported progress. I found that the landlord was right; my master said with a smile, that it was unnecessary to send to them, after the previous notice from the baron officer; it was enough if I had received the money, if offered. Their rent and feu duty was brought to the office in a few weeks. I need scarcely add, those persons all belonged to the tribe.

"When first I knew any thing about the colony, old Will Faa was king, or leader, and had held the sovereignty for many years.

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Meeting at Kelso with Mr. Walter Scott, whose discriminating habits and just observations I had occasion to know from his youth, and at the same time seeing one of my Yetholm friends in the horse-market, I merely said to Mr. Scott, 'Try to get before that man with the long drab coat; look at him on your return, and tell me whether you ever saw him, and what you think of him.' He was so good as to indulge me; and rejoining me, said, without hesitation, 'I never saw the man, that I know of; but he is one of the gypsies of Yetholm, that you told me of several years ago.' I need scarcely say that he was perfectly correct."

ON THE CHARACTER AND WRITINGS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

HOWEVER different may be the opinions entertained concerning the genius of this author, I think that most persons receive considerable pleasure from the perusal of his remains. The interest of his story, and his early death, excite our attention; and we regret that the life which was so excellent should be so speedily terminated. His name, and that of a few others in some degree resembling him, are associated with pleasure ; as we think that, from minds

playing so hopeful a beginning, great works might have proceeded; and the event has not disappointed the expectation.

His poems are mostly tinged with melancholy, as this was his peculiar disposition. He seems to have possessed an exquisite sensibility, which made him equally alive to the deepest impressions both of pleasure and of pain. It was to this temperament that he owed his improvement, from the scenes in which he resided, and from his poetical mind. He was fully aware of his melancholy disposition, and regretted it; and any attention or neglect, or dishonourable thoughts of him, keenly affected him. The impression which the reviewers produced upon his mind, and the answer that he gives, in a poetical epistle to a friend who doubted the reality of his friendship, are illustrations of this. In one poem, he speaks of "the piercing cares that wore his youth away:" in another, he says,

"Mortals, be gladsome while ye have the power, And laugh, and seize the glittering lapse of joy," evidently written under an impression of the deepest melancholy.

As his temperament was ardent, and his constitution delicate, it needs scarcely be observed, that his intense study must have injured his health to a very great extent; for melancholy very often arises from a disordered body, and lurks within when it is not recognized, shadowing every ray of comfort that external nature affords, and blackening those shades which might other wise be tolerated. How subject he was to its invasions, his complaint,

"And melancholy wastes the vital flame,"

sufficiently shews. But the view will be heightened, if we notice his desire,

"Blithe health, thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou too on the balmy breeze;
Invigorate my frame:"

that frame with which the mind was at war, and which it at length destroyed. The causes of his melancholy in the earlier part of his short life were sensibility in a morbid degree, and the absence of the superior consolations of religion: for the mind is so constituted, that it must always have some remote object to make it happy; the attempting to obtain which, will effectually absorb all its powers, and render it insensible to those petty changes which are continually taking place in the body.

Many of his poems, however, are very cheerful; some written before he had studied so much as to affect his frame, and others after the soul-ennobling power of religion had taken its station where melancholy and selfish sorrow once obtained the

ascendancy. I think, the "Ode to Contemplation," "Description of a Summer's Eve,' ""Ode to Warton,' "On Music,' are instances of the former; the poem on "Time," "The Christiad," of the latter.

The power of genius is shewn principally in the application of knowledge. Men of ordinary abilities store their minds with the knowledge acquired by others; but genius puts however little it may possess, to some practical purpose, by its creative energy. This remark meets with an apt illustration in the subject of this essay. In his early letters and pieces, there are traces of extensive knowledge: many others of the same age, and with the same opportunities, have, perhaps, attained as much knowledge, but were deficient in the power of applying it to so great advantage.

Considering the little time he had to spare from business, his progress in study was remarkable for its rapidity. He was acquainted with the Latin, Greek, French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese languages, and acquainted with them for some purpose. His essays afford us an example of application of classical knowledge; more especially the Remarks on the Progress of Learning, and a Tale in which the characters are Grecian. He applied his French, by translating from its poetry, and by fre. quent allusions to works of excellent authors; and his knowledge of Italian and Portuguese, in his Essay on the Sonnet. Even his acquaintance with astronomy and mechanics, was not unemployed; for he constructed a planetarium and an orrery for his mother's school, and fitted up his own study. He could play by ear upon the piano-forte, and he applied this to cheer his dreary hours. This is the particular in which he is worthy of imitation; for this is to use the talents entrusted to our care, and not to bury them in the storehouse of the soul. It is only the acting upon this principle that will entitle us, as good and faithful servants, to enter into the joy of our Lord.

His style in prose is very simple, and much resembles Addison's, which, perhaps, he imitated. In one of his letters, he advises a friend to read and imitate the papers in the eighth volume of the Spectator; which is an intimation that such was once his own practice. His letters and essays on the subject of religion are remarkable for a vigorous grasp of thought, and beauty of illustration. Indeed, he

seems to have endeavoured to execute every design in the best manner he could, without the vulgar desire of being thought a prodigy; for he says, "I prefer the cool

and discriminate praise of the few, to the boisterous applause of the crowd."

He seems to have been fondly attached to his domestic circle; and when his own mind was established in the Christian religion, his first care was that his family should partake of the same blessing. In his devotion to his studies, in his application of all his knowledge to practical purposes, in his attachment to his family, in his desire and labour to promote religion, let us hold him the object of imitation. But let us beware of sacrificing that greatest corporeal blessing, health, at the shrine of injudicious study, and of contracting that morbid sensibility which will destroy all our comforts, and both shorten the period and contract the sphere of our usefulness.

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Witch.

Methinks some error of thine own hath wrought

This curse within thee, that thy spirit the dread

Of future punishment for former guilt
Thus haunts and harasses.

Saul.

"Tis even so! A trust was given me—I betray'd that trust !— I enter'd into covenant to keep Inviolate the orders that were given To me by Him I serv'd.-I kept them notI was unfaithful to my charge, and He Protects me now no longer, and His favour, Which as a shield secur'd me, is withdrawn! Witch.

And from what spirit would'st thou learn
thy fate?
Saul.

From one, who in his life-time saw afar,
As walk'd he, in prophetic mantle wrapt,
Upon the sacred mountains of his God,
In deep forethought and knowledge infinite,
The future, with its blackening clouds,
approach;

And oft with voice of love and warning words
Of sage remonstrance, would he picture forth
The blessings of obedience, and the ills
Which long neglect and broken laws await.
Would I had mark'd that voice!-but if
thy power

Can yet a little while again restore
His form to earth, some comfort may be
found,

And way of access open'd, to regain
The favour I have lost; and if once more
My prospect brightens, never from my heart
The memory of the past shall fade, but love
Shall bind my soul in everlasting bonds,
And I will walk as once I walk'd, when youth
And virtue made me happy, in the paths
Of strict obedience and unsullied truth.
Witch.

But, stranger, know'st thou not that Israel's king,

With evil conscience troubled, from the land

Hath banish'd those who with unearthly things

And forms communion held? and thou, perchance,

Should I, by virtue of my potent spell, From darkness raise the spirit thou wouldst behold,

Wilt spread a snare before me for my life.
Saul.

Nay,-fear me not,―for as the Lord above
Liveth, no evil upon thee shall fall,
But grateful thanks and plenteous reward;
By heaven and earth, I swear thou shalt be
safe.

Witch.

Answers my prayers no longer: his bright face,

Whom wilt thou then that I bring up to thee? Which, as the sun, beam'd on us, wears a

Saul.

Samuel, the prophet!

Witch.

Nay, then, I am lost! Why hast thou thus deceived me, for I know Thou art the king of Israel?

Saul.

Fear thou not;

Have I not sworn? My haste brooks no delay,

cloud

Of anger terrible! O, who can paint
The horrible darkness of the blighted soul,
Which lives without God's presence! Israel's

seers

Have lost their keen intelligence,-the signs
And symbols fade, (save sentences of wrath
Which in red lightning fly around the land ;)
The visions cease-and we are left alone
Unheeded, unbefriended, and forgot,

And swift compliance shall have swift To wander in our own bewildering way.

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(She begins her Spell.)
Quit awhile thy dreamless bed,
Spirit of the Prophet, Seer,
From the chambers of the dead,
At my bidding now appear!

See the monarch of the land
In his woe before thee stand;
Mighty, yet in low estate,
In his greatness desolate;
He hath lost that guiding power
Which shielded him in darkest hour;
He hath found, that peace within
Will not, cannot, dwell with sin;
And remorse's venom'd sting
Within his breast is rankling:
Be it thine to ease the smart
To bid his sorrow and grief depart;
To bid his soul's deep anguish cease,
And guide him to the path of peace;
To make him in his health rejoice :-
Spirit, thou hast heard my voice!

Saul.

:

(He comes.)

What seest thou now?

What is his form?

Witch.

An old man cometh up Wrapt in a mantle: Peace; behold the Seer!

(The Spirit rises, and Saul bows
himself to the earth.)
Spirit.

From my dwelling in the tomb,
Upward, earthward, I have come,
Call'd by the spell which hath been spoken-
Why is thus my long sleep broken?
Saul.

Oh! mighty prophet, in my sore distress
I sought thee here; unnumber'd evils throng
Daily around my path; Philistia's sons
Wage impious warfare against Israel's host;
And God, whose mighty voice was ever wont
To cheer us on our way with tones of love,
And promise sure of ultimate success,

In this deep mis'ry I have come to thee, That thou may'st tell me by what powerful

means

The favour of our God may be regain'd,
And Saul may rule his people peacefully.
Spirit.

Wherefore comest thou to me?
Jehovah hath abandon'd thee,
Brought to nought thy wide command,
Rent the kingdom from thy hand;
Never, never again, shalt thou
Wear the crown upon thy brow,
To Jesse's son, all-righteous Heaven
Hath the sword and sceptre given;
Because thou never hast obey'd
The laws for thine observance made,
Therefore the Lord, the just, the true,
Hath brought this evil on thee now.
Ere to-morrow's evening sun
Thro' the heavens his course hath run,
Thine shall set, and set for ever,
Thou shalt sleep, to waken never!
And thy son, thy bosom's pride,

Thy future hope-thine age's guide—
He too shall perish at thy side!
But a short-lived day, and ye
In the grave shall lie with me,
There, thy pomp and kingly form
Shall serve to feed the cold earth-worm;
All thy glory, all thy fame,
Remain but as an empty name;
Israel, once a land Divine,
Now shall serve the Philistine;
And thy latest hour shall be
Cheer'd with no hope of victory,
But low and conquer'd thou shalt lie,
In shame and dark obscurity.
Now I leave thee in thy sorrow;
Fare thee well-we meet to-morrow:
In the land where troubles cease,

And the mourner findeth peace.
Till then, farewell: thy race is nearly run,—
The house of Saul is fall'n-Jehovah's work
is done!

(The Spirit disappears, and Saul falls prostrate on the earth.) Norwich, May 25, 1833.

POETRY.

ON A FOSSIL NAUTILUS.

IF o'er the grey and mossy stone,
Or mound with lichens hoar,

The mouldering work of hands unknown,
And power which sways no more;

The spirit wakes with inward might,
And kindles into deep delight,

As thoughts successive soar

O'er time's surmounted barriers vast,

To converse with the shadowy past.

How should that thrilling sense have birth,
When dwells the sight on thee,
Thou witness of a perish'd earth,

And age-exhausted sea;

Frail mariner of waves, which wore

Some nameless and unmeasured shore,
When ocean yet was free,

Nor heaved in sullen wrath to feel,
The victor prow and furrowing keel.
Here, where thy bark first rose to glide
O'er rippling surges blue,

Perchance amidst the swelling tide
The sanguine coral grew;

And regal palms of stately height,
Across a flood which flashed in light,

Their restless shadows threw,

From isles which rose with steep on steep, Majestic o'er the tranquil deep.

And as thy filmy arms were spread,

To waft thee on thy way,

The giant lizard reared his head

In wild and fitful play;

And, sheathed in rigid mail of strength,
Leviathans of Titan length,

Rose tempesting the spray,

'Midst ferns whose mighty growth uprent, Enrobed the glistening element.

But since o'er nature's changing face
Some word, pronounced on high,

Hath struck the mountain from its base,

And left the salt sea dry;

So, where the crested billow rolled,
The harvest shakes its ears of gold,
And flowers of richest dye

Smile forth, when many an age before
Exulting swept thy tiny oar.

Say, in that long-forgotten hour,
If wide creation's frame

Stood clothed as now in

grace and

And were its scenes the same?

power,

As sweet the morn-the moon as bright-
As calm the reign of breezy night-
As soft the lingering flame,

Which plays ere yet the day-star dies,
Amidst the stains of evening's skies?

Stern winter's strength-the drifting snow-
The ice "like morsels" cast-

The sounding tempest loosed to blow,
When summer's mirth is past-

The thunder with its burst of dread

The blinding levin fierce and red

The fires which, waning fast,

Gleam blue on midnight's shrouded brow;

Were these as wonder-fraught as now?

I ask not if of loftier sense

The awakened signs were shown,
Bright exultation's influence,

Or sorrow's hour of moan,

Since hope, as yet, nor pallid fear,

Had reign'd in strange mutation here;

Nor thought to vigour grown;
Nor frailty for her child below,
Entwined the woof of joy and woe.

And all which weakness wisdom deems,
And all our feeble power,

Our pleasures spent like morning's dreams,
Our splendours of an hour,

Our feverish strife, whose ceaseless birth
Writes havoc on this glorious earth,
And mars creation's dower,

Mute chronicler of past decay

These knew not thy mysterious day.

2D. SERIES, NO. 31.-VOL. III.

But then, perchance from distant skies,
Not yet forbid to stray,

Bright forms, with rapture-beaming eyes
Here paused upon their way,

And voices since too long unheard,
In tuneful ecstacy preferred
The praise-ascribing lay,

As wisdom's growing labours stole
Progressive to their perfect whole.
Vain phantasy and useless task,
As shifting visions rise,

Of thee, unconscious shape, to ask
What reason's quest defies!
Yet, if of times and scenes gone by,
Thou answerest not, nor can'st reply,
One truth, which all may prize,
Within thy pearled and spiry cells,
As traced by light's own finger dwells.

That boundless Power and skill were nigh

That Love surveyed thee o'er-
Thou tellest to the listliest eye,
Nor should we question more:
It is enough to know and feel,
That this thy curious hues reveal,
And, as we gaze, adore

The hand which, since by evil met,
Upholds, and shields, and blesses yet.
J. F. HOLLINGS.

REVERIES.

COME, gentle Phantasie,
Come to my lone retreat,
Beside the rolling sea,

Where the playful billows beat!
Come at still twilight's time,

When the star of evening beams above, And looks on earth with a look of love, From her far cerulean clime.

And on the shore

The waters roar;

Shall to our ears rough music make, And sweet shall be

Their melody,

As the wind doth o'er them break!
Now fades the daylight o'er the deep,
And now the struggle and the strife,
The cares and toils of busy life
Sink for awhile in sleep!
And she, thought's pallid queen,

Arises on her gentle way,

Scattering far her tremulous ray,
With calm and holy sheen!
Now is the hour when feeling wakes,
Now is the hour when fancy takes

Her far and heavenward flight;
Now every evil passion dies,
Now hope lifts up her gentle eyes,
O! lovely hour of night!

-I gaze upon the roaring sea,

And vague deep thoughts crowd o'er the mind; There lies the dread immensity,

And o'er the regions of the wind

Lies an immensity more dread,

On which the thought cannot repose,
Whose secrets we cannot disclose;

O! happy, happy dead!

Perchance to you your God has given,
To know the secrets of the heaven,
On angel's wings afar to fly,
And scan the wonders of the sky,
And often now in darkness dim,

The soul forgets its feeble shell,

As if 'twould pierce the ways of Him, Whose ways no human heart can tell! The soul expands as if to see

If it can grasp eternity!

And pass the bounds of time and space;
But, ah! there is no resting-place
For such adventurous flight;

These are th' aspirings of the spirit,
To the home it shall inherit,

A dim faint dream,

A feeble gleam

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