"it was built in alternate layers of wood and stone. It was a mixture of rude ma"sonry and beams of the blackest oak, and was probably founded upon piles; for "through the deserted floor of the house the water had bubbled up, and a plentiful "crop of the water-lily and iris had arisen, in the midst of which a wild teal had "placed its sluggish nest, and brought out its tawny brood.

"But on the day to which my tale belongs, this house was neat, trim, and "well-ordered. The walls, covered with honeysuckle ou the outside, were as well "covered with household thrift within; the floor was swept with a careful hand; "the hearth fire sparkled clear; while the furniture, beneath the anxious hands of "Prudence and her daughter Maud, glanced back the light of the morning sun or "the evening fire like so many mirrors. The swallow hung its little nest of clay "and grass beneath the thatch, and with incessant wing skimmed the bosom of the "moss or the walks of the garden, abating the plague of flies; in the garden hedge "the thrush, the sweetest of our Scottish songsters, built secure from the hand of "the school-boy; and the inhabitants of three stoles of bees extracted sweetness "from the meadow flowers and the mountain heath, and gave an air of happiness "and industry to the place. A little narrow road, framed of oak and paved with "stone, and wide enough for two men to walk abreast, led from the door to the “firm land, and a deep clear spring at its side, threw up a stream of water plentiful enough to form a small rivulet, which, escaping from the bog, joined the sea after "a course of a mile and a half among green knolls and granite rocks, during which "it formed many pretty pools full of fine burn trout.

"On this secluded house the sun had set, and his retiring light still lingered "on the hill-head and on the ship-streamers in the bay. The wood-doves had re"turned from feeding on the wild blaeberry,---the crows already darkened all the "pine-tree tops,---the bat was abroad, and flickered about in the dewy air,---while "the beetle, uttering his contented hum, struck against the shepherd as he returned "from his flocks on the neighbouring hills. In an old chair of carved oak, enjoying "the fresh air of the twilight, Prudence Paul was sitting, her white mutch bordered "with broad lace, and her gown of shining grey, long and wide, and glistening like "silk, descended not so low as to conceal two neat feet, with glossy shoes and "little fastenings of solid silver. In her hand she held a hank of the finest woollen "yarn, mixed purple and white, smooth and fitted for hose, such as the young men "then were fond of wearing. Her looks were staid and touched with sorrow,"her eye, dark and sparkling, had in her youth given lustre to district verse; and "the fastidious neatness of her dress and the purity of her dwelling brought that "charge of household and personal pride upon her which has been urged against "the Dutch,---she wiped the seats upon which strangers had sat,---she wiped the "floor over which they walked, and of the well out of which they had drank "would she not taste, till it had freed itself of all suspicion of impurity, by run"ning an hour or more.

"At her side there sat a softer vision of herself, her daughter Maud in the "opening bloom of maiden beauty,-dark eyed, dark tressed,-as pure as the "spring out of which she drank, and as healthy as the lily that flowered on its "margin. Her white shoulders and round neck were flooded by the dark cluster"ing abundance of her locks; and her eyes large, moving in liquid light, and of a "deep hazel hue, were every now and then lifted up from the task on which her "hands were engaged, and fixed on her mother with a glance expressing duty and "awe. Her dress was a boddice of brown, with an open and expanding collar "which allowed the breeze free circulation,-with a little shawl of the finest silk, " and ornamented with curious skill, but laid aside to admit the sweet fresh air of "the twilight; and a petticoat of that glossy and beautiful cloth known by the "homely name of linsey-woolsey, which rivalled in lustre much of our modern silk. "A string of Solway pearls enclosed her neck, and massy bracelets of pure gold, her "brother's present, encircled her wrists, adding little by contrast to her love"liness; but rather from their value bringing an imputation of personal vanity against her, from which she was free. In truth, though conscious of the beauty "of her person, and skilful in the female art of adding to her natural allurements, "she loved her only brother with such intense and elevated affection, that the "richness of the metal of her bracelets did not at all increase their value in her "esteem-had they been of tin, or brass, or horn, she would have worn them, and "glanced her eye as often upon them in sisterly pride and satisfaction."

"Those who see beauty attired in all the attractions of dress, her person adorned "according to the fashionable humour of the day, with her patches, paint, and jewels on, "see but half of her loveliness. Those who had seen Maud on this summer morning, "would have felt in a moment how surpassingly lovely simple beauty is. She was in her "chamber slumbering on a bed with curtains of brown, and sheets like unsunned snow. "Pressing the downy undulation lay the maiden herself, a smile dawning on her parted "lips, her dark tresses gushing in clustering masses over her heaving bosom and naked "shoulder, and lying in an armful around, while one of her feet, small, and plump, and "white, and formed at once for beauty and activity, escaped from the sheets, and revealed "an ancle such as visits the eye of Chantrey in one of his happy moments.

"The disarray of the bed, the disorder of her head-gear, and the glowing agitation "of her face, shewed that her sleep had been broken and restless. The sun at first glim"mered faintly on the wall, and she covered her eyes with her arm; but when he came "broader and brighter, and filled all the little room with light, she arose and opened the "window; while the sunny air, smelling of flowers, ran round the room. She sat down 66 on the bed-side, and thus communed with herself.

"Was it a dream, or was it a vision, or was it the voice of man, which came crying "" in the dark and dead hour of the night, saying, 'Beware Maud Paul, beware!' I saw, "or rather thought I saw, a strange light in my chamber, my window seemed to open, "" and an aged man looked in, and said, Beware Maud Paul, beware!' She sat for "a minute's space, then, falling on her knees and holding her hands before her face, she "said, 'God of my fathers, I thank thee for this warning voice; thou hast sent one of "thy blessed spirits to say that evil awaits me. I humble myself in thy presence, and I "ask thy aid. A courage which comes but from thee has hitherto sustained me in sore "trials; nature was strengthened and never quailed for a moment. Save me from vanity "of heart, from pride of understanding, from self-sufficiency, which deceives the more "the greater that our trust is. If it be thy will that danger shall overtake me, let it not 66 6 Overcome me. Take, O take not from me in the moment of peril, that presence of ""mind, and firmness of purpose, which preserves the body from abasement, and keeps "the mind free.' And, arising and binding up her locks, and attiring herself, she 66 sought her mother, and found her busied by her in-door arrangements; and, assisting "her with a ready and a dexterous hand, the house was soon set all in morning order.

"Her mother looked on her with a sigh, and said, Evil news, my daughter, will "find us soon,---late yestreen I saw the sure messenger of death; I sat on the bench of "stone, just as the moon descended, when I beheld it; we shall hear of the decease of "some near friend soon, the messenger that came was a certain one and sure. "Alas! mother,' said Maud, we have no relations in blood, we have no friends in 'friendship, and for whom can the messenger of death come, but for one of us? Oh! "my young, my gallant brother, alas! it can mean but you,---a raging wind and a "faithless sea, and I behold you no more. Oh! many a comely face the sea makes pale "" and wan, and many a mother and sister it covers with sorrow as with a shroud. Oh! "Dumfries, when I was lately in thy streets I saw the sweep of many a mother's mourn"ing gown, and I beheld tears in many a sister's eye. Woe, woe to them whose hearts "are on the deep!---the thunder-cloud, the raging storm, the burning sun, the fiery air, "the pestilent shores, and the fierce enemies,---woe, woe to them whose hearts are on "the deep!"

"Meanwhile, Macmittimus sat drawing his mouth together like the gatherings of "a sack of corn, moving his head to the left and then to the right, turning his eyes to the ceiling, then casting them on the floor, like one in quest of some wise and difficult con"clusion. He took a pen from the table, and, dipping it in the ink of judgment, muttered,--

་་

"Firstly, He goes armed with unlawful weapons,---commit him. Secondly, He "goes armed, and accuses one of place and dignity of doing an unbecoming thing,.-"commit him. Thirdly, He challenges a nobleman of the land,---commit him.

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Fourthly, he fires a pistol loaded with powder and ball, and draws blood, a drop or "more, from the neck of the said noble person,---commit him. Fifthly, He is a person "of mean descent; and his mother at the judgment-seat, where she was once a witness, "told me that capons were owre good for coofs,---for coofs, consult Jamieson, her mean"ing supposed to be wicked,---commit him. Sixthly, and finally, He has offended one "clothed in the sacred authority of his Majesty; one at whose bidding, prison doors fly "open and the gorgets are unloosed. He has offended me, therefore he stands com"mitted, and so I sign the sentence.'

"At this moment the door opened, and the wisdom of the bench received a reinforce"ment in the person of Justice Colanson, one of the district magistrates, and a gentleman "of old descent, whose fiery and impetuous mood the influence of eighty years had not "much subdued. He was a hale, healthy old man, with a strong frame and well-knit "limbs, and with his long white hair flowing plentifully on his shoulders. His dress was of the cut of the times of the good Queen Anne, of that mixture called pepper and salt; "his hose were pearl-silk, and his shoes red heeled, with large gold buckles shining like "the morning sun.

"

"In the creation of William Colanson, nature seemed to have said to herself, "Come, I will collect all the oddities, and caprices, and whims, which I ought to scatter among the new-born of the whole district, and, mingling this strange mass with some "absurdity, some benevolence and kindness of heart, I will make a kind of mortal merely

by way of experiment. I will then put it into the world, and see what men will make "of it; it has a chance for a mitre or a coronet, else I have lost all knowledge of man"'kind.' But nature threw in one particle of sense more than she meant, and her work was not worthy of such distinction, sense bore it down to the moderate altitude of the county magistracy. Nature, in a few of her future experiments, was sparing of the superfluous materials which compose the understanding, and half a bench of bishops, "half a batch of baronets, and lords and earls without number, were the fortunate results.

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"

“Ah, Patie Macmittimus,' said his unceremonious associate, you are busy in the "' magisterial vocation. Lady Emeline, your grey head is not so familiar with the "morning sun as mine. I was on the road before the light was on the dew this morn"ing. Ah, and here is a fairer flower than ever dew fell on; my fair Lady Phemie, I "hope, has done some little piece of harmless mischief, enough to justify me in carrying "her home to prison in Colanson-hall, where a priest would make me her keeper. Ah, "girl, you may smile, but it is only these grey hairs which protect you. An I were as young as I have been, I would be as great a fool as ever, and that's I believe a wise "saying. Well now, Pate Macmittimus, what's this ye are about?---a warrant, as I protest---armed--- (reading)---challenge,---duel,---blood---Let me see the two gowks, "' that I may know them again. Ay, likely lads enough for mischief, though I cannot 65 6 say I can name them. We gentles of the inland see little of you seaside bodies. Well, "bairns, were there no orchards to rob,---no hawks' nests to herry,---no chamber win"dows to scale,---no piece of harmless folly that became your capacities, but that you "must take to the green sod with cruel hearts and with cocked pistols? Patie, man, ye "have made out a warrant for one, I'll make out a warrant for the other. They'll cool "and come to themselves between cold walls and behind iron stanchells. What's the 44 4 name of the other mad callant?'

'My name,' said the young nobleman, ' is Thomas, Lord Dalveen,--a name long seen in the stream of Scottish story before that of Colanson had become as a bubble for an hour on its surface.'

"Weel, man, weel,' said Justice Colanson, there's no use in being peevish about "it. Dalveen is an auld name, and I trow a bauld name, and has had more weight in "the world than it stands for now. Thomas, Lord Dalveen, alake, the last lord of the name that I wot of, got his head and his title chappet off in the same second of time "in the year of grace and rebellion fifteen. Thomas, Lord Dalveen, by the condescension of country speech, but plain Master Thomas by act of parliament.'

Sir,' answered Lord Dalveen, your white hairs protect you, else I would strike 44 6 you on the judgment seat. Know that I am Thomas, Lord Dalveen, not by grace, but by right,---not by favour, but by blood,---not by kingly courtesy, but by deeds of honour "and daring done upon the foes of Scotland. It is a title purchased with blood on many a sanguinary field,---it cannot be taken from me any more than the blood of heroes can be discharged from my veins, and the puddle which stagnates in yours be put into "its place. My gallant ancestor lost his life on a scaffold, because he loved his native princes better than aliens; and I should hold myself unworthy if I allowed his title to be extinguished but with my life. When my country can blot from its history the "noble deeds done by those of my name, then shall I consent to become plain Master; " and I shall willingly salute with the titles of your Lordship and your Grace, any pimp, parasite, usurer, keeper of chambers, and comptroller of close stools,---any gilded moth "of the moment who may have crawled into favour by inventing a new coat-collar, or 'by adding a tassal to a pair of pantaloons."

"

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The Golden Violet, with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry: and other Poems. By L. E. L., Author of " The Improvisatrice,” "The Troubadour," &c. London: Longman, pp. 310. 1827.

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That pristine and respectable doctrine, " poeta nascitur non fit,” has been disregarded, and by some disbelieved, of late years. The ancients were weak enough to broach it, and for many centuries the moderns did not question its veracious wisdom; it remained for the penetrating intellect of the present age to disenthral themselves from it. That it is customary for many still to exclaim, a poet's born, not made," is incontrovertible; but what does this amount to? Why, probably those very orators for nature, will content themselves with a perusal of poetry, manufactured by every thing except genius and talent. The universality of poetry, at once decides that more than half is mere composition. What is excellent, was, and most likely ever will be, but rarely exhibited. A poet, in the true sense, is an excellence in character; he is above the rest of mankind—not in birth, riches, or station, perhaps-but in the operations of his mind. His spirit is of a sublime nature, mingling with the elements, placid when they are calm, revelling in their convulsion, participating with their represented beauties, and drinking in inspiration from their various scenes. He does not struggle with the muse as much as the muse struggles with him; his whole soul is breathing incense to her. We could write pages on this subject, but we must indulge ourselves no further, at present, in depicting our conception of the poet.

One cause that has led to the degeneracy of poetry, is its being considered as a necessary accomplishment. A boarding school Miss is not "finished," unless she poeticises; and every classical youth thinks himself degraded unless he is an adept rhymester. Accomplishments, we know, sit differently on different people; sometimes the poetical accomplishment finds a congenial mind, but, as before mentioned, superior minds are rare, and, therefore, poetasters are numerous. In our opinion, poetry cannot be taught as dancing is. A copiousness of words, a knowledge of metrical laws, the regulation of the pauses, and the various mechanical departments of the poet, may be acquired by the dull and the tasteless; nay, more, it is possible, that these characters may, by dint of extensive reading, and an acquaintance with the bards of Greece, Rome, and their own country, produce two or three hundred lines of versification, flowing with melody, containing elegant words and labored superfluities-but there will be no ideas, no sparkling fancy, original thought, or chaste and delightful imagery. A man of poetical genius is undoubtedly a man worth envying; he is of the highest rank, for genius placed him there. But, are we all to be poets? It is an honor to be one, but no disgrace not to be one. If every body thought so, we should have fewer, but far greater, poets than we now possess. Nature, not art, would appoint them.

"Nil intentatum nostri liquêre poetæ." We may safely apply this to the host of minor poets, whose

scraps and abortive volumes are for ever attracting the eye. The greater number of them are convinced that something novel will be striking; a style of their own will stand a chance of immortality— perhaps for its very ridiculousness. The ancients had their schools of philosophers, we have our schools of poets into the bargain. It would take a great deal more time and paper than we can conveniently spare, to examine the productions of half a hundred of " these "smaller fry;" we content ourselves with averring, that fifty years hence their names and volumes will be in the fellow custody of oblivion. They write for the day, share the day's applause, and then the bubble bursts. Some, perhaps, will call us supercilious when we remark, that, in our estimation, "The Deserted Village," by Goldsmith, is worth all, (with a few exceptions, such as Byron, Scott, &c. &c.) that has been written for the last forty or fifty years, including even Southey's with it. Speaking of Southey, we may as well touch on the two schools-the Lakist and the Millman, alias frantic : Wordsworth is the leading spirit of the Lakists, a man whose fitful genius, mighty as it is, cannot excuse his mawkish puerilities and insensate simplicity. Coleridge is a deep thinker, and a profound metaphysician: his poetry is, at times, wildly beautiful, but mostly ridiculously obscure, and infected with the water of the Cumberland Lakes. Southey is certainly the most artificial of the" nampy-pamby" fraternity. He has written enough, prose and poetry, to fill a library; of the former, we have nothing to say at present; of the latter, very little. Mr. Southey's poetry is rarely sublime, frequently mediocre, and sometimes very twaddling. His verse flows so easily, that he finds it difficult to preserve it from insipidity. Southey's powers have abated much. His Tale of Paraguay was little more than pathetic drivel; and yet, in Mr. Southey's opinion, Campbell, and other exalted names, are far, far beneath him!!-Mr. S. has written several Epics, the highest efforts of genius, if none but the author read them.

Mr. Milman, supported as he is by the Professorship, and versed in the most beautiful specimens of ancient poetry, with the advantage of much studious toil and elegant scholarship, has not yet produced any work that has outlived the bustling, spacious fame of the worth of its publication. He is pompous without grandeur, and lofty without sublimity; and when attempting to be pathetic, he is mostly either drawling or ranting, in fact, he has endeavoured to constrain the muse. His powers are like stiff and stately buildings, abounding with external ornament, but cold and ungarnished within; they are dazzling, but wipe away the gloss, and you will find nothing. It is very evident, Mr. Milman imagines himself the founder of a new school-heaven forbid that he should have many pupils! We grant that both Milman and Southey have some splendid passages. Would it not be very lamentable if, out of some twenty thousand lives, there were not an occasional half-dozen good ones? Give a bedlamite a pen, and 'tis chance if he do not write something worth reading amid his ravings. The question is, does the poem contain