that valuable and original young man fairly out of Cromek's hands again.

I next wrote a review of the work, in which I laid the saddle on the right horse, and sent it to Mr Jeffrey; but, after retaining it for some time, he returned it with a note, saying, that he had read over the article, and was convinced of the fraud which had been attempted to be played off on the public, but he did not think it worthy of exposure. I have the article, and card, by me to this day.

Mr Cunningham's style of poetry is greatly changed for the better of late. I have never seen any improve so much. It is free of all that crudeness and manner. ism that once marked it so decidedly. He is now uni. formly lively, serious, descriptive, or pathetic, as he changes his subject; but formerly he jumbled all these together, as in a boiling caldron, and when once he began, it was impossible to calculate where or when he was going to end. If these reminiscences should meet his friendly eye, he will pardon them, on the score that they are the effusions of a heart that loves to dwell on some scenes of our former days. JAMES HOGG. Mount Benger, May 6, 1829.

SPRING MEDITATIONS.

By the Rev. Dr Morehead.

Et nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos.
Nunc frondent silvæ, nunc formosissimus annus.
VIRG. Ecl. 3.

ALTHOUGH the approach of Spring has been a favourite subject with the poets, and with meditative writers, ever since verse or prose were resorted to as vehicles for sensibility and emotion, yet it is a subject which never palls upon the reader, but always comes with an aspect of freshness and novelty. The season itself, indeed, returns every year, like a new creation; and although it is invariably attended with the same general features of the revival of the fields—the budding of the trees the woods changing from the dull hue of winter into the most refreshing green-and the glow of beauty over all the face of nature there is still something so miraculous in the change, that it constantly strikes the very dullest minds with some feeling of surprise, and every one is ready again to surrender his imagination to all the pleasing and delightful sentiments which the season engenders. Amidst a general similarity, too, there is always a great variety in all the particulars of natural processes. Since the beginning of the world, there has been no year the exact image of another; the same progress of decay and renewal has ever gone on, yet attended with very different circumstances. The winter sometimes suddenly disappears, and the whole beauty of creation breaks forth at once: at other times, again, an unnatural duration is given to the season of cold and dreariness, and nature seems to have laid aside her genial powers, and to be frustrated in all her attempts to rise from her tomb.

The present season has been one of this last description. It is now the beginning of May, and, instead of having made any advance into the gorgeous splendours of Summer, we are only yet in the first openings of the Spring. It is not many days ago since the snow-flakes were flying around us, the flowers, with which the gardens had begun to bloom, had a cheerless and pitiful aspect, while their tender heads were shaken by the chill and ungenial gales. The young leaves seemed inclined to draw back again under the bark, from which their first tips were starting; and it is only within a day or two that a more decided progress has been apparent that, when the evening comes, we think a change has been made since the morning-the rich crimson of some fruit blossoms opened a little farther from their covering and a gayer fringe of green crept over the dry

twigs of the woods. Every shower now seems to draw up vegetation from the fields, and when the sun looks out between the intervals of the rains, his beams lighten up a more beautiful and glorious world. A season of this kind, with all its melancholy of hope deferred, is perhaps more interesting than one which advances more according to rule. Its slightest improvement is a matter of deep interest. Almost every single leaf has a charm. We do not, in these circumstances, look upon nature in the mass, but we watch every new production, with something of the feeling with which a mother hangs over the cradle of a sickly child. Every tinge of a deeper dye is a promise of better days, like the olive leaf brought by the dove into the ark. Thus there are no aspects of nature that are not profoundly beautiful, because there are none that do not teem with the most lovely associations; and which, when pursued through all their moral analogies, do not open upon the thoughtful mind, the most hopeful views of Providence and of

man.

The untutored manners, or brutal habits, of uncultivated men, often occasion an utter despair even in persons of philanthropy-if they are of too fastidious and. delicate a spirit of any improvement taking place among them, and they are apt to leave them to all the vices and miseries of their condition, without making even an effort for their relief. Yet, under the rudeness of the winter rind, long as it may be of softening and bursting, the production is forming of the most beautiful and delicate leaves and petals, and the finest tinges of colour are evolving, and a paradise of beauty is breaking out from the most rugged knots of the gnarled oak. Why then despair, that the coarseness of rude minds, which may seem to be sealed in ignorance, or even fettered in chains of vice, may, under the culture of Christianity, and of an improving age, refine into much polish even of external aspect,-that neat and cleanly habits may come in the place of slattern and slovenly ones, that the inhabitants of a village may at last vie in all that is really polite and courteous, with those of a court, and that with all these outward improvements, those of the heart and the understanding may keep pace? I hope much from the attention in the present age paid to the education of the poor-an attention which is now, in our populous cities, where the parents cannot themselves look after their children, seeking and saving them from destruction, bodily and mental, in the first openings of infancy, and is in our villages bestowing upon the peasant boys and girls an education which might serve for the elementary training of princes. I cannot help fancying to myself, that whatever is offensive in the rusticity of Scottish manners, will, under such training, be speedily dispelled; and when I meet, where I now reside, the village children, on their way to and from school, and witness their civil address, which rather enhances than impairs their native simplicity, I can imagine something like a classical character and elegance intermingling with our pastoral manners.

The severity of the Scottish Reformation discarded all the gayer scenes of the superstition which it superseded. Some of these still remain in England, too, interwoven, I believe, with the pleasing remnants of Paganism. We have no Maypole in Scotland-no Queen of the Maynone of the rustic theatric representations which might have been the origin of the drama of antiquity. I fear most of our meetings of the youths of both sexes terminate in coarser and less innocent relaxations, from the want of those more elegant and imaginative amusements. But, with the advancement of education, a happier and more refined taste in pleasures will be introduced; and dance in the open field, by the side of rustic streams, and where the broom and wild roses supply natural wreathes for the heads of the maidens, will take the place of the crowded barn or the steaming alehouse.

If these changes should ever be realized, there would

be no need for the erection of a Maypole in the beautiful village above alluded to. Nature has erected one, the most splendid and gorgeous that was ever danced round by shepherdesses or by fairies; and the chill of the year seems to have had no effect in repressing its almost supernatural glory. It is a sycamore tree, of a very peculiar kind, which, in its first bursting into foliage, seems to be one mass of the most living gold, and throws off the sunbeams in dyes the most accordant to the source of light from which they come, and to the delicate season of young and dancing leaves. Different places are remarkable for their different beauties; but I will venture to say there is no such tree to be seen as this sycamore-not for its size, though that is venerable-nor for its form, though that is symmetrical and complete-but for that tinge of glory which sits upon it, and which seems almost to belong to a brighter world. There is nothing, indeed, so sacred or so marvellous which I could not imagine it to represent. It might be the tree of good and evil in the midst of the primeval Paradise or it might bear the golden fruit in the garden of the Hesperides-or it might produce the golden boughs which were borne as gifts to Proserpine by those who were favoured with the permission to descend into the lower regions. There is almost in its aspect an appearance of life and intelligence; and I should be afraid to pluck a branch from it, lest drops of blood and a human voice should follow from the wound. It is around its sacred trunk that I would have the youths and the maidens of the village to assemble, and carol songs expressive of the pure affections of the heart, and join in the dances of gaiety and innocence.

I know I may be thought an enthusiast in my hopes of the improvement of the world; but we shall see. "In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature not to go out, and see her riches, and par ake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth." So says the greatest, perhaps, of poets, and one of the noblest minded of men. But as these vernal seasons, we see, often do not return to us without much check and dis appointment, we must, even if we would enjoy them, walk by faith as well as by sight; and it is only carrythe same faith a little farther, to throw off a still worse sullenness," and to "partake in the rejoicing with heaven and earth," not only of that material nature which lies around us, but of that high and spiritual nature which is every where concealed under the "human form divine."

Corstorphine, May 9, 1829.

THE TWO PAINTERS OF GENOA.

By Derwent Conway, Author of "Solitary Walks through many Lands," "Personal Narrative of a Tour through Norway, Sweden, and Denmark," &c.

EVERY traveller who has made the round of Genoa, and who has been conducted by his cicerone through the Palazzo di Serra, must have observed, at the top of the great staircase, two pictures,-both, evidently, of the same lady, and both, as obviously, caricatures. The following may be supposed to be the origin of this singular circumstance.

Old Bandalino, the rich goldsmith of Genoa, died some few years after that city had been delivered, by Doria, from the difficulties in which it had been involved through the silly quarrels of Charles V. and Francis I., and when the fine arts had sprung into new, though but transient life, under the invigorating influence of freedom, and the shelter of a Durazzo and a Serra. Bandalino was prouder of being an artist than if he had inherited the highest order of nobility; and when, upon

• Milton.

her nineteenth birth-day, the lovely Giulietta became the sole possessor of her father's wealth, and the richest as well as the handsomest woman in Genoa, she found the possession clogged with the unwelcome condition, that, within one year, she should become the wife of an artist.

Giulietta, although surrounded by every luxury,— though her house might have been called a palazzo, from the excellence of its architecture, the richness of its decorations and sculptured vases, and statues and fountains that adorned the inner courts,-though she had her sedan chair, and her running footmen,-yet Giulietta fretted unceasingly, on account of the hard condition by which the enjoyment of her inheritance was fettered; not because the lovely Genoese found her secret wishes thwarted by the condition, nor because she felt any unconquerable aversion to the holy state of matrimony,-but because she disliked any dictation in a matter of this kind. Time passed on, and the condition was as far from fulfilment as ever. Had Giulietta been of a different temperament, she would have spurned the riches which were to be secured only by compliance with so arbitrary a command; and would have permitted her uncle, Valetti, who already began to look scrutinizingly at his niece's possessions, to take them all; but such was not Giulietta's disposition. She was proud of living in a house like a palazzo,-proud of her gallery of sculpture and painting, and proud of all that distinguished her from the daughter of a plebeian; and, therefore, Giulietta was firmly resolved to fulfil the condition upon which alone these distinctions depended. One consolation, indeed, the fair Genoese possessed she had choice of artists; for it may easily be believed, that no sooner were the terms upon which she inherited Bandalino's riches known, than all the artists of Genoa were at her feet. Many times did the noble Marquis di Serra, the patron and friend of her father, and himself a painter of no mean note, condescend to advise with Signora Giulietta, and to recommend the speedy adoption of the only one of the two alternatives which would put her in the possession of her father's wealth. Save Farenzi or Castello, there was no artist in Genoa upon whom the choice of Giulietta could possibly have fallen: she loved neither; and, as the claims of both to excellence in the arts were reputed to be equal, she declared her intention of bestowing her hand upon him who should paint the best portrait of her; and it was commanded that the portrait should be presented at the Palazzo di Serra on the morning of her twentieth birth-day-precisely one year from the death of Bandalino-and that judgment should be pronounced by the Marquis, who was the first amateur artist in Genoa.-Pass we now to the studio of Farenzi.

"How intolerable an interruption," said Farenzi, as it was announced to him that Signor Valetti was in the ante-chamber. Farenzi was sitting in his studio, contemplating a picture which he had just placed in the most advantageous light; it was the face and bust of a young female, and the finishing touch of the painter was yet wet upon the thick tresses that veiled her bosom. Farenzi hastily turned the picture, and desired that Valetti should be admitted. How now?" said Valetti, as he entered; " to-morrow the birth-day of the Signora Giulietta, and where is thy painting ?"" The picture is ready," replied Farenzi. "And so is thy rival's," returned Valetti. "I have but now left him; he had just thrown down his brush; it is a choice picture, Farenzi ;-but show me thine An excellent picture," said Valetti," a most excellent picture; but"-" But not equal to Castello's, you would say."-"Equalnay, superior to his," continued Valetti; "but not so likely to please her for whom it is designed:-Castello's is the portrait of a more beautiful countenance." A pause ensued, both continuing to look at the picture. "I was almost so much your friend," resumed Valetti,

you in league to insult my protegé, the Lady Giulietta, by caricaturing her ?" at the same time turning the pictures to the astonished painters. The artists looked at the pictures, then at the Marquis,-then at Giulietta,

"have

Not many minutes after Valetti left Farenzi, he presented himself at the studio of Castello, whom he found employed nearly in the manner he had represented to his rival. "Ah! Castello," said he, " you may burn your brushes when you please, Farenzi will carry off my niece."" Have you seen his picture ?" demanded Castello. "It is Giulietta herself," returned Valetti; "it is Giulietta herself; your picture," continued he, turning to look at Castello's work, "is the portrait of a pretty woman, but it is not my niece; her eyes, Castello, it is there that Farenzi has shown his skill. So truly am I your friend," added he, taking Castello by the hand, and throwing into his countenance an expression of sorrow," that since I know I cannot myself inherit my niece's estates, there is no man in Genoa whom I would more willingly see in my place: even now, when Farenzi left me for a few moments, I was almost tempted to take up his brush, and make a cari cature of my niece."" There is then no remedy," said Castello. "There is nothing without a remedy," replied Valetti, " so as we have but courage to attempt it."-"Show me how," returned Castello," and I will prove to you I know how to estimate a kindness.""Farenzi sups with me to-night; it is only vaulting over his garden wall, when the clocks strike eleven, for he will scarcely leave me till midnight; it is full moon, and the picture cannot be mistaken. Nine, tomorrow morning, is the hour appointed by the Marquis; and the discovery and the hour will arrive together.""At eleven, then, Farenzi will be absent ?""Even so," said Valetti, as he left the room.

As eleven tolled from the church Dell Annunciada, Farenzi and Castello stole softly, each towards his rival's dwelling. Valetti had posted himself in a convenient place, to enjoy the success of his stratagem, and, soon after, he saw the two artists, muffled up, pass each other, and in a little while return. It was now almost midnight, and Farenzi and Castello, each satisfied in his own mind that he had made a caricature of his rival's performance, and secured his own success, threw himself upon his bed, having first neatly folded up his own picture by the light of the moon, to be ready against morning. It so happened, that both the artists slept until it was almost time to present themselves before the Marquis, and hurrying on their doublets, and taking the pictures under their arms, they hastened to the Palazzo di Serra. The rivals were admitted, the Marquis was seated with Giulietta at his right hand, and the priest, who was to unite her to the successful candidate, on his left. The artists unfolded the pictures, and presented them to the judge. "What! villains," said he, the moment he cast his eyes upon them,

66 are

stant, the truth flashed upon them both-that each had in his turn been made the dupe of Valetti. The Marquis listened to the detail, and then spoke as follows:"You," said he, addressing the two painters, proved yourselves unworthy of this prize, by having endeavoured to gain it by dishonest means. As for Valetti, his claim I defeat thus:" and, taking Giulietta by the hand, he led the way to the chapel, where all was already prepared for the nuptial ceremony. And so, the two painters were punished for their meanness,-Valetti got nothing by his cunning,-Giulietta respected her father's will, and, if the Marquis married only a gold. smith's daughter, he got the goldsmith's fortune along with her, and the prettiest woman in Genoa to boot.

JANET AND THE CATHOLICS;

OR, THE " ARGUMENTUM AD HOMINEM." A NITHSDALE ANECDOTE.

By Dr Gillespie.

IT has frequently been observed, that our Scottish peasantry are possessed of a natural sagacity, which often places them, 'in matters of common-sense, more than upon a level with the upper ranks of society. Of this observation, the following anecdote may serve as an illustration.

All Scotland is aware of the existence of the once noble, and, we earnestly hope, soon again to be ennobled, family of Nithsdale. The Maxwells of Munshics are the representatives of this family, and, with a consistency which does them credit, continue still to adhere to the long persecuted, but now happily emancipated, religion of their fathers,-to that religion in the faith of which Lady Winnifred Nithsdale lived and died, who, with a presence of mind, and a talent almost unequalled in the annals of affection, rescued her husband, after the rebellion of fifteen, from the Tower of London.

Almost 40 or 50 years ago, a poor widow woman tenanted a small cottage, which she held of the laird, through the agency of his factor. This poor woman had seen better days, but her daughter had been decoyed into matrimony, misery, and death, by an Irish drover; and her eldest son, who succeeded to his father's lease of a good farm, had lost himself in that sloughof-despond, cautionry. The second son had gone to bed in a sloop, which rode at Arbigland quay ; but never rose again, as a Solway spring-tide laid the vessel during the night on her beam-ends, and she immediately filled, so that all hands perished. The poor woman, at an advanced age, and from the circumstance of her husband's having rented for some years a farm of Munshies, was permitted to remove to a remote cottage, where she had a kail-yard and a cow's grass allotted to her. The once young, sprightly, and playful Janet, had gradually ripened into the careful, charitable, and even gash gude. wife, and was now destined to settle down in her twilight of being into the hooded, staff-supported, yet still sagacious Janet. Old Janet was known to every body, and kind to every body, and, as she often expressed it herself, every body was kind to old Janet of the Divet Knowe.

There are, and were, a great many loose characters in that neighbourhood, owing principally to the travelling Irish, dealers in cattle; but whether it was, that the story of her daughter's unfortunate marriage was generally known amongst them, and consequently had its influence, or that they were naturally unwilling to commit depredations upon a being at once so esteemed and so helpless, these ragamuffins lighted their pipe at Janet's turf, dried their habiliments, rested their travel