noxious to any of those deeply-rooted, but petty vexations, which disturb the equanimity of so many country-gentlemen. It may be deemed a fortunate circumstance for Mr. Dumps, that during his single state of life (which we may almost now call it, by comparison) he had never been induced by his father to take up his residence at Invermair. Ennui and bile are bad enough in a busy metropolis, but in the shady retreats of the country-in those arcadias of the golden age-they are poisonous reptiles which deposit their eggs by hundreds in some dirty heap, to be fomented into life at a future day. Who is not aware that, under these morbid feelings, pursuits, diversions, parties, politics, nay, I was going to say even graver opinions, become matters purely personal-that the barber of the village is a whig, because the grocer is a tory—that the apothecary votes for Mr. Freely, because the reverend divine gives his suffrage to Mr. Close. Nay, we have known a direct influence to have been worked by such means, even upon the tastes, as well as opinions, of very estimable persons, and remember a gentleman who was forcibly convinced of the unpalatable flavour of green peas, because his neighbour, Mr. Sneer, who had criticised the new turn in his sunk fence, one foggy day, always made a point of having a dish from his own garden (season permitting), upon the twenty-ninth of May. Whenever Mr. Biliary and Mr. Sneer were invited to the same dinnerparty, if the wind happened to be in the east, it was always observed that something unpleasant occurred about green peas. Then, all the struggles and contentions, plotting and contriving, riding and writing, about turnpike or private roads, enclosures, commons, walls, palings, ponds, and paupers! "Well," said we, one November day to a friend, who was perambulating his acres with considerable flaccidity of mind, "how goes on the contest about the new site for the guide-post, that was blown down at the fifth turn in Twistumtwircum-lane?" "Famously," said he, with the quick snap of a patent percussion, "spite of the archdeacon," and a new life shot into his eye, demeanour, and conversation, for the rest of the morning.

From all these "spots on the sun," the mental atmosphere of the Laird of Invermair was entirely free, or to use a more homely metaphor, no one had had an opportunity of working any such sore points, "of establishing" such "raws" upon his moral cuticle, to be touched whenever occasion might be. He had not a single grudge, much less any complicated acrimonies bottled up within him, which might equally explode upon the point of a cucumber, if his neighbour was an horticulturalist; or on the horn of a heifer, if he was addicted to cattle. He never, when a candidate for the Bench, darkly suspected that he espied the tail of his neighbour's black galloway turn demurely and hypocritically into the back yard of the lord lieutenant's mansion. He could meet all his acquaintance, with a free, open, sincere brow, and what gave no small weight to the soundness of his opinions, and to his general utility in the country was, that his mind unbiassed looked at all matters submitted to his judgment, in their own real lights, unobscured by the halo of party, pique, or prejudice. A process which, if ever generally adopted, may one day present to our wondering eyes the hitherto invisible goddess who is said to "lie at the bottom of a well."

In our literary character we think it right to conclude with a sort of épopée; to set before the eyes of the public, ere we take our leave, the

principal character of our narrative in a striking position; to record a scene which not unfrequently, we are told, takes place in the lower halls of northern mansions, where domestics and retainers still possess a certain sense of that broad line of demarcation, which is the only preservation of condescension upon the one hand, and of familiar, but unquestioned respect upon the other.

It was about a year after the epoch of our first visit to Invermair, and during the tedious progress of the Dumps manuscript through the press, that we again became inmates of that hospitable mansion. We arrived, indeed, with some of the proof-sheets in our pocket. Besides the respected and amiable family itself, a festive party was already assembled, evidently to celebrate some joyous event.

Mr. and Mrs. George Gilbert, Mr. La Fleur, Solomon Upsyde Down, Esq., and a large detachment of the charming Maxwell family, besides some guests of the immediate neighbourhood. As we entered at the far end of the park, with a north-east wind in our teeth, that truly tintinnabulary peculiarity of the British nation, the "half-hour bell" struck upon our ear, which, our appetite being somewhat whetted by a recent transition from metropolitan to Scottish air, induced us civilly to call the attention of the driver to the fact; and we had scarcely time to exchange, with some precipitation, our drabs for our blacks, before we were summoned by a second appeal from that eloquent monitor to descend towards the festive board.

Having made our best bow to the interesting party assembled, and when all had taken their seats, it soon transpired, by the presence of a gentleman in black (who had quickly fattracted my eye), that the event of the day was the christening of the infant son and heir of Mr. and Mrs. Francis Mayfield Delaroue. After the ladies had retired, and we ourself had, in compliment to the occasion, indulged in an extra glass of our favourite beverage, port (of which the gentleman in black was the only other participator); and scarcely had the laird taken the string of the bell in his hand (as a mere matter of form), to offer us a third bottle, when we were summoned to descend into that part of the mansion appropriated to the domestics; and speciatim into the steward's room, a large apartment where preparations had been made for a "servants' ball."

There was the portly form of the butler pacing about in short steps, with an air both of command and patronage towards the various guests. At the upper end of the room, a severe looking female-the housekeeper, in a high authoritative cap, had collected round her all the aristocracy of the regions below; the delicate London lady's-maid, with her ringlets and French watch (on which an ancient dame of considerable caliber was heard to make some remarks in broad Scotch); the gentleman's gentleman, with his flowered waistcoat and curled hair; and all who had the privilege of entrée to the steward's room, for cheese and fruit after the general dinner in the servants' hall. At the sides of the room were nurses and nursery-maids of all degrees, housemaids, and cooks, of the second sphere, attended by powdered footmen, and close-cropped grooms. At the far end, were plump and rosy-faced scullions, and romping stable-boys, with all the never-ending gradations of supernumeraries, who find excuse to quarter themselves upon a country-house.

The younger part of the family, including Mr. La Fleur, had already,

according to the custom of the " North," led off the ball with some of the principal domestics, or (amongst the invited guests) with the farmer's daughters; and at the end of the country-dance, all were again seated in their respective parts of the somewhat formal circle, when a voice issued from the upper division of the room.

"I'm aa for the cushion dance; I wad na give a baubee for a baa withoot that."

The ladies' maids blushed-the gentlemen's gentlemen drew their fingers through their curls-the housemaids riggled about in their seats -and the scullions and stable-boys tittered until they were crimson in the face.

"Wha ever heard of sic auld warld gear as that noo-a-days?" said Mr. Alexander M'Orpheus, the leader of the fiddlers, who had come from Edinbro' upon the top of the Highflier for the occasion.

"I'm thinking," replied the first interlocutor, "that you not only ken it as weel as me, Sandy, but ha danced it mony a time, afore Mr. Scrapethekit, the maister fra Edinbro', heard you play Jenny dang the weaver,' at the Oatsheaf and Thistle, and had you aff with him to the toon."

This produced renewed titters from the lower part of the room.

"And if you are ower muckle of a gentleman noo to have ony memory, and have given a kick ahint to by-gone days, here's Alan the piper can handle it in a way that wad gar the very stanes dance. Aa this comes of your French fashions."

During the time this dialogue was going on, a boy had been despatched for a cushion, which he presented to Mr. Dumps; and to our no small astonishment (we speak of ourself in the singular sense, for others appeared to see little extraordinary in it), the laird himself half ambled, half danced, once round the whole circle, with the wellfeigned doubt which of the fair expectants to select; until on his return he threw down the cushion at the feet of the portly dame who had given rise to this discussion, and sinking upon it on one knee, solicited her hand as a partner in the dance.

The reader will already have recognised that same Mrs. Margery who bore so important a part in the development of our narrative. Blushing in roseate hue, but with great formality and respect, she rose from her seat in her high cap, stiff bodice, and what appeared the remains of an ancient farthingale. A position was taken in the middle of the room, while all looked on in silence; Alan the piper struck up the well-known air, and the heels and thumbs of the old dame immediately resumed, as if mechanically, their long suspended office. In a low, steady trot, performed wholly upon the heels, with slightly-extended arms, and uplifted thumbs, she commenced the dance, maintaining always the same position and same ground. The laird endeavoured as much as possible to accommodate his steps to hers-face to face they performed it, and with the customary gravity of countenance the steady trot being only varied by occasional modulations of the tune, which were marked by a stronger beat of the heel, and the even tenour of the step resumed. Again and again the tune had sounded another division of the dance-the old dame became more and more animated, elevating her thumbs a little higher-her partner appeared to participate in her warmth-and in that position, we leave the Laird of In

vermair.

LITERATURE OF THE MONTH.

TRAVELS IN THE TRANS-CAUCASIAN PROVINCES OF RUSSIA.*

We have ever felt that the traveller who is induced, from whatever motives, to publish the results of his travels without having entered upon them with that express view, is almost bound, as a matter of good faith and duty to his readers, to communicate those results in the precise form (errors and superfluities excepted), in which he recorded them for his own or his friends' gratification. The truth is, that unless he do so communicate them-if he tamper with them in any way whatsoever, with a view to their (so called) improvement or expansion, or if he remodel or 'reindite them, from any mistaken notion that the "Diary" form in which his observations were noted down at the moment of their occurrence is too simple and inartificial to meet the critical eye of a "discerning public"-if he do either of these things, much more if he do all, as many of our recent book-making travellers have done-he will inevitably rob his pages of all that freshness of spirit, and that air of honesty and good faith, which form the greatest charm and value of works of this nature.

As a negative proof, at least, that our theory is right in this particular, we have only to adduce the very pleasant and attractive volume of Captain Wilbraham; which, according to the distinct statement of its writer, is offered to us in the Diary form, precisely as it was written, amid the very scenes and circumstances which it describes.

"My journal," says the author," was at first kept for the amusement of my own family. Latterly, travelling as I was without the society of any European, it became quite a companion to me; and whether my carpets were spread in the dark and noisome stables of an Armenian hovel, or in the palace of a Turkish pasha, I allowed no evening to pass without recording more or less fully, the impressions of the day. Many a page (he adds) has been written amid hurry and confusion, or after a long and fatiguing march; but I have preferred giving unaltered the remarks which the moment suggested."

We cannot too much applaud a resolution as politic as it was honest, and the result of which is as amusing and instructive a volume of its kind as we are any where acquainted with. It appears from the opening pages, that Captain Wilbraham, being at Tehran, on official business, at the period when the long-protracted negotiations between Persia and Herat, were suddenly broken off (in July, 1837), determined to take advantage of a favourable opportunity which presented itself, to visit those highly-interesting countries which lie between the Caspian and the Black Sea. Accordingly, having made his arrangements for a journey to be continued during the remainder of the autumn and the winter months, he departs for Tabreez, where he arrives on the 6th of August; whence he makes an interesting excursion to the mines of Karadagh, where a band of Scottish miners had recently established themselves, and created (as if by magic) a scene of European life that must produce a singularly striking effect, when encountered among the mountains of Persia.

Travels in the Trans-caucasian Provinces of Russia. By Captain R. Wilbraham. 1 vol.

On the 20th of August our traveller fairly starts on his trans-Caucasian journey; and we venture to say the reader can scarcely do a more agreeable and instructive thing than follow him step by step through a country full of interest, with many points and features of singular novelty aud curiosity, and at this moment undergoing changes (consequent on Russian rule) which are fraught with high political importance, and to no country in the world more than to England, since they more or less affect the position of our Indian dependencies.

The volume is written in an easy, graceful, and even cultivated style, and is one of the very pleasantest books of its class that has come before us for many a day.

MORTON OF MORTON'S HOPE.*

WE have been exceedingly pleased with these volumes, which introduce the reader to a variety of stirring adventure and diversity of characters, in several conditions of society, and in two hemispheres; and are written with considerable tact, terseness, and ability. In the shape of an autobiography, Uncas Morton, of Morton's Hope, in New England, recounts the vicissitudes of his life, together with the adventures of various German associates, and of his father, among the Indian tribes of North America. It opens in New England at the period just preceding the breaking out of the American war of Independence, is carried to Germany, and closes in America, at the surrender of General Burgoyne. The scenes illustrative of Uncas's early character, and portraying the qualities and oddities of his uncle Joshua, and his aunt Fortitude, are written with great humour and quaintness, worthy of the early style of Washington Irving, and at once propitiate the reader in favour of the author. The early developments of Uncas's character were plasticity and fickleness, and after being crossed in love and other misfortunes, he flies from America in disgust and retires to Germany. His accounts of the German students-their clubs, beer-journeys, wine-duels, drinking Schmollis, duels of twelve and twenty-four gangs, Landesvater, and all the other diversions in the economy of German student life, are given with great fidelity and spirit.

The following among others, are two modes resorted to by one of the students to provoke duels. Otto Von Rabenmark, walks in the Weender Strasse in Gottingen, dressed in the most preposterous manner, preceded by a terrier with a wreath of artificial flowers round his neck, and his tail decorated with fancy-coloured ribbons. To the observation of the townspeople he is perfectly indifferent; but on four students laughing, he demands the cause of their merriment, on which one remarks that he is laughing at the dog, while the others reply they are laughing at the master. Cards are immediately exchanged between him and the latter, and appointments made for duels. But of the first student, as the insult was to little Fritz, he demands an apology to the dog, or a duel at three paces without barrier-the refusing of which, according to usage, would be public posting and expulsion from his club. The student remonstrates, but Fritz is inexorable.

* Morton of Morton's Hope: an Autobiography. 3 vols.