that you sing a good stave yourself. He says that, at his request, you would sing

"Old songs-the product of your native
hills;

A skilful distribution of sweet sounds,
Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed
As cool refreshing water."

It does not strike me that this is the description which a person of very musical ear would give of very good music. Is your friend, pray, not a little timber-tuned? But what were these songs of yours? The Flowers of the Forest, or Auld Robin Gray? Neither They were the product of your native hills. Gaelic, therefore; Achin frome, frome: or Machinahourich, that Jenkins used to sing far better than you could ever do; and no great shakes after all. Then as to stories, what is all the prosy stuff that a parson may tell you, about the people lying in a churchyard among the mountains, compared with what I have seen and heard. By the by, in that chapter, one of the parson's stories seems to me to have a very immoral tendency. I mean, where a girl, that has a natural child, is taken out as a wet-nurse. This is

a thing I never would permit Mrs
Tomkins to do. When she did not
nurse herself, I always insisted on her
having a married woman or a widow.
But to return to my own case: I was
speaking in praise of the narratives of
our Commercial Room, which I assure
you would rival, as in some respects
they resemble, the Decameron of
Boccacio. Were you ever bank-
rupt, Macglashan? I dare say not,
you never were respectable enough
to be in debt. Bankruptcy, I assure
you, is a fearful thing until you are
accustomed to it, and then it is ex-
cessively interesting and romantic.
Jack Jones used to say, "There is
not a more tragic sitiation in human
life than that there." And then
Higgins would reply," No, nor a
more comic one than when you get
your certificate!" I wish you had
heard Jones; and you may and shall
hear him. You and the public shall
hear more of him at a future period;
and at this present time you shall
hear him in a little sketch of com-
mercial distress, extracted from my
poetical record, and which I assure
you Jones used to give us in a style,
at once technical and touching, that
was peculiarly his own.
Here goes.
"You all have heard,"
The honoured Bagman thus pursued the theme,
"You all have heard of him, my carliest friend,
Who on the banks of Mersey's golden wave
Long grew a flourishing commercial tree,
Fruitful and fair; his roots descended strong
To central earth, his stature reached the sky,
And his broad branches shadowed half the globe.
Many and multifold his dealings were;
Cottons and coffees, and the extracted sweets
Of Occidental India's luscious cane

Enriched his crowded stores; deep laden ships,
Freighted or owned by him in whole or part,
Speckled the sea; and far along the land
In many an enterprise of high design,

The railway rapid, or the slow canal,

His shares were countless as the stars of Heaven :
While East and North and South with joy received
Unnumbered bagmen on his errands bent.

But chiefly was his name and honour known
In every nook within his native shire

As the first partner of a banking firm.

High was their credit in the mouths of men,

And wide as on the pinions of the wind

Their issuing notes in all directions flew,

The mystic shadows of substantial gold.

"Such was the merchant, and the man still more
A loving wife,

Was prosperous and blest.

His sleeping partner now for twenty years,

Graced the proud top of his domestic board;

Five daughters and three sons were ranged around.

And for his casual or invited guests

Daily a dozen covers more were set.

His stables far resounded with the neigh

Of coach-horse, hack, and racer, while around,
The travelling chariot or the family coach,
With lesser vehicles of varied use,

Employed the care of many a menial hand.

"It seemed as if his happy fate had fixed
A spoke in fortune's wheel; but now arose
Reverses sharp and sudden; favourite stocks
Fell to a discount; ships went down at sea,
And underwriters would not pay the loss.
Blind, nameless whisperings floated in the air,
And looks ambiguous, shakings of the head,
Or archings of the brow, diffused alarm.
Dim hollow murmurs rumbling in men's ears
Bespoke to all, except its destined prey,
The coming earthquake; and at length it came.
"One summer morning, at their opening hour,
The tellers in the bank perceived with dread
A throng unusual pressing round the doors.
My friend was sent for; he was out of town,
At a fair villa on the Chester road.
Swiftly he came; but shuddered when he saw
That ominous sight; along the counter's edge
A row of faces eagerly advanced,

Demanding audience, while contending hands
Outstretched displayed their documents of debt,
Receipt, or banker's note, or bill mature,
With a black troubled sea of heads behind.

One row retreating for another row

Made way incessant, as wave follows wave:
And now the current setting fiercely in
Proclaimed too well that dreadful thing-a run.
All day the tide tumultuous rolled along
With deafening roar-insatiate to devour
The stately structure of a prosperous life.
Not on that day was seen with wonted cheer
The welcome visitor, with treasure fraught,
Rejoicing to dismiss the anxious charge
From his own keeping: if he came at all,
He came with altered countenance, to reclaim
What he had gladly lent the day before.
Nor traders only swelled that gloomy crowd:
The pale mechanic there, now paler seen,
The trembling beldame, trembling more with fear
Than with old age, brought forth, in tattered guise,
The hoarded paper that expressed their all,
And when they grasped the scarce expected gold
With upturned eyes of joy fled fast away.

O who shall tell the merchant's heaving breast
And heavy heart: not easy was the task
To wear an aspect smiling or serene,
While ruin's march was thundering in his ears:
But when he marked among the rest a face
Of one he deemed a friend, of one who oft
Had ate his bread and tasted of his cup,
Now seen remorselessly to join the cry
Of that fierce pack that hunted him to death,
This overcame him quite and he retired
To hide his feelings from the face of day.

"The bank, at last, was almost drained of gold,—

For at that period Bank of England notes

Were not a legal tender,-and had now

Begun in part to pay in siver coin

When hark! the tongue of an adjoining clock,
More welcome sound ne'er fell on listening ear,
Proclaimed the hours of business at an end.

"I cannot paint, though I can partly feel
The miseries of that night: I had returned
That evening from my journey to the north,
But did not see my friend: the following morn
I took his letters to him from the post :
I scarcely dared to look on him but stole
A reverent glance of pity and of fear:
He seemed indeed a strangely altered man,
Yet he spoke cheerily but when he read
A letter that my hand too rashly gave,
Prone at my feet he fell.

:

The letter told

Of aid spontaneous and unlooked for, sent

By generous friends; and bringing a reprieve
From swift destruction it o'erwhelmed him thus.
The news spread quickly round: and soon the calm

Of confidence dispersed the raging storm.

My friend seemed happy, chiefly that his wife
And daughters had escaped that dreadful day.
But soon I saw the outward cicatrice
Concealed a sad and mortal wound within,
And ere the bank's half-yearly settlements

Thrice struck, had proved his wealth and name repaired,
My friend and patron died, in prime of life,
Beloved and honoured, of a broken heart."
You will not deny that a run is
a very moving incident; and if Mr
Wordsworth and you may say that
my narrative smells too much of the
shop and too little of the lamp, do it
better yourselves, and I'll engage it
shall be popular, at least among our
fraternity.

limited acquaintance with comparatively few persons in the rural districts of the border, is not to be compared with my knowledge of many men in many towns all over the island.

III. Implements of Trade.

One further point of difference in In further considering our relative our experiences I shall notice, which is, that your beat has been chiefly claims to poetical dignity, my attenamong mere rustics, while mine has tion is forcibly arrested by the most led to an intimate acquaintance with conspicuous badge of a Pedlar's calling the urban population. It cannot, II mean THE PACK. The first idea presume, be disputed that considerable

towns are at once the result and the
test of civilisation, and that they are
the great receptacles of talent and
wisdom. Who was the wisest man?
I don't mean according to the Mother's
Catechism, in which, perhaps, you are
more versant than myself; but I ask
the question with reference to the re-
cords of profane history. Ulysses
unquestionably. And how was his
wisdom acquired? Horace after Ho-
mer tells us the reason :-" Qui mores
hominum MULTORUM vidit et URBES."
How would it do if he had said
"Qui mores hominum paucorum vidit
et AGROS?" This would scan as
well, but would it be as good sense?
Plainly not. On this high authority,
therefore, you must concede that your

that it suggests is its effect in retarding
motion. Resembling as you do a snail
in his habits, by carrying, if not your
house, yet your shop upon your back,
you would fairly outdo him in a race on
the donkey principle. But this is the
least of it. The snail carries his bur-
den freely and gracefully, because na
turally. Your condition as a Pack-
man is a standing violation of the first
law of nature in relation to the desti-
Let any body look at
nies of man.
you with your chest making an angle
of 45 degrees with your natural per-
pendicular, and ask if this is the posi-
tion in which a lofty character is to be
formed? Well did the poet say in a
trite but noble passage-
"Pronaque cum spectent animalia cetera
terram,

Os homini SUBLIME dedit; cœlumque videre

JUSSIT, et erectos AD SIDERA tollere vultus."

THE BAGMAN TO HIS BAG.
1.

My faithful Bag! no tongue can tell
What rising joys my bosom swell,
When, linked with thee, I speed along,
And sound thy praise in many a song,
While here and there I broach the cag,
And drink to thee, my faithful Bag.

2.

Your own poet tells us that "the primal duties shine aloft-like stars!" How should you ever get a knowledge of them with a pack on your shoulders? No, Murdoch, you plainly belong to the cetera animalia. Down, then, on your marrow-bones, and perform in a suitable position your appropriate functions of a beast of burden! One advantage, indeed, your profession in this respect may have brought with it, that the callosity of your dorsal muscles may have better prepared you for your present flagel- No cumbrous stores thy depths conceal,

lation.

As to the pack itself, Mr Wordsworth has made the most of it when he says,

"Within their moving magazines is lodged.
Power that comes forth to quicken and
exalt

Affections seated in the mother's breast
And in the lover's fancy; and to feed
The sober sympathies of long-tried
friends."

But were we to come to details, how poor and mean would the contents appear. I decline to vulgarise Mr North's pages with an enumeration of articles so essentially unpoetical, and which every reader's fancy can readily supply.

See now the contrast between yourself and me. In attitude how different! Nature, in my case, has not only escaped degradation, but has received assistance and embellishment. Nothing is so good for the carriage as driving a gig. Then, in our paraphernalia, what an immeasurable distance between the pack and the bag! The one all that is coarse and clumsy-the other all that is graceful and genteel; the one all body-the other all spirit; the one prose-the other poetry. that the pen of Wordsworth had been employed to describe the wonders of this magic repository, which, like Fortunatus's purse, contains such boundless resources in so narrow a compass; always emptying yet never empty; always filling yet never full. But if Wordsworth declines the task, Tomkins himself must try it, and favour you with

O

Let paltry Pedlars bow the back,
And pant and pech beneath the pack;
Thy soft expansion, void or full,
Is light as lady's reticule.

No porter's load I need to drag
While thou art mine, my faithful Bag.

3.

Of hard or soft, of stuff or steel :
But mighty Commerce finds in thee
Her portable epitome.

It costs me neither force nor fag
To wield thy weight, my faithful Bag.
4.

From door to door as forth I go,
And all thy tempting treasures show,
The maidens round enraptured gaze,
And feel their bosoms in a blaze;
While thus their tongues in concert wag,
"Oh the dear Bagman and his Bag!"

5.

In gig or mail, as on I roll,
Thy loved idea haunts my soul:
But most when frosts are biting chill
I blow a cloud, serene and still-
Havannah fine, or simple shag-
And muse on thee, my faithful Bag.

6.

Though varied scenes my eyes survey,
As fate directs my wandering way,
Yet still thy presence fills my heart,
In street or store, in church or mart;

By flood or fell, on knoll or crag,
I think of thee, my faithful Bag.

7.

Place me where ne'er a summer breeze
With balmy breath refreshed the trees,
Where fogs and frowning skies abound,
And not a bill or note is found,
My heart and voice shall never flag
To love and laud my faithful Bag.

8.

Place me where overhead shall run
The car of the too-neighbouring sun,
Where far along the burning zone,
Commercial houses scarce are known-

Till thirst unquenched my mouth shall gag,
I'll fondly sing my faithful Bag.