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How delightful, even to elders like yours, there is nothing he likes so well us, to feel Spring breathing once more as to propose a walk among the pleaover air and earth! We have been sant banks and braes, now alive with quite happy and contented with Win- the new-born lambs, through whose ter, however severe ; nor have we ever bleating you can but faintly hear the. felt the slightest inclination to be sa- lark returning from heaven. tirical on that hoary personage. On

We seldom are exposed to any very the contrary, there is not a Season of strong temptation to leave town till them all whom we love better than about the second week in April. Up hale, honest, old Winter. But when to that time the dinners have comhe has migrated from the lengthening plete power over us, and we could days, we think cheerfully on the last not tear ourselves away without time we shook hands with him ; and acute anguish. Lamb (see last paraknowing that he is as regular as clock- graph) has been exquisite for weeks; work, have no doubts of his return as and when enjoyed at the table of a soon as he hears that we have again friend, not expensive. Garden stuffs, laid in our November stock of coals too, have purified our blood, and, if and corned-beef. Indeed, his son, that be possible, increased our appea Spring, has so strong a family resem- tite. Spring has agreeably affected blance to his father, that were it not our animal being, without having as for the difference of their complexion, yet made any very forcible appeal to and a totally dissimilar style of dress, our intellectual or moral system. To we should frequently mistake the one leave town during such a crisis of prifor the other. The likeness, however, vate affairs, would obviously be inconwears off as we become better ac- sistent with our judicious character. quainted with the young heir-appa- Take them on the whole, and the best rent, and find that with most of his dinners of a cycle of seven years will father's virtues, he possesses many pe

be found to fall in the months of culiar to himself; while in every point March and April. We have verified of manners or lesser morals, he bears this fact by tables of observation kept away both the bell and the palm from for eight-and-twenty years, now in the his sire. Like the old gentleman, he temporary possession of Dr Kitchener, is occasionally cold to strangers-biting who has been anxiously collating them in his remarks-or wrapt up within with his own private Gastronomical himself; but his icyness soon thaws Journal. his face becomes animated in the Yet in spite of such tender ties, by extreme-his language is even flowery which we are bound to the urbane -and putting his arm kindly within board well on into April, our poetical VOL. XIX.

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imagination is frequently tempting us Perhaps you may be a little surpriaway into the country. All such sed at first, when we tell you

that we temptations we manfully resist; and do not like, on our first vernal visit to to strengthen us in the struggle, we the country, to go to Buchanan Lodge. never refuse a dinner invitation, except We hate having anything to do with when we have reason to know that we a Flitting. These lazy, lubberly porshall be asked to eat patés. Mr Cole- ters, pretending that their backs bend ridge, meaning to be very severe on uncler half a load for an ordinary GirMr Jeffrey for having laughed at some zie, try all patience; and there is no verses of Mr Wordsworth's, about standing a whole forenoon's sight of a " the child being father of the man," great blue-railed waggon, with a horse declares somewhere or other, that not seventeen bands high in the shafts, willingly would he gaze on a setting sun sound asleep. A Flitting “is a thing to with a man capable of the enormity of dream of, not to see.” The servants ensuch a criticism. On the same prin- gaged in one have a strange, wild, hurciples precisely, not willingly would ried, flustered, raised look, very alarmwe gaze on the setting sun with any ing to a Sexagenarian. More especially, man who, in his own house, had ever the cook, armed with spit and grid. asked us to begin dinner with a paté. iron, as with spear and shield, like Such a request shows a littleness of Britomart. The natural impetuosity soul and stomach, that could compre- of the culinary character is exaspehend the glory neither of a setting sun rated into effervescence; and if she nor a round of beef-two of the

very meet us hobbling down or up the best things, in their own way, in front steps, she thinks no more than heaven or on earth.

Jenny dang the weaver” of upsetBut about the “


middle and ting, or at least sorely jostling, her waist” of April, we order a search unoffending master. The chamberthrough our wardrobe for trowsers, maids have on Flitting-day an incomstriped and spotted waistcoats, jackets, prehensiblegiggle, through which they foraging-caps, and thick-soled shoes, seem to be communicating to one anocalled by our housekeeper, Clampers, ther thick-coming secrets—heaven onThen we venture to open our eyes and ly knows about what—and “my Butlook a little abroad over the suburban ler” assumes a more portly and pompgardens and nurseries. We had dog- ous air, in the consciousness of being gedly determined, indeed, not to take about to act round about the Lodge any notice of Spring symptoms before as a summer land-agent. Then all that time, for fear of pining away for within what a dusty desolation ! Only the green fields. Accordingly, we wore one chair, and that in the lobby, for our great-coat as faithfully as if it so many wearied bottoms Cupwere part of ourselves, even during the boards vast, and presses idle !" Tosoft days that now and then came morrow will be a fast-day to the mice balmy over the city gardens during and before the week-end, dozens the somewhat surly inonth of March. will have paid the forfeit of their lives We rather kept our eyes on the ground to the offended laws of their country; in passing by rows of poplars, which we for, next door, there is a maiden lady knew from the sweet scent were more curious in traps, and inexorably cruel than budding in the sunshine. When in the executive. You ring the bell a bee hummed past us about the sub- by way of a dreary experiment, and a urbs, we pretended not to hear her; ghostlike echo answers from cellar and and as to thes parrows, why, they twit- garret. For six months, and that is ter all the year through, almost as a long time for such an organ, that heartily as if they were inditing valen- tongue will be mute. One dead plant tines, and their chatter never disturbs is left behind in the lobby-window, us. In short, we wish to enjoy the first close to the front door, for all the gentleem brace of Spring in some soli- other windows in the house are closed tary spot, where nothing will impede up with shutters. No fear of the the mutual flow of our spirits, but poor unhappy embers on the kitchenwhere, “ the world forgetting, by the hearth setting fire to the tenement. world forgot,” we may wander away Bang goes the street-door, like one of together into the ideal lands of the those melancholy peals of thunder folImagination, nor care if we ever more lowed by no other on some unsettled return to this weary and distracted day that wants spirit for a stormlife.

elunk plays the bolt to the strongwrenched key in the hand of the porter shevelled hair veiling her pearly per

there is motion visible in the wag- son, by a water-fall; and her every gon, and the perceptive faculty finally spring have we in vain been seeking, admits that there is a Flitting. and still hope to find, although she

All the miseries above has it been hide from our embrace in a pool far frequently our lot to witness and par- away among the hills that overshadow take; but of late years it has been too the lonely source of the Ettrick, or much for us, and we have left the embowered in the beautiful Beauly, Flitting in the hands of Providence. delight in the solitude of the Dreme. Besides, how pleasant, on a stated day Once, and once only, have we been a and hour, to walk into Buchanan few miles above Ettrick Manse, and Lodge, an expected Head of a House ! memory plays us false whenever we All the domestics delighted to behold strive to retrace the solitude. It was their beloved master hobbling towards a misty day, and we heard without the porch. Every window so clear, seeing the bleating lambs. Each new that you know not there is glass- reach of the Ettrick, there little more the oil-skin on the lobby-floor glan- than a burn, murmured in the vacing undimmed-nestlings in a twitter pours, almost like a new stream to over all the clustering virandas; but our eyes, whenever we chanced to lose all this is subject for a future leading sight of it, by having gone round article, whereas the title of the present knoll or brae. Just as we came down is-Streams.

upon the kirk and manse, the rain was Well, then, Streams! The unpar- over and gone, and while mist-wreaths donable thing about, Edinburgh is, rolled up, seemingly without any that she wants a river. Two great wind, to the hill-top, a strong sun straddling bridges without one drop brightened the vale, and bathed a of water ! The stranger looks over the grove of tall trees in a rich steady battlements of the one, and in the lustre. Happy residence ! thought our abyss sees our metropolitan markets heart, as the modest Manse partook of -through the iron railing of the. the sudden sunshine, and smiled upon other, and lo! carts laden with old another pleasant dwelling across the furniture, and a blind fiddler and vale, yet a little gloomy in the shahis wife roaring ballads to a group dow. And a happy residence it had of tatterdemallions. What a glory been for upwards of half a century to would it be, were a great red river to the pastor, who, about a year before, come suddenly down in flood, and had dropped the body, and gone to his sweep away Mound and Bridge to the reward. No record-no annals of his sea ! Alas! for old Holyrood! What peaceful, inoffensive, and useful life ! new life would be poured into the Death had never once visited the Gude auld Town, thus freshened at its manse during all those quiet years, foundations ! And how beautiful to neither sin nor sorrow had sat by the see the dwindled ship gliding under fireside—and there had been no whiscloud of sail by the base of our castled perings of conscience to disturb the cliff! Oh! for the sweet sea-murmur, midnight sleep. The widow had to when torrent retreats before tide, and leave the long-hallowed hearth at her the birds of ocean come floating into the husband's death ; but there is to inland woods! Oh! that," like Horeb's right-thinking minds little hardship rock beneath the Prophet's hand," yon- in such necessity, long calmly conder steep would let escape into light the templated in foresight as a thing that. living waters ! But this wish is a mere might one day be, and now submitted whim of the moment; and therefore to with an alacrity to leave the vale it is our delight to escape for a week to for ever, that showed how dear it had the brooks of Peebles, or Innerleithen, been, and still was, to the old woman's or Clovenford, or Kelso.

heart! A new minister came to the Wherever we go to escape the parish, and he and his young wife Flitting, a stream or river there were in a few months respected and must be our ears are useless with beloved. Here they had let go the out its murmurs_eyes we might as anchor of their earthly hopes, never well have none, without its wimp- to be weighed again in that calm haling glitter. Early in life we fell in Their friends prophesied that love with a Naiad, whom we beheld they would live for ever--but long in a dream, sitting, with her long di- within the year the young minister


died-and was lying a corpse at the feathers are not worth an hour's purvery hour of that glorious sunshine! chase. There he comes in full sail Many eyes wept for him, who, over before the wind ! for although it is his grey-headed predecessor, would breathless down below here, there is have thought it foolish to shed any a strong current flowing three thoutears; for the grave is the fitting bed sand feet high, and the eagle has set for old age, and why mourn when the every inch of canvass. He nears upon curtains are drawn for ever? But when the chase ; but suddenly, as if scorning youth on the sudden dies—the voice the gabbler, puts down the helm of seems stifled in the mould—and hope his tail, and bearing up in the wind's and affection are with difficulty recon- eye, beats back, in a style that would ciled to the decree. The old widow astonish a Bermuda schooner, to his had left the manse, with quiet steps eyrie. and composed eyes, and all ħer friends Let us leave the loch, then, (for felt and knew that she would be cheer- Lochs will be well treated in another ful and happy in the small town leading article,) and go Naiad-angling where she was going to live, near some down the Yarrow. Do you think she of her own blood relations. But she would be tempted to rise to this bright who had but one year ago become a and beautiful butterfly, the azure fields wife, and had now a fatherless baby of whose winglets are all bedropt with at her bosom, left the manse during golden stars? Whatcruelty, toimmerge the dark hours, and was heard more into another element the child of air ! than sobbing as she took an everlast- Perhaps it is Psyche herself, so let ing farewell of her husband's grave. the captive free. Ha! did she not

But we are in chase of the Naiad, waver away into the sunshine, like a the Musidora, whom we beheld bath- very spirit? ing in the lucid pool, and who, more Here is a pool worthy of any Naiad, beautiful far than she of the Seasons, had she even come to visit Scotland all had no need to disrobe, veiled in the the way from some Grecian fountain. lights and shadows of her own pearl- Look into it, and the water disappearenwoven tresses, that gave glimpses ing, you see but the skies ! A faint lochof loveliness from forehead to feet. borri breeze comes rustling through Lo! she rises up from the green vel- the one birch tree that hangs leaning vet couch beneath the atmosphere of over from the sloping bank, and for a St Mary's Loch, and leaning on the moment the vision hath evanished ! water as if it were a car, is wafted Oh! what a slight breath of earth can along the edge of the water-lilies of dispel a dream of heaven! The breeze the Naiads' own gorgeous garden,- has gone by, and there is the same that Crescent Bay! What a thing it is still, steadfast glory as before, the to have a soul-deluded eye in one's boundless ether pictured in a pool ten head! Why, it is merely a wild swan, fathom round! The Naiad, the Naiad! perhaps the identical one that Mr Bless thy sweet face, smiling up from Wordsworth saw, when he said, in his the pool, as if in one of those mirrors own delightful way, let

of deception sometimes exhibited by The swan on still St Mary's Lake

scientific and slight-of-hand men traFloat double, swan and shadow !

velling with a dwarf. What is this?

Let us look a little more narrowly into Heaven preserve us from ridicule, it is this business. There our nose is within a wild-goose ! Lame of a leg too, evi- six inches of the surface of the water ; dently, as, with a discordant gabble, and, reader, will you believe it, the it stretches out its neck, and with Naiad, by some potent necromancy much exertion contrives to lift up its held over her even in her own watery heavy hinder-end into flight. There's world, slowly changeth into-Christoa Naiad for you-off,“ slick away,'

. pher North, editor of Blackwood's to Norway at the nearest. Should Magazine, and other celebrated works! the Loch Skene eagle get sight, or Fain would we now, fancy-led, float scent, or sound of the quack, her down with the foam-bells, till

We passed where Newark's stately towers

Look out from Yarrow's birchen bowers. But lo! Altrive, the abode of our own Yarrow! the Beloved of Bards of Old, Shepherd, whom we have not seen well mayest thou be proud of the au

ce the last Noctes Ambrosianæ. thor of the Queen's Wake! and many a little pathetic lilt beside--hymn, the spirit, Wordsworth, of that divine elegy, and song, hast thou heard strain thou didst breathe, in thy inspibreathed by him, along with thy own ration, when first thy thoughtful eyes murmurs, during the pensive gloam- beheld the stream that had so long ing. Nor will thy pastoral sister, the murmured in the light of song. Ettrick, be jealous of your loves. For Delicious is the lay that sings in spirit all the streams are one that The haunts of happy lovers, flow through the Forest. And you The path that leads them to the grove, too, Ettrick and Yarrow, gathering The feafy grove that covers : them all together, come rushing into And Pity sanctifies the verse each other's arms, aboon the haughs That paints, by strength of sorrow, o'Selkirk, and then flow, Tweed-blent, The unconquerable strength of love; to the sea.

Our Shepherd is dear to Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! all the rills that issue, in thousands, from their own recesses among the But thou, that didst appear so fair braes; for when a poet walks through To fond imagination, regions his genius has sung, all na

Dost rival in the light of day ture does him homage, from cloud to

Her delicate creation : clod-from blue sky to green earth

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, all living creatures therein included,

A softness still and holy ; from the eagle to the mole. James The grace of foreign charms decay'd, knows this, and is happy among the

And pastoral melancholy. hills. But the hospitality of Altrive And why hast thou, wild singing spirit shall not be dismissed thus in a pass- of the Highland Glenorchy, that cheering paragraph, but shall have a leade est the long-withdrawing vale from ing article to itself, as surely as we Inverouren to Dalmally, and from Dal. know how to honour worth and ge- mally church-tower to the old castle nius.

of Kilchurn, round whose mouldering We called thee, Yarrow, The Be- towers thou sweepest with more penloved of Bards of Old! Ay! flowing sive murmur, till thy name and exin the brightness of thy own peace istence is lost in that noble lochalong the vale, yet wert thou often in- Why hast thou never had thy bard? voked by minstrels with a voice of « A hundred bards have I had in weeping. Blood tinged thy banks, bygone ages,” is thy reply ; nor could the stain be washed away the Sassenach understands not the traeven by the tears of the Sons of Song. ditionary strains, and the music of Thine became a traditionary charac- the Gaelic poetry is wasted on his ter, if not of sorrow, yet of sadness, Songs of war and of love are and all that is pensive or pastoral has yet awakened by the shepherds among ever seemed to breathe over thy braes. these lonely braes; and often when The wanderer carries thither with him the moon rises over Ben-Cruachan, a spirit of imaginative grief-an ear and counts her attendant stars in soft open to the mournful echoes of the an- reflection beneath the still waters of cient elegies of war and death. Thus, that long inland sea, she hears the let the holms of Yarrow glitter to the echoes of harps chiming through the sunshine as they will, yet, in the silence of departed years. Tradition words of the old strain, they are tells, that on no other banks did the “ dowie” holms still; just as we always fairies so love to thread the mazes of see something sad even in the smiles their mystic dance, as on the heathy, of a friend, whom we know to have and bracken, and oaken banks of been a man of sorrows, although to the Orchy, during the long sumhappiness he has been long restored. mer nights when the thick-falling Cheerful chaunts there are about thy dews almost perceptibly swelled the braw lads and bonny lasses ; but sit stream, and lent a livelier tinkle to down beside any shepherd on the hillo every waterfall. side, anywhere in the whole Forest, There it was, on a little riverand wherever

island, that once, whether sleeping Yarrow, as he flows along,

or waking we know not, we saw ceBears burden to the minstrel's song, lebrated a Fairy's Funeral. First we depend you upon it, the tale shall be heard small pipes playing, as if no one of tenderness and tears ! Such was

bigger than hollow rushes that whisthe determination of the poets of the per to the night-winds; and more days that are gone, and such too is piteous than aught that trills from

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