the closs, just as if he had been a stickit sheep, and in at the back door, which cost us some trouble, being narrow, and the barrow getting jammed in; but, at lang and last, we got him strieked out aboon the blankets, having previously shooken Benjie, and waukened him out of his morning's nap.

A' this being accomplished, and got ower, Blister decamped, leaving me my lieving lane, excepting Benjie, wha was next to naebody, in the house with the deeing man. What a frightfu' face he had, all smeared over with bluid and pouther-and I really jaloused, that if he deed in that room, it wad be haunted for ever mair, he being in a manner a murdered man, so that, even should I be acquitted of art and pairt, his ghaist might still come to bother us, making our house a bell upon yearth, and frighting us out of our seven senses. But, in the midst of my dreadful surmeeses, when all was still, so that you might have heard a pin fall, a knock, knock, knock, cam to the door, on which, coming to my senses, I dreaded first that it was the death-chap, and syne that the affair had gotten wind, and that it was the beagles come in search of me; so I kissed little Benjie, wha was sitting on his creepie, blubbering and greeting for his parritch, while a tear stood in my ain ee, as I gaed forrit to lift the sneck, to let the officers, as I thocht, harrie our house, by carrying aff me, its master; but it was, thank heevan, only Tammy Bodkin, coming in whistling to his wark, with some measuring-papers hinging round his neck.

"Ah, Tammy," said I to him, my heart warming at a kent face, and making the laddie, although my bounden servant by a regular indenture of five years, a friend in my need, "come in, my man. I fear ye'll hae to take charge of the business for some time to come; mind what I tell'd ye about the shaping and the cutting, and no making the guse ower warm, as I doubt I am about to be harled awa to the tolbooth."

Tammy's heart laup to his mouth. “Ay, maister,” he said, "yere joking. What should ye have done that ye should be ta'en to sic an ill place?"

Ay, Tammy, lad," answered I, "it is but ower true."-"Weel, weel," quo' Tammy-I really thought it a

great deal of the laddie-" weel, weel, they cannà prevent me coming to sew beside ye; and, if I can take the measure of customers without, ye can cut the claith within. But what is't for, maister ?"

"Come in here," said I to him, "and believe your ain een, Tammy, my man."

"Losh me!" cried the puir laddie, glowring at the bluidy face of the man in the bed. " Ay-ay-ay! maister; save us, maister; ay-ayay-you have na clowred his harnpan wi' the goose? Ay, maister, maister! whaten an unyearthly sight!! I doubt they'll hang us a'; you for doing't-and me on suspicion-and Benjie as art and part, puir thing. But I'll rin for a doctor. Will Ï, maister ?"

The thocht had never struck me before, being in a sort of a manner dung stupid; but catching up the word, I said wi' all my pith and birr, " Rin, rin, Tammy, rin for life and death!"

But Tammy bolted like a nine-yearauld, never looking behint his tail: so, in less than ten minutes, he returned, hauling alang auld Doctor Gripes, wham he had waukened out o' his bed, by the lug and horn, at the very time I was trying to quiet young Benjie, wha was following me up and down the house, as I was pacing to and fro in distraction, girning and whinging for his breakfast.

"Bad business, bad business; bless us, what is this?" said the auld Doctor, staring at Magneesy's bluidy face through his silver spectacles-"What's the matter?"

The puir patient knew at ance his maister's tongue, and, lifting up ane of his eyes, the other being stiff and barkened down, said in a melancholy voice, "Ay, master, do ye think I'll get better?"

Doctor Gripes, auld man as he was, started back, as if he had been a French dancing-master, or had strampit on a het bar of iron. "Tom, Tom, is this you? what, in the name of wonder, has done this?" Then feeling his wrist-" but your pulse is quite good. Have you fallen, boy? Where is the blood coming from ?"

"Somewhere about the hairy scaup,' answered Magneesy, in their own sort of lingo. "I doubt some arter's cut through!"

The Doctor immediately bade him

ie quiet, and hush, as he was getting a needle and silken thread ready to sew it up; ordering me to get a bason and water ready, to wash the puir lad's physog. I did so as hard as I was able, though I was na sure aboot the bluid just; auld Dr Gripes watching ower my shouther, wi' a lighted penny candle in ae hand, and the needle and thread in the ither, to see where the bluid spouted frae. But we were as daft as wise; so he bade me tak my big sheers, and cut out a' the hair on the fore part of the head as bare as my loof; and syne we washed, and better washed; so Magneesy got the ither ee up, when the barkened bluid was loosed, looking, though as pale as a clean shirt, mair frighted than hurt; until it became as plain as pease to us all, first to the Doctor, syne to me, and syne to Tammy Bodkin, and last of a' to Magneesy himsell, that his skin was na sae much as peeled; so we helped him out of the bed, and blithe was I to see the lad standing on the floor, without a haud, on his ain feet.

I did my best to clean his neckcloth and sark-neck of the bluid, making him look as dacentish as possible, considering circumstances; and lending him, as the Scripture commands, my tartan maud to hide the infirmity of his bluidy breeks and waistcoat; hame gaed he and his maister thegither, me standing at our closs mouth, wishing them a guid morning, and blithe to see their backs. Indeed, a

condemned thief with the rope about his neck, and the white cowl tied ower his een, to say naething of his hands jerked thegither behind his back, and on the nick of being thrown ower, couldna have been mair thankfu for a reprieve than I was, at that same blessed moment. It was like Adam seeing the deil's rear marching out o' Faradise, if ane may be allowed to think sic a thing.

The haill business, tag, rag, and bob-tail, soon, however, spunkit out, and was the town talk for mair than ae day. But ye'll hear.

At the first I pitied the puir lads, that I thocht had fled for ever and aye from their native country, to Bengal, Seringapatam, Botany Bay, or Jamaica; leaving behint them all their friends and auld Scotland, as they might never hear o' the gudeness of Providence in their behalf. But wait a wee.

Wad ye believe it? As sure's death, the haill was but a wicked trick played by that mischeevous loon Blister and his cronies, upon ane that was a simple and saft-headed callant. Deil a haet was in the ae pistol but a pluff o' pouther; and, in the ither, a cartridge paper fu' o' bull's blood was rammed down upon the charge, the which, hitting Magneesy on the eebree, had caused a business, that seemed to have putten him out o' life, and nearly pat me (though ane of the volunteers) out of my seven senses.

WHEN four young maidens, all beautiful as angels, come floating in, wreathed arm in arm, beneath the high-arched door of a drawing-room, where you are sitting on an Ottoman in romantic reverie, how starts the dreamer to his feet at the instantaneous Apparition! The effect, at first, is as of a single overpowering countenance-a combination of the four into one-the magic of a mysterious Monad. Eyes, noses, cheeks, lips breathe love and delight, smiles and kisses

even as if the garland were but one flower, the galaxy but one star. It is but one fair cloud illuminated by the sunlight-a holy glee of four voices, but one harmony! Christopher North supports himself on his crutch, and bends down before the undistinguishable glory. His senses, his imagination, his reason are bewildered-all is bright dazzling confusion before the old man's eyes-and you may count the very beatings of his heart. As the divine rustling of silks and satins ap

proaches, he collects his wandering thoughts, and gaping with incipient discrimination, he chuckles to observe that they are not angels-not goddesses, but four young flesh-andblood misses, each in her way prettier than her pretty mama, a Forget-meNot, a Friendship's Offering, a Literary Souvenir, a Christian Remembrancer.

Now, we know not how we could better have expressed our satisfaction on beholding the entrée into our Sanctum Sanctorum of these Four Blooming Perennials. They are all jewels -delights-perfect loves. How happy can we be with either-not were the other dear charmer away-but were they merely lying asleep for a season on our capacious table! Sweet creatures! we are in love with you all, nor perhaps would it be gallant to declare a preference. Each becomes Sultana in her turn-according to the movements of that most capricious of all passions-custom cannot stale your infinite variety-and we swear to be faithful to you during the period of our natural lives, in all the innocent affection of Platonic polygamy.

There was a clever paper in our last Number upon Metaphors, showing, that broken Metaphors (like other bankrupts) always make the best figure. We are availing ourselves of that excellent doctrine, and extending its principle to composition in general. We have spoken first of angels, we think-then of pretty girls-and now, still meaning the same thing, we use the common word, volumes-volumes -twelve shillings, half bound or in boards-embellished with engravings from pictures by the first masters, and the letter-press furnished by forty of the best poets of the age.

Now what is there to hinder a ferocious, shaggy-eye-browed Aristarchus of an editor or contributor to frighten off with a single frown all these four virgin volumes? It cannot be denied that their contents are extremely trifling-not to be weighed for a single moment, against the article Steam Engine in any Encyclopædia, or the Stot's Principles of Political Economy. It would be rash to assert that the state of mankind-nay even of Europe, will be widely, deeply, or permanently affected by the publication of these annual periodicals. In half a century they may even be generally forgot VOL. XIX.

ten-but who cares, if they are all perused or looked at with pleasure now? Of all prospects, that of the future is surely the most uninteresting. The present for our money, and the more it is embellished the bet ter, for it richly deserves cuts. None but ninnies look into futurity, and what thanks will they get for their pains? Why not a creature born ten years hence will ever so much as condescend to know that they ever existed. Should it so happen that some one of the Paulo-post-futurum gentry should lay his hand on an author who appealed to posterity, can there be a doubt that he will break out into a horse-laugh, and ask if the idiot could have believed in his heart that children were wiser than their fathers? Show us an instance of any respectable gentleman, passing muster as a blockhead all his own lifetime, and imposing on posterity as a firstrate fellow.-No, it won't do.-Once a dunce, always a dunce. If a literary man, a genius, cannot hold up his head above water, but suffers it to be kept under for the short space of twenty minutes, not all the Humane Societies on earth will resuscitate him. We shall suppose that he has been found drowned, and he must be buried under a plain slab. But get a name-a title from your contemporaries, however small, be it even that of Count Tims, and you are immortal.-Tims will be triumphant over Time. Saturn will in vain try to devour him-long after he has made no bones of Wordsworth, and all those other wiseacres who put their trust in posterity.

Where were we? Let us see. Ay, the Literary Souvenir; or, Cabinet of Poetry and Romance, edited by Alaric A. Watts. Six thousand copies, he tells us, of last year's volume have been sold, and we can easily believe it. Our own article upon it could not do less than introduce it into a thousand bou doirs. This year there is no falling off; on the contrary, the tree has come to its full bearing, and the fruit is of brighter hue and richer flavour. That palate would be indeed fastidious that could not relish such a dessert. It is a failing of ours to get drowsy after dinner, especially in the heat of a Christmas fire; but with this awakening volume spread fan-like before our eyes, they retain all their usual lustre throughout the evening. What delici

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Where yon sweet clematis flings, Far and wide, its starry rings; Where the graceful jasmine's braid, Makes a green, eye-soothing shade, And their shoots united rove O'er the trelliced roof above,Deep embower'd from mortal ken, Thread we now a Poet's Den !

Bright confusion revels there, Ne'er had she a realm more fair; 'Tis a wilderness of mind, Redolent of tastes refined. Tomes of wild romantic lore, Cull'd from Fancy's brightest store,— (Caskets full of gems sublime, From the silent depths of Time,) Poets, whose conceptions high Are sparks of immortality; Sages, Wisdom's self hath crown'd, People all the walls around; Or beneath the 'wilder'd eye, In "admired disorder " lie Ingots rich of Fancy's ore, Scatter'd o'er the crowded floor.

Mystic scraps are strewn around, Like the oracles profound Of the Delphic prophetess; And-as difficult to guess!China vases, filled with flowers, Fresh from evening's dewy bowers; Love-gifts from his lady fair, Knots of ribbon, locks of hair; Sprigs of myrtle, sent to keep Memory from too sound a sleep; Violets, blue as are the eyes That awake his softest sighs, And reward his love-sick lays With their smiles of more than praise; Spells of sweetness, gather'd 'round, Make those precincts hallow'd ground!

Here a broken, stringless lute; There a masker's antic suit; Fencing foils; a Moorish brand; Tokens strange from many a land; Memory's lights to many a scene Where his roving steps have been; Cameos rich, from mighty Rome; Laurel wreathes from Virgil's tomb; Golden fruit from Scio's vine; Views along the winding Rhine; Wither'd shrubs from Castaly, Spread below, or ranged on high, Mingle there promiscuously! And many a fair and sunny face, Many a sculptured shape of grace, Such as Guido's pencil warm'd, And Canova's chisel form'd,Brows by deathless genius crown'd,Breathe their inspiration 'round; Like the smile of primal Light, Making even Chaos bright.

By the open lattice sitting, Fever'd streams of beauty flitting O'er his heart, and o'er his brain, In one bright, unbroken chain; Drinking deep through every sense, Draughts of pleasure, too intense,Mark the poet's glistening eye Wandering now o'er earth and sky!

'Tis a blissful hour to him,— Slave of feeling-child of whim!Builder of the lofty rhyme,Bard,musician,-painter,-mime ; Ever sway'd by impulse strong, Each by turns, and nothing long : Fickle as the changing rays Round the sun's descending blaze; Still in search of idle toys; Pining after fancied joys; All that charm'd his heart or eye, Sought-possess'd-and then thrown by! Doom'd on shadows thus to brood, Whilst life's more substantial good, All that wiser bosoms prize, Fades like day from yonder skies!