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On a Musical Snuff-Box.-Notes from the Noctes.

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than it had left me on the preceding well conceived of the night-hag. Byday. Then I was dying; now the dangerous crisis was past. Then I had neither eyes, nor ears, nor indeed any other sense, for pleasure; now the sight of the blue sky alone, seen through the window as I lay in bed, was a source of infinite delight. Even the poor old nurse, who, in the hours of the night, had been so hateful to me, was, in my altered mood, a kind, officious creature, whose happy face had in it as little as could be

the-by, the good old creature, halflaughing, half-crying, reproached me with having beaten her in my delirium. This, if true-and I much fear it was-must have been when she brought me the medicine, and my overwrought fancy represented her as conspiring to poison me. Nor have I the least doubt, if it were worth while, that all my visions might in the same way be traced to some existing or foregone reality.

ON A MUSICAL SNUFF-BOX.

POOR little sprite, in that dark narrow cell
Caged by the law of man's resistless might,
With thy sweet liquid tones, by some strong
spell

Compelled to minister to his delight,
Whence, what art thou? Art thou a fairy
wight

Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell, Where thou hadst crept to rock in the moonlight,

And drink the starry dew-drops as they fell?

Say, dost thou think sometimes, when thou art singing,

Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow,
Where thou wert wont to list the heath-
bell's ringing,

And sail upon the sunset's amber glow?
When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme,
Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly

stream,

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'Mongst the companions of thy happier day:
For fairy sprites, like many other creatures,
Have fleeting memories that come and go,
Nor can they oft recall familiar features,
By absence touched, or clouded o'er with

woe.

Then rest content with sorrow, for there be
Many that must that lesson learn with thee,
And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully,
Till when thy tiny voice begins to fail,
For thy past bliss sing but one parting wail,
Poor little sprite, and then sleep peacefully!

NOTES FROM THE NOCTES.

PERIODICAL LITERATURE.

Shepherd. THIS seems to me to be the only age of the world, sir, in which poetry and creetishism ever gaed, like sisters, hand in hand, encircled wi' a wreath o' flowers.

North.-Now-all our philosophical criticism or nearly all-is periodical; 44 ATHENEUM, VOL. 2, 3d series.

and fortunate that it is so both for taste and genius. It is poured daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly, into the veins of the people, mixing with their very heart-blood. Nay, it is like the very air they breathe.

Shepherd.-Do you mean to say, "if they have it not, they die"?

North.-Were it withheld from them of criticism, than ever was said before

now, their souls would die or become stultified. Formerly, when such disquisitions were confined to quarto or octavo volumes, in which there was nothing else, the author made one great effort, and died in book-birthhis offspring sharing often the doom of its unhappy parent. If it lived, it was forthwith immured in a prison called a library-an uncirculating library-and was heard no more of in this world, but by certain worms.

Shepherd.-A' the warld's hotchin' wi' authors noo, like a pond wi' powheads. Out sallies Christopher North frae amang the reeds, like a pike, and crunches them in thousands.

North. Our current periodical literature teems with thought and feeling, James,—with passion and imagination. There was Gifford, and there are Jeffrey, and Southey, and Campbell, and Moore, and Bowles,* and Sir Walter, and Lockhart, and Lamb, and Wilson, and De Quincy,† and the four Coleridges, S. T. C., John Hartley, and Derwent, and Croly, and Maginn, and Mackintosh, and Cunningham, and Kennedy, and Stebbings, and St. Ledger, and Knight, and Praed, and Lord Dudley and Ward, and Lord L. Gower, and Charles Grant, and Hobhouse, and Blunt, and Milman, and Carlyle, and Macauley, and the two Moirs, and Jerdan, and Talfour, and Bowring, and North, and Hogg, and Tickler, and twenty-forty -fifty-other crack contributors to the Reviews, Magazines and Gazettes, who have said more tender, and true, and fine, and deep things in the way

since the reign of Cadmus, ten thousand times over,—not in long, dull, heavy, formal, prosy theories,-but flung off hand, out of the glowing mint a coinage of the purest oreand stamped with the ineffaceble impress of genius. Who so elevated in intellectual rank as to be entitled to despise such a Periodical Literature! Shepherd.-Nae leevin' man—nor yet dead ane.

North. The whole surface of society, James, is thus irrigated by a thousand streams; some deep-some shallow

Shepherd. And the shallow are sufficient for the purpose o' irrigation. Water three inches deep, skilfully and timeously conducted owre a flat o' fifty or a hunder acres, wull change arid sterility, on which half-a-score sheep would be starved in a month intil skeletons, intil a flush o' flowery herbage that will feed and fatten a baill score o' kye. You'll see a proof o' this when you come out to Mont Benger. But no to dwall on ae imagelet me say that millions are thus pleased and instructed, who otherwise would go dull and ignorant to their graves.

North.-Every month adds to the number of these admirable works; and from the conflict of parties, political, poetical, and philosophical, emerges in all her brightness the form of Truth.

AN OCTOGENARIAN IN LOVE.

Shepherd. I'll tell you a secret, sir and yet it's nae great secret either;

Miss Caroline Bowles, authoress of "Ellen Fitzarthur," "Widow's Tale," "Solitary Hours," &c. was the writer of" Andrew Cleaves," a story of deep and fearful interest, which many of our readers will recollect was published in the Atheneum a year or two since; and also of" The Grave of the Broken Heart," in our present volume. These, with other highly interesting sketches which have been for several years favorites in Blackwood's Magazine under the title of " Chapters on Churchyards," and some of which have appeared in previous volumes of the Atheneum, have been recently published in Edinburgh in a connected form, making two charming little 12mo. volumes.-Robert Southey's last volume of poems is dedicated to Miss Bowles, to whose genius and worth he expresses his happiness in bearing witness.

The paper on Rhetoric, from which were abridged the first article in the last number, and the one entitled" French Rhetoric" in the number for May 15, of the Atheneum, is attributed to the pen of Mr. De Quincy. "There is no other person in Great Britain," says a London editor, "with the exception of Mr. Coleridge, capable of writing it. To scholars, for its learning, to general readers, for its extraordinary eloquence, and to all who are scientifically employed in making their minds clearer and stronger, for its vigor and comprehensiveness,—we recommend the study of this article."

Shepherd.-Nane whatever-I weel ken that;—and I think I see you sittin' wi' your poothered head, aside her in the chay drawn by four blood horses, cavin their heads till the foam flies owre the hedges, a' adorned wi' white ribbons, and the postilions wi'

for I'm o' opinion that we a' ken our as it is called, has no terrors to me, ain hearts, only we dinna ken what's my dear Jamesbest for them,—you're in love wi' Mrs. Gentle. Na, na-dinna hang down your head, and blush in that gate; there's nae harm in't-nae sin-only you should marry her, sir; for I never saw a woman sae in love wi' a man, in a' my born days. North. I cannot bring myself to great braid favors on their breasts like think so, my dear James.

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North.-Crutch! Why, you know, James, well enough, that for the last twelvemonth I have worn it, not for use, but ornament. I am thinking of laying it aside entirely.

Shepherd." And capering nimbly in a lady's chamber!" Be persuaded by me, sir, and attempt nae sic thing. Naebody supposes that your constitution's broken in upon, sir, or that you're subject to a general frailty o' natur. The gout's a local complaint wi' you—and what the waur is a man for haein' an occasional pain in his tae ? Besides, sir, there's a great deal in habit-and Mrs. Gentle has been sae lang accustomed to look at you on the crutch, that there's nae sayin' hoo it micht be, were you to gie owre that captivatin' hobble, and figure on the floor like a dancing master. At your time o' life, you cud never howp to be an extremely-an uncommonly active man on your legs -and therefore it's better, it's wiser, and it's safer, to continue a sort o' lameter, and keep to the crutch.

North. But does she absolutely follow me with her eyes?

Shepherd. She just reminds me, sir, when you're in the room wi' her, o' a bit image o' a duck soomin' about in a bowl o' water at the command o' a loadstane. She's really a bonny body-and no sae auld either. Naebody 'll lauch at the marriage-and I shouldna be surprised if you had—

North." The world's dread laugh,"

roses or stars, smackin' their whups, while the crood huzzaws you aff to your honeymoon amang the mountains

North. I will pop the question, this very evening.

Shepherd.―Just tak it for granted that the marriage is to be as sune as the settlements can be drawn uplook to her, and speak to her, and press her haun, whenever she puts her arm intil yours, as if it was a' fixedand she'll sune return a bit wee saft uncertain squeeze-and then by and by

North. I'll begin this very eve

ning

Shepherd.-Saftly-saftly-moderate your transports. You maun begin by degrees, and no be owre tender upon her a' at ance, or she'll wunner what's the maitter wi' yoususpeck that you're mad, or hae been takin' a drap drink-and are only makin' a fule o' her

North.-Ha! yonder she is, James. Gentle by name, and gentle by nature ! To her delicate touch the door seems to open as of itself, and to turn on its hinges

Shepherd.-As if they were iled. Wait a wee, and may be you'll hear her bang't after her like a clap o' thunder.

North.-Hush! impious man. How meekly the most loveable matron rings the door-bell! What can that lazy fellow, John, be about, that he does not fly to let the angel in?

Shepherd.-Perhaps cleanin' the shoon, or the knives and forks. Noo mind you, behave yousell. Come awa': (The SHEPHERD takes the crutch, and

Mr. NORTH walks towards the
Lodge as fresh as a five-year-old.)

GENIUS NO APOLOGY FOR VICE.
*

Shepherd.-Confound me if I can tell whether you're speakin' sense or nonsense-truth or havers; or whether you be serious, or only playin' aff upon me some o' your Mephistophiles tricks. I aften think you're an evil speerit in disguise, and that your greatest delight is in confounding truth and falsehood.

North. My dear James, every word I have now uttered may be mere nonsense. I cannot tell. But do you see my drift?

Shepherd.-Na. I see you like a veshel tryin' to beat up against a strong wund and a strong tide, and driftin' awa to leeward, till it's close in upon the shore, and about to gang stern foremost in amang the rocks and the breakers. Sae far I see your drift, and nae farther. You'll soon fa' ower on your beam ends, and become a total wreck.

North.-Well, then, mark my drift, James. We idolize Genius, to the neglect of the worship of Virtue. To our thoughts, Genius is all in all Virtue absolutely nothing. Human nature seems to be glorified in Shakspeare, because his intellect was various and vast, and because it comprehended a knowledge of all the workings, perhaps, of human being. But if there be truth in that faith to which the Christian world is bound, how dare we, on that ground, to look on Shakspeare as almost greater and better than Man? Why, to criticise one of his works poorly, or badly, or insolently, is it held to be blasphemy? Why Is Genius so sacred, so holy a thing, per se, and apart from Virtue Folly all! One truly good action performed is worth all that ever Shakspeare wrote. Who is the Swan of Avon in comparison to the humblest being that ever purified his spirit in the waters of eternal life?

Shepherd.-Speak awa! I'll no interrupt you but whether I agree wi' you or no's anither question.

North. Only listen, James, to our eulogies on genius. How virtue

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must veil her radiant forehead before that idol! How the whole world speaks out her ceaseless sympathy with the woes of Genius! How silent as frost, when Virtue pines! Let a young poet poison himself in wrathful despair-and all the muses weep over his unhallowed bier. Let a young Christian die under the visitation of God, who weeps! No eye but his mother's. We know that such deaths are every day-every hour-but the thought affects us not

we have no thought-and heap after heap is added, unbewailed, to city or country churchyard. But let a poet, forsooth, die in youth-pay the debt of nature early-and nature herself, throughout her elements, must in her turn pay tribute to his shade.

Shepherd.-Dinna mak me unhappy, sir-dinna mak me sae very unhappy, sir, I beseech you-try and explain awa what you hae said, to the satisfaction o' our hearts and understandins.

North.-Impossible. We are base idolaters. 'Tis infatuation-not religion. Is it Genius, or is it Virtue, that shall send a soul to heaven? Shepherd.-Virtue-there's nae denying that ;-virtue, sir-virtue.

North.-Let us then feel, think, speak, and act, as if we so believed. Is poetry necessary to our salvation? Is Paradise Lost better than the New Testament ?

Shepherd.-Oh! dinna mak me unhappy. Say again that Poetry is religion,

North.-Religion has in it the finest and truest spirit of poetry, and the finest and truest spirit of poetry has in it the spirit of religion. But

Shepherd.-Say nae mair-say nae mair. I'm satisfied wi' that

North.-Oh! James, it makes my very soul sick within me to hear the puny whinings poured by philosophical sentimentalists over the failingsthe errors-the vices of genius ! There has been, I fear, too much of that traitorous dereliction of the only true faith, even in some eloquent eulogies on the dead, which I have been

the means of giving to the world. Have you not often felt that, when reading what has been said about our own immortal Burns?

Shepherd.I have in my calmer

moments.

North.-While the hypocritical and the base exaggerated all that illustrious man's aberrations from the right path, nor had the heart to acknowledge the manifold temptations strew ed around his feet,-the enthusiastic and the generous ran into the other extreme, and weakly-I must not say wickedly strove to extenuate them into mere trifles-in too many instances to deny them altogether; and when too flagrant to be denied, dared to declare that we were bound to forget and forgive them on the score of the poet's genius-as if genius, the guardian of virtue, could ever be regarded as the pandar to vice, and the slave of sin. Thus they were willing to sacrifice morality rather than that the idol set up before their imagination should be degraded; and did far worse injury, and offered far worse insult, to Virtue and Religion, by thus slurring over the offences of Burns against both, than ever was

done by those offences themselves ; for Burns bitterly repented what they almost canonized; and the evil practice of one man can never do so much injury to society, as the evil theory of a thousand. Burns erred greatly and grievously; and since the world knows that he did, as well from friends as from foes, let us be lenient and merciful to him, whose worth was great; but just and faithful to that law of right, which must on no consideration be violated by our judgments, but which must maintain and exercise its severe and sovereign power over all transgressions, and more especially over the transgressions of those to whom nature has granted endowments that might have been, had their possessors nobly willed it, the ministers of unmingled good to themselves and the whole human race,

Shepherd. You've written better about Burns yoursell, sir, nor ony body else breathin'. That you haebaith better and aftener-and a' friends of the poet ought to be grateful to Christopher North.

North. That is true praise coming from iny Shepherd. But I have fallen into the error I now reprehended.

BEFORE the holy martyr's shrine The wearied pilgrim lowly bows, There bids the costly jewels shine, The rich oblation of his vows;

Then joyful seeks his distant home,

RELICS.

The page o'er which her eye has glanced
Then turn'd on his its soften'd beam,-
Has he not o'er it hung entranced,
Whilst back return'd young Passion's

dream!

Though half his wealth he leave be- E'en though the tomb may o'er her close,

hind;

Whether he brave the ocean's foam,
Or meet the desert's fiery wind.

What has the wanderer's sighs suppress'd?
What can such lengthen'd toil
pay?-

He bears, close cherish'd in his breast,
A relic from the shrine away.

re

Yet smile not thou, nor deem him weak, Though more enlighten'd be thy mind; In thy heart's hidden treasure seek,

Thou many a relic there may'st find. The rose that faded on the breast,

The youthful lover deeni'd most fair,Was it not cherish'd, loved, caress'd, With more than all a miser's care?

The tress, that round her brows could

twine,

Is left to soothe his bosom's throes,
The relic of its inmost shrine.
Though his be manhood's sterner age,
Its pomps, its joys, its toils, its care;
Though toss'd by its fierce tempest's rage,
He still may some loved relic wear.

Though yon proud mansion be his lot,

Why turn his eyes with pensive gaze To yon sequester'd humble cot,

Where pass'd his jocund holidays? Why do that gallant veteran's eyes

Fill, as the glittering sword he draws? The friend who gave it lowly lies A martyr to his country's cause!

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