You may imagine the sensation occasioned by his arrival. Bella, who was reading at the time the third volume of Sense and Sensibility," actually fainted; Mr Sanderson, who had just got to the last page of " The Greenock Advertiser," let the paper fall in very visible agitation; his wife, who was indulging with Macalpin in some reminiscences of Inverary, and the "Black Loch," and the hill of "Duniequaigh," lost all her wonted presence of mind, and knew neither how to look or speak. Mr Dempster himself, though unable at the time to account for this odd sort of reception, was neverthe less the most self-possessed of the party; and some degree of composure having been restored, things went on for the rest of the evening as well as could have been expected. Early on the following morning, Miss Sanderson and "her own true love" were walking together by the coast, and the former was confidential. ly relating to the latter the ticklish and uncertain situation in which she stood. Mr Dempster placed his white hat with a very formidable look on one side of his head, and swore, by all the patron saints of Glasgow, that not a Highlander of them all should deprive him of his Arabella. The lovers then returned to breakfast; but Macalpin, whose penetration in affairs connected with the tender passion was not certainly to be much calculated on, had at length discovered something in their conduct to each other which he did not by any means like, and determining to crush in the bud the Glasgow haberdasher's presumption, he threw into his tone and manner, when he addressed him, all that stern dignity and fierce air of conscious superiority which none knew better how to assume than Alpin Macalpin. He placed his chair, too, next Miss Sanderson's, with a look which seemed to say, Let any one dare to occupy this seat but myself:-he walked by her side to church; he turned up the text for her in her own Bible; and this, let me remark, by way of parenthesis, was with him a very unusual piece of gallantry, indeed, had the passage not happened to be in the book of Genesis, I am sorry to be obliged to confess, that I have great doubts whether he would have been able to find it at all. In the afternoon and evening he conducted himself after the same fashion, and, in short, succeeded in engrossing the whole of Miss Bella's company. Mr Samuel Dempster, however, though a seller of cotton-stockings and bombazeens, was not a man to be browbeat by an Argyleshire drover, as he contemptuously termed his too dangerous rival. He knew that he would again have an opportunity of being alone with his mistress on the following morning, (for Macalpin would not have risen before ten to save the nation ;) and he took his measures accordingly. The morning was a remarkably fine one, and Arabella looked lovelier than ever. She was dressed, not in her lilac-coloured pelisse, but in a white robe and pea-green spencer. They walked on the road towards Greenock. I cannot tell you their conversation, but I know that they were met by a noddy before they were a mile out of Gourock. The noddy stopped, and the horse's head (for a noddy has only one horse) was turned again towards Greenock. Mr Dempster opened the door, and let down the steps. Miss Sanderson blushed, pulled out a white cambric handkerchief, and cast her eyes back towards her father's house in Gourock. "Is it of Macalpin you are thinking?" said Mr Dempster. The question was decisive. Arabella entered the noddy, and Samuel followed her. They drove to the "Steam-boat Quay” at Greenock, where they found the "Inverary Castle" on the very point of sailing for Glasgow. The hour of breakfast arrived at Gourock. The fresh-herrings were already on the table, and the tea had been masking for nearly twenty minutes, but what was become of Miss Sanderson and Mr Dempster? They were surely ignorant of the time of day, yet Mr Dempster's seals and blue riband had seemed to indicate that he possessed a watch. There was something mysterious in their protracted absence. The breakfast passed over in silence. Little, indeed, was eat. Macalpin could hardly finish his second herring. At length the wooden clock in the kitchen struck twelve. The distress of the party was at its height, and some faint suspicions of the truth began to be entertained. Just then a very worthy old gentleman, an upholsterer, called upon Mr Sanderson, and in the conversation (which, by-the-bye, was entirely on his side) he happened to mention, as a circumstance which Mr Sanderson was of course better acquainted with than he, that he had seen Miss Arabella and Mr Dempster sail that morning for Glasgow from Greenock. Here was at once "confirmation strong as proofs from holy writ!" The scene that followed no pen could do justice to. Macalpin was the chief object in the group. It was not so much the loss of his intended bride that he felt, as the insult offered to his Highland dignity. His face became first white, then red, and at length blue-a pale, determined blue. He did not speak much, but he went up to his bedroom, and brought down in his hand a couple of pistols, which, he said, were loaded to the muzzle. "By Get!" he added, "they will take his life, if they take nothing else;" and he finished the sentence by taking in the meantime a huge pinch of snuff. In half an hour afterwards he was on his way to Glasgow, and Mr and Mrs Sanderson accompanied him. Mr and Mrs Dempster became one flesh on the very day of their elopement. I need not describe to my intelligent readers their mutual raptures. The only thing which threw a cloud over their happiness was the ance. dread of pursuit, and a whole volley of reproaches. But though they had boldly and openly taken possession of Mr Dempster's house in Virginia Street, the day passed over without interruption. The next came and departed in the same way, and the next, and the next. At length, on the fourth or fifth, the button-maker and his spouse made their appearThey were both in black, and their countenances were "6 more in sorrow than in anger.' They spoke not a word of reproach, for the good people now knew that it would do no good, and, besides, were very glad to see their child so respectably settled for life. One little circumstance had perhaps no small influence in bringing them to this wholesome mode of thinking; I mean an apoplectic fit, which removed the worthy Macalpín from this life, just as he was stepping ashore, with his pistols in his hand, at the Broomielaw. Whether this was a consummation hurried on by the effects of his passion, it is difficult to say, but it is certain that he was buried at Kilmun with all due solemnity. Mr and Mrs Dempster live in the greatest possible felicity; while the former continues to be looked up to by all the young haberdashers of Glasgow, as affording the finest instance now extant of the falseness of Shakespeare's apothegm, that "The course of true love never did run smooth." H. G. B. Farewell to the Rose. SWEET Rose of summer, whither fled ? The loveliest flow'r-the richest shrine; But thus to vanish from my view, To see thy head with age decline, When wafted on Favonius' wing, Array'd thy parent stem in green, Gave promise of thy glories gay, As the first streak of orient dawn And forward look'd to flow'ry May, But thou art fled, sweet Rose, farewell! I saw the modest primrose smile, Inhal'd the violet's odorous breath, The flaunting tulip bloom'd awhile, And, drooping, sunk in early death. How sweet the birch at dewy morn, And wall-flow'r at the twilight hour, And, sweeter still, the blossom'd thorn, When linnets shook its snow-white show'r ! Though every day brought graces new, I thought of thee, the loveliest flow'r ; But thou art fled,-sweet Rose, adieu! The dews of morning softly fell, While evening suns serenely smil'd, And still I saw thy bosom swell, Beheld thee Flora's favourite child: At last, she wav'd her viewless wand Above thy budding form so fair, And bade thy blushing leaves expand, Her noblest pride, her fondest care; With thee her sole delight to dwell; For thou wert sweet beyond compare; But thou art fled,-sweet Rose, farewell! How sweet thy fragrance floating round! Amidst thy breathing odours sweet, And Beauty's cheek more richly glow'd When thou wert blushing at her feet; On swifter wings their moments flew, With thee to shade their lov'd retreat; But thou art gone,-sweet Rose, adieu! To languish in thy lap at noon, The wild-bee left the lily's bell, And deem'd it Nature's richest boon Within thy silken folds to dwell: Upon thy richly blooming breast The dews of morning lov'd to lie; And evening zephyrs still were blest, If they could on thy bosom die, Where soft as moonlight beams they fell, Expiring in a gentle sigh; But thou art fled,-sweet Rose, farewell! Unsated still the gazer's eye Beheld thy blush by Nature giv'n, Fair as the cloudless eastern sky, When morn unbars the gates of Heav'n: Yet rich and lovely as the glow On Laura's virgin cheek that spread ; But Time has laid thy beauty low; The blush from Laura's cheek has fled! Like thine as sweet,-as transient too; How lovely both,-how quickly shed! Sweet Rose-buds both, a sad adieu! But thou, although thy early bloom Was but the blossom of an hour, Still breath'st around a rich perfume, Though faded,—still a precious flow'r: When but a few short months are o'er, Thy stem shall bud and bloom again, Glad spring its verdure shall restore, And summer lead her laughing train To load the branch from which thou fell; Yet still this parting gives me pain; I grieve to say," Sweet Rose, farewell!" And thou canst whisper in my ear, Though Laura's bloom is fled like thine, She still has charms which I revere, That fondly round my heart entwine;' Though fled what once could glad my sight, And seem'd so lovely to the eye, Enough remains to give delight; For Love and Virtue never die, But shed their odours, ever new They can the stroke of Time defy, When we have bid youth's Rose adieu. And though each early grace is filed, Which time again shall ne'er restore, Though we must mingle with the dead, The dream of life for ever o'er;" There is a spring shall yet return, When light shall burst the dreary gloom, Inspire the ashes of the urn, And wake the sleepers of the tomb : Such are the truths thou deign'st to tell Yet must I mourn thy faded bloom, And sigh to say, "Sweet Rose, fare well!" ADDITIONAL INSTANCES OF "FATAL PRESENTIMENTS." MR EDITOR, Nor long ago, there appeared in your Magazine an interesting paper containing a number of instances where individuals, immediately pre vious to their death, had had revealed to them presages of its near and certain approach. Every body, I believe, has heard or read something of this sort; and, consequently, the author of that article might have multiplied his examples to nearly any extent. But there are two cases of this presentiment so very remarkable in themselves, and at the same time so perfectly authentic, that I am surprised they should have been over looked or omitted, especially as they are to be found in a work "which," Dr Johnson says, "the critic ought to read for its elegance, the philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for its piety;" I mean, "Some Passages of the Life and Death of John Earl of Rochester," by Bishop Burnet. The first of these is nearly in all respects similar to the majority of the anecdotes related by your correspondent. "When he (Rochester) went to sea in the year 1665, there happened to be in the same ship with him Mr Montague, and another gentleman of quality; these two, the former especially, seemed persuaded that they should never return into England. Mr Montague said he was sure of it: the other was not so positive. The Earl of Rochester and the last of these entered into a formal engagement, not without ceremonies of religion, that if either of them died, he should appear and give the other notice of the future state, if there was any. But Mr Montague would not enter into the bond. When the day came that they thought to have taken the Dutch fleet in the port of Bergen, Mr Montague, though he had such a strong presage in his mind of his approaching death, yet he generously staid all the while in the place of danger. The other gentleman signalized his courage in a most undaunted manner, till near the end of the action, when he fell, on a sudden, into such a trembling, that he could scarce stand; and Mr Monta gue, going to hold him up, as they were in each other's arms, a cannonball killed him outright, and carried away Mr Montague's belly, so that he died within an hour after. The Earl of Rochester told me, that these presages they had in their minds made some impression on him, that there were separate beings, and that THE SOUL, EITHER BY A NATURAL SAGACITY, OR SOME SECRET NOTICE COMMUNICATED TO IT, HAD A SORT OF DIVINATION: but that gentleman's never appearing, was a great snare to him, during the rest of his life." The second case differs in one respect from the foregoing, and from all those adduced in the paper on Fatal Presentiments. I shall give it in the Bishop's words. proving him for his superstition, he said, he was confident he was to die before morning; but he being in perfect health, it was not much minded. He went to his chamber, and sat up late, as appeared by the burning of his candle, and he had been prepar ing his notes for his sermon, but was found dead in his bed the next morning! These things, he said, made him incline to believe the soul was a substance distinct from matter, and this often returned into his thoughts." "He told me of another odd presage that one had of his approaching death, in the Lady Warre, his mother-in-law's house: The Chaplain had dreamt that such a day he should die; but being by all the family put out of the belief of it, he had almost forgot it: till the evening before, at supper, there being thirteen at table, according to a fond conceit that one of these must soon die, one of the young ladies pointed to him, that he was to die. He, remembering his dream, fell into some disorder, and the Lady Warre re In the eyes of some persons, these, and all similar anecdotes, will appear as nothing but mere phantasmata of the brain, which, like all other vi sionary hallucinations, would have attracted little or no observation, were it not for the accidental coincidence between the presage, engendered by a morbid affection of the mind, and the event, which, to hasty and superficial thinkers, gives it something of the air and character of prophecy. And, in support of this view, it may be, and in fact has been argued, that no record has been taken of the (supposed) innumerable instances in which " presages of approaching death" have been belied, because they are little calculated to interest the imagination, or gratify the love of the marvellous; whereas, on the other hand, every case where accident has produced the accom→ plishment of the omen, has been cagerly seized hold of and retailed for the gratification of superstitious and credulous anecdote-mongers; that of the vast numbers, for example, who have died in battle, there have been exceedingly few who had any other presentiment than that created by the natural and ineradicable principle of fear, from which no human being is altogether exempt, when death, in a thousand forms, is every instant staring him in the face,-still fewer who, abandoning the confidence which every man has in his own good fortune, firmly believed they would not survive a particular conflict,-and only a rare instance now and then, where chance has given to a diseased state of the mind the colour of prophecy, by the apparent fulfilment of a hap-hazard prediction; and, lastly, that the principles of human na ture being, upon the whole, uniform in their operation, it must be selfevident, that examples of this pretended species of divination would be as numerous as they are found by experience to be the reverse. It is impossible for any one to deny that there may not be a good deal of truth in all this. Every circumstance of an extraordinary, not to say supernatural kind, running counter to the general experience of mankind, rare in its occurrence, and perhaps embellished in the relation, ought doubtless to be received with extreme caution, and accredited only on the best evidence, narrowly examined by the rules of a strict logic. But, on the other hand, if we are to reason at all, we can only reason from such facts, properly authenticated, as we have come to the knowledge of; and it is a very insufficient ground for wholly rejecting these facts as unworthy of regard, that none of a contrary description have been put upon record; in other words, to meet testimony by hypothesis. For instance, it is a very unsatisfactory explanation of the point presently under consideration, to allege that there may have been innumerable cases of fatal presentiment not verified by the result. The question, in all reasoning, is, not what may have happened, but what conclusion are we to draw from facts which nobody disputes? Nor is there much in the argument drawn from the supposed uniformity of the general principles of human nature, and the consequent congruity of feeling among all men on certain subjects. As was properly remarked in the former paper, the physiology of the mind is a subject but little known, and probably destined to remain for ever involved in obscurity; but the phenomena of dreams and of madness demonstrate, that there exist relations among our ideas, of which, in ordinary circumstances, we are perfectly unconscious, and, with all our best ingenuity, incompetent to solve or explain. It is, therefore, most unphilosophical to pronounce a fact incredible because it is rare, or unworthy of examination because it harmonizes not with the common course of our experience; and it is utterly absurd to erect our general consciousness into a standard by which to try those anomalies and exceptions, so to speak, peculiar to a spiritual being, of many, if not perhaps the greater part, of whose properties we are still in complete igno rance. Many of the ancient philosophers believed that the mind was endowed, to a certain extent, with a power of prescience totally distinct from and independent of that conjectural sagacity in regard to the future, which is derived from enlarged and comprehensive experience of the past; and Cicero, in different parts of his philosophical works, gives us to understand that he entertained a similar belief. In fact, this is a tenet which has been common to men in all ages, embodied in their popu lar poetry and traditions, and disputed only in periods of sceptical refinement. And if we admit-as I think we must, if we reason at all on the subject-that every action and every event occur in conformity to general laws,-in other words, that there is no such thing as contingency either in human actions or the course of events, but that each must be determined by an adequate motive or cause,-there seems nothing repugnant to reason, or inconsistent with what we already know of the mind, in admitting the possible existence of such a faculty, though, for wise purposes, its operation is confined within narrow limits, and we are kept in salutary ignorance of the things yet to be. If there be no contingency, every thing is necessary, and, what must inevitably happen, may, for any thing we know to the contrary, be sometimes, and to a certain extent, foreseen even by man in his present imperfect state. It has been often remarked, that men have a presentiment of approaching disaster and calamity, while prosperity, even when it comes suddenly, is seldom or never preceded by any presage of its approach. This is, no doubt, a wise provision, as it is of more importance to men to receive a premonition of coming evil than of coming good. But we think a different solution may be given. All the powers and faculties of man are devoted primarily to his preservation, and are most violently called into action when it is endangered. Hence, |