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of Spanish transports that were moored below, stem on to the beach, and on the white sails of the armed craft that were still hovering under weigh in the offing, which, as the night wore on, stole in, one after another, like phantoms of the ocean, and letting go their anchors with a splash, and a hollow rattle of the cable, remained still and silent as

the rest.

Farther off, it fell in a crimson stream on the surface of the sheltered bay, struggling with the light of the gentle moon, and tinging with blood the small waves that twinkled in her silver wake, across which a guard boat would now and then glide, like a fairy thing, the arms of the men flashing back the red light.

Beyond the influence of the hot smoky glare, the glorious planet reassumed her sway in the midst of her attendant stars, and the relieved eye wandered forth into the lovely night, where the noiseless sheet lightning was glancing, and ever and anon lighting up for an instant

some fantastic shape in the fleecy clouds, like prodigies forerunning the destruction of the stronghold over which they impended; while beneath, the lofty ridge of the convent-crowned Popa, the citadel of San Felipé bristling with cannon, the white batteries and many towers of the faded city of Carthagena, and the Spanish blockading squadron at anchor before it, slept in the moonlight.

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We were civilly received by the captain, who apologized for the discomfort under which we must pass the night. He gave us the best he had, and that was bad enough, both of food and wine, before showing us into the hut, where we found a rough deal coffin lying on the very bench that was to be our bed. This he ordered away with all the coolness in the world. "It was only one of his people who had died that morning of vomito, or yellow fever." "Comfortable country this," quoth Splinter, "and a pleasant morning we have had of it, Tom! "

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

"Or such a man his country may be proud." This is an old-fashioned eulogy; not perhaps the worse for that; and yet it suits Hogg as exactly as if it had been invented expressly on his account. Of such a man his country may be proud. We respect and we admire him. We respect the energy that has made its own way,-the industry that has done the best with materials within its power. We admire the genius which has added to our literature so much of its better part -simple, touching, and beautiful poetry. Hogg has just translated the fine old airs of his country into words. A strong feeling has gone straight from his heart to his song; and nothing can be more real than his sorrow, unless it be his mirth. He is the poet of actual emotions. To use a simile-fit fashion of reviewing poetry-he is like one of 49 ATHENEUM, VOL. 5, 3d series.

his own mountain rivulets gushing forth in music and sunshine, melody and merriment-tender, yet joyous. Moreover, there is a quaint sturdiness about him, which is something between the independent man and the spoilt child. The running commentary on his own songs is one of the most amusing and original things we remember to have read. We shall quote a few of these prefaces.

"Donald M'Donald.'-I place this song the first, not on account of any intrinsic merit that it possesses

for there it ranks rather low-but merely because it was my first song, and exceedingly popular when it first appeared. I wrote it when a barefooted lad herding lambs on the Blackhouse Heights, in utter indig-nation at the threatened invasion from France. But after it had run through the three kingdoms, like fire set to heather, for ten or twelve

years, no one ever knew or inquired who was the author."

He hears in a theatre a singer substitute a last verse of his own for the original one.

"It took exceedingly well, and was three times encored; and there was I sitting in the gallery, applauding as much as anybody. My vanity prompted me to tell a jolly Yorkshire manufacturer that night, that I was the author of the song. He laughed excessively at my assumption, and told the landlady that he took me for a half-crazed Scots pedlar. Another anecdote concerning this song I may mention; and I do it with no little pride, as it is a proof of the popularity of Donald McDonald among a class, to inspire whom with devotion to the cause of their country was at the time a matter of no little consequence. Happening upon one occasion to be in a wood in Dumfries-shire, through which wood the high-road passed, I heard a voice singing; and a turn of the road soon brought in sight a soldier, who seemed to be either traveling home upon furlough, or returning to his regiment. When the singer approached nearer, I distinguished the notes of my own song of Donald M'Donald. As the lad proceeded with his song, he got more and more into the spirit of the thing, and on coming to the end,

An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,
The kilt, an' the feather, an' a'!'

in the height of his enthusiasm, he
hoisted his cap on the end of his
staff, and danced it about trium-
phantly. I stood ensconced behind
a tree, and heard and saw all with-
out being observed.”

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The Skylark he calls " a little pastoral song, worth half-a-dozen of the foregoing; we agree with him, and present it to the reader, that he may also judge of its merits.

The Skylark.

"Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place-

O to abide in the desart with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth,
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desart with thee!"

"The Broom sae green' is my greatest favorite at present,-probably because the air is my own, as well as the verses; for I find I have a particular facility in approving of such things."

The next is very characteristic:"The Women Fo'k.'-The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favorite humorous song, when forced to sing by ladies against my will, which too frequently happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again."

We think the Shepherd's resentment burns in the wrong quarter in the following note:

"The Maid of the Sea' is one. of the many songs which Moore caused me to cancel, for nothing that I know of, but because they ran counter to his. It is quite natural and reasonable that an author should claim a copyright of a sentiment; but it never struck me that it could be so exclusively his, as that another had not a right to contradict it. This, however, seems to be the case in the London law; for true it is that my songs were canceled, and the public may now judge on what grounds, by comparing them with Mr. Moore's. I have neither forgot nor forgiven it ;. and I have a great miad to force

him to cancel Lalla Rookh for stealing it wholly from the Queen's Wake, which is so apparent in the plan, that every London judge will give it in my favor, although he ventured only on the character of one accomplished bard, and I on seventeen. He had better have let my few trivial songs alone."

We apprehend Mr. Moore had nothing to do with it; the question was one of musical copyright.

Like most poets, he has a fair hit at the Edinburgh Review.

"Donald M'Gillavry' was originally published in the Jacobite Relics, without any notice of its being an original composition; an omission which entrapped the Edinburgh Review into a high but unintentional compliment to the author. After reviewing the Relics in a style of most determined animosity, and protesting, over and over again, that I was devoid of all taste and discrimination, the tirade concluded in these terms: That we may not close this article without a specimen of the good songs which the book contains, we shall select the one which, for sly, characteristic Scotch humor, seems to us the best, though we doubt if any of our English readers will relish it.' The opportunity of retaliating upon the reviewer's want of sagacity was too tempting to be lost; and the authorship of the song was immediately avowed in a letter to the Editor of Blackwood's Magazine. Af ter all,' said this avowal, between ourselves, Donald M'Gillavry, which he has selected as the best specimen of the true old Jacobite song, and as remarkably above its fellows for 'sly, characteristic Scotch humor,' is no other than a trifle of my own, which I put in to fill up a page!' I cannot help remarking here, that the Edinburgh Review seems to be at fault in a melancholy manner, whenever it comes to speak of Scottish songs. My friend Mr. William Laidlaw's song, of Lucy's Flitting, appeared first in the Forest Minstrel,

and immediately became popular throughout Scotland. It was inserted in every future selection of Scottish songs, and of course found a place in Allan Cunningham's collection. Here it is to be supposed the Edinburgh reviewer saw and heard of it for the first time ; and, with some words of praise, he most condescendingly introduced it to public notice, after it had been sung and appreciated from the cottage to the palace, for a space of nearly twenty years. This reminds me of an old gentleman, who, as he said, 'always liked to have people known to each other;' so one day he made a party, for the purpose of introducing two cousins, who had been brought up under the same roof. The company took the matter with gravity, and the joke passed off very well at the old gentleman's expense."

1

The next notes are very amus

ing.

O'er the Ocean bounding,' is another of the proscription list; but here, let them turn the blue bonnet wha can. Our forefathers had cried down songs, which all men and women were strictly prohibited from singing, such as O'er Boggie,' and The wee Cock Chicken,' &c., because Auld Nick was a proficient at playing them on the pipes. The London people have done the same with a number of mine; but I hereby cry them up again, and request every good singer in Britain and Ireland, and the East Indies, to sing the following song with full birr to the sweet air, Maid of the valley.'

"Mary, canst thou leave me?' is finely set by Bishop to a melody of my own. I cannot aver that it is thoroughly my own; but if it is not, I know not where I heard it. But it is of no avail: since I think it is mine, it is equally the same as if it were so. "9

"O, weel befa' the maiden gay? This song was written at Ellery, Mr. Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very

best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr. Wilson and I had a Queen's Wake every wet day-a fair set-to who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner; and if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr. Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very impressive, but very ludicrous. Wilson at that period composed all his poetry, by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine foxhound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to myself, Gudefaith, it's a' ower wi' me for this day!' When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me. There was another symptom, When we met at dinner-time, if Mr. Wilson had not been successful in pleasing himself, he was desperate sulky for a while, though he never once missed brightening up, and making the most of the subject. I never saw better sport than we had in comparing these poems. How manfully each stood out for the merits of his own! But Mrs. Wilson generally leaned to my side, nominally at least. I wrote the Ode to Superstition' there, which, to give Mr. Wilson justice, he approved of

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The Ship of the Desart' against it-a thing of far greater splendor, but exceedingly extravagant."

"I'll no wake wi' Annie.' I composed this pastoral ballad, as well as the air to which it is sung, whilst sailing one lovely day on St. Mary's Loch; a pastime in which, above all others, I delighted, and of which I am now most shamefully deprived. Lord Napier never did so cruel a thing, not even on the high seas, as the interdicting of me from sailing on that beloved lake, which if I have not rendered classical, has not been my blame. But the credit will be his own,-that is some comfort."

"The Moon was a-waning'is one of the songs of my youth, written long ere I threw aside the shepherd's plaid, and took farewell of my trusty colley, for the bard's perilous and thankless occupation. I was a poor shepherd half a century ago, and I have never got farther to this day; but my friends would be far from regretting this, if they knew the joy of spirit that has been mine. This was the first song of mine I ever heard sung at the piano, and my feelings of exultation are not to be conceived by men of sordid dispositions. I had often heard my strains chanted from the ewe-bught and the milking-green, with delight; but I now found that I had got a step higher, and thenceforward resolved to cling to my harp, with a fondness which no obloquy should diminish, and I have kept the resolution.".

If ever novels showed "man as he is," these entertaining snatches speak Hogg himself.

We think the present volume will greatly raise the poet in the estimation of the public, who are too apt to mistake him for a Noctesian roisterer, and, though an imaginative, a sometimes coarse prose writer.

THE OLD AND NEW WORLD.

Is this matter-of-fact age of the world, when the Schoolmaster is abroad and useful knowledge is diffused, and the public yearns only for facts and science, it is pleasant, and we own we think not unuseful to the mind, to turn aside occasion ally from the practical proceedings of life, with its dull round of daily business, to wander in the wild wood, or dwell for a season in the fairy-land of fiction and the enchanted regions of tradition and romance. It has been remarked, perhaps a thousand times, but it is not the less true for being trite, that with all the march of intellect and the advanced progress of knowledge, we often look back with a feeling of undefinable regret to the memory of those shadowy superstitions, which in the days of our innocent and blissful ignorance warmed our imagination and touched our heart. The actual results and philosophical demonstrations of science case our mind, to be sure, with a clear, cold canopy, like the ice of winter crusting the surface of a limpid lake; but we cannot help sometimes reflecting with a sigh on the times when fancy was allowed to people the busy brain with unsubstantial visions that varied with brighter hues the monotony of life, like a breeze stealing over the lake aforesaid in springtime, rippling its tranquil surface, and causing it to

"Break into dimples, and laugh in the sun." We confess we think that the prevailing tendency of the present time is to regard too much the storing up of physical facts, and cultivating the reasoning faculties, to the exclusion of the powers of feeling and imagination. If there be truth in Spurzheim - and the man is, at least, an able physiologist-the portion of the human brain allotted to the functions of the feelings is far greater than that assigned to the operations of those faculties which are usually considered more strictly

intellectual; and it is an obvious practical conclusion, from which the Doctor does not shrink, that a larger supply of mental food, and a greater degree of attentive cultivation, are due to the former than to the latter that, to use the popular language, it is much more important to educate the heart than the head-to form the disposition than to instruct the mind.

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Though the era of imaginative darkness has passed away, and "the elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves," no longer people the paths of even country life, but melted into air, into thin air," it does seem somewhat strange, and somewhat, too, to be regretted, that in this wondrous spread of enlightenment, by which we have learned to be so much wiser and sadder men than our fathers, matter seems rather to be gaining the vantageground over spirit. The stones and clay, the dust and ashes of the physical world, are explored and explained with far more willing readiness, more curious scrutiny, than the diviner essence which animates the inner man, or which rules and regulates external nature. Men live in cities, cooped up from year to year in brick and mortar, and rarely looking on the gladsome face of the green earth or the bright sky; or, "sitting under the blossom that hangs on the tree," they catch no inspiration from the free air, and the fresh stream, and the mountain steep, which taught the untutored Indian to "see God in clouds, and hear him in the wind," and which ought to bring home to Christian bosoms a livelier sense of the perpetual presence of the Being who pervades all space, in whom we live, and move, and have our being. We own, we turn from the materialized speculations of civilized philosophers, to habits of mental spiritualization, even in a savage, with elevation and gladness of heart, and

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