Hast thou felt thy bosom bound Like maiden sighing through her sleep,-- Its fair head on the streamlet's breast, Full of love and feeling found thee, Where nought but stars were burning round thee, Beautiful as angels' eyes, Beaming through the deep blue skies? And where the brightest beam'd and blazed, If through thy bosom there hath rush'd The sweetest hour of love and song! A natural is at all times superior to an artificial man, and aristocratical as our notions may be in some things, nothing delights us more than an effusion which evidently seems to come from the heart, and is full of the real character of him who pens it. Hence we introduce with confidence the following letter and poem to our readers, which we are sure they cannot peruse without much amusement: warks? Sae ye see, sir, I set to wark, and I noo send But then the Dominie's a wee conceited; and SOMETHING ABOOT ANE AULD SHOE. No bard did e'er rehearse. To the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. Dear Sir, I am no much accustomed to write to folk I never saw, and, therefore, I may be guilty o' an impropriety in addressing you in this way; but as I am ane o' yer readers, and hae been in gey familiar terms wi' ye, even in your ain immortal Slippers, and mair especially as ye hae been aften, and in divers ways, a solace and a source o' muckle enjoyment to me when I would otherwise hae been dull eneuch, I consider ye in the light o' an especial frien' and weelwisher to me, as weel as to the lave o' your readers; and ye maun therefore just excuse me for ca'ing ye dear sir, though peradventure I may thereby outrage the rules o' gentility, with whilk, I maun confess, I had never ony opportunity o' becoming acquaint; and ye maunna construe my familiarity into ony lack o' that respect due to ane o' your transcendent abeelities. Ye maun ken, then, as I said afore, that I read the Leeterary Journal; but before it comes my length, it has gaen through at least a dizzen han's, and by that time it bears undeniable marks o' having been weel thumm'd and profoondly studied. It is at least a month auld when I get it, and, after perusing it carefully twice ower, I lay it by-black and creeshy although it be-intending, if I can spare as muckle o' the needfu', to hae it yelegantly bun', an' to lay it up on the shelf aside the Bible and Burns's Poems. I hae aye wished, sin' ever I ken'd a prented beuk frae a copy o' ells or cloopies, to see something o' my ain composing in prent: but how could I ever expeck that ony prenter, or yeditor, or the like, wad tak ony notice o' what might emanate frae the brain or the pen o' a hurkling mechanic like mysell, until yer Number o' the 3d o' July cam into my han', whar I saw a letter frae the Cowgate o' Edinbro, wi' a poem about a Spin Maggie. Thinks I to mysell, Thomas Brownlee, what a lucky chiel ye are, to see no only yer letter and yer poem in sic a glorious periodical as the Leeterary Journal, but to be honourably mentioned amang the This Auld Shoe was originally wrote in Scotch, but when doon at the toon, I got a gey clever callan' to translate it into English, geniuses o' the immortal Slippers. O, Tammy, lad! the whilk has deranged the versification a wee; but ye'll may be tak the death o' the puir spinmaggie has been the life o' you! trouble o' richtin' it. I gaed the call an' saxpence for his pains, which, with the ninepence ha'penny I maun pay o' postage, will make Now, says I to mysell, I'll try my han' too, and wha me one shilling and threepence-ha'penny out o' pouch, which I can kens what michty things may happen to my ain handi-ill encuch spare; but, if ye prent it, I'll be pleased eneuch.-R. L. And that I'll let them know. 'Tis very true, an old shoe Is trampled under foot And then it is thrown out, By urchins on the street; It yields a famous treat. It can't, like worn-out breeches, Nor, like old coat or castor, On scarecrow cut a caper(For scarecrows, alias bogles, Have always gone barefooted; And were they e'er to sport a shoe, They no doubt would be hooted.) 'Tis true, the noble breeches The seat of honour covers; You know, besides, there's many hides But, last of all, and best of all, Is what I'm going to sayWhat would you call an old shoe, If the heel were cut away? Now, you who understand me, Straightway apply the clippers, And don't despise old shoes at all, When you can make them SLIPPERS! 66 Heaven Female correspondents multiply upon us. knows that many of the dear creatures write the most ineffable nonsense that was ever penned. Yet have we a love for them all, and whenever we see a light flowing hand covering a sheet or two of gilt letter paper, we instantly shut our eyes, and as, like Coleridge, our eyes make pictures when they're shut," we see our gentle contributor seated at her desk, with a half-conscious blush upon her cheek, a deeper animation in her eye, a shower of dark ringlets upon her neck, and a little silver pen in her hand, which yields to the motion of the fairest fingers in the world. God help us! it may be all a delusion. That very contribution may come from some ancient dame, either married or single, with a nose like a pen-knife, and a wig like a wisp of straw. But we au gur better things of the authoresses of the three poems we shall now give in succession, in all of which we discover marks of a graceful mind and true feminine feeling. There is something attractive in the very title of the first: TO HIM I LOVE. If ever the dewdrop was loved by the flower, When his calm cottage home in the valley was near; If ever the eagle was proud of bis might, As his eye met the sun in his heavenward flight; As foaming they roll'd over brave seamen's graves; If ever the exile on far foreign shore Sigh'd for friendship's kind smile, he might never see more; If e'er the sweet nightingale wail'd in the grove, But still in my sorrow one ray pours its light, Like the moon when it bursts on the darkness of night; Not less poetical, and connected with the same subject— a subject of which woman never tires-is the following: PARTING. A lovely land is thine, beloved! across the distant sea, And they tell me thou must seek it now, and roam far, far from me ; No marvel that my eye is dim, that sorrow sinks my heart, Ah! what a strange wild dream is this to think that we must part! A dream, indeed, is life itself—a weary dream of pain, A dream to live-a dream to love-to part-to meet again! All, all in this our mournful world, whate'er we hear or view, Is faint as twilight's shadowy forms, as changing and untrue! THE INDIAN GIRL'S SONG. What is the day to me? I languish for thy sight; I live not when away from thee- How sadden'd is my mind! Like to the eastern flower, Not the sun's brightest ray Is like the eve's delight ; I think of thee throughout the day, Entranced each one appears, I see but thee amid the throng, Feigning delight they gaze, With many a flattering word But, 'midst their loud, their heartless praise, Thy sigh alone is heard! My own loved Indian isle! Would that I now were there! Never has Spain's most glowing smile To me seem'd half so fair. Yet, when evening hour is nigh, With dews and flow'rets' bloom, "He comes!" I in my spirit sigh, And chase away my gloom. My gloom speeds fast away, And my glad heart bounds freeThou art the sun that lights my day; What were life without thee? ZILLAH. HELEN. It might have been dangerous to have introduced before these gentler compositions, any of the vigorous verses of Thomas Campbell. It is with unfeigned pleasure that we find him contributing to the LITERARY JOURNAL; and our readers will, no doubt, agree with us in thinking the stanzas which follow among the most successful productions of their gifted author: STANZAS ON EVENING. By Thomas Campbell. DEDICATED TO MISS CRUMPE. The evening hastes to close the morning's portals, And sweetly in the salt sea sups the sun; Hark to the merry laugh of sleeping mortals Playing at football with young Bacchus' tun. The noiseless humming bee, with thundering wing, Oh! the uncertain certainty of fate, The elephantine infancy of midges,The soft and silvery sounds of scolding Kate,The immobility of flying bridges. For me my gay grey great-coat's greatly small; Of Man-the shoemaker who has the other. According to our custom, we mingle prose with verse, for variety is the soul of enjoyment. The picturesque humour of the following sketch is increased by the fact of its being literally a narrative of facts : THE DAFT DOCTOR. A Sketch from Real Life. The Daft Doctor was a native of C, a considerable village in the west of Perthshire. Originally a surgeon in the navy, he was long stationed on the American coast. While there, the news of some heavy domestic affliction brought on a brain fever-from the effects of which he never recovered. It left in his intellects a dismal and melancholy breach, and he returned home in a state of confirmed silliness. Every one in Cknows the Daft Doctor. A jolly, good-humoured Christian he is—fat and innocent as a pet sheep. At first sight, and on a fine day, one could hardly believe that in a personage so portly, there existed the smallest trace of inherent malady. A short personal acquaintance proves the opposite. Yet his madness has taken a pleasant turn, and I cannot believe him unhappy. His complaint displays itself principally in the following piece of eccentricity. Let the weather be ever so rainy (and Heaven knows how much rain there is in that quarter!)-let it pour frogs and mice, or dogs and cats, if it will, still, if you meet the Doctor, you are greeted with the unchangeable salutation," A d-d fine day, sir, -a devilish good day this,-isn't it a divine day?" Turn your discourse into fifty other directions, every sentence uttered on either side is interpolated with" devilish good day." Throw a bucket of water in his face-as has been wickedly done, by way of experiment-you only add to the vehemence of the affirmation,-" By Heaven! but this is an infernally fine day!" Once, and only once, he gave up his creed for a moment. On that occasion, I had the good fortune to be present. It was a bitterly forced recantation, elicited by a rapid succession of calamities. The circumstances were these. The Doctor was a great fisher-a prodigious depopulator of the neighbouring streams;-he handled a rod to perfection, and could play a thirty-pound salmon down the pass of Leny, with as much ease as young Sandie Macgregor could whip a par out of the Keltie. One day 66 rear. 66 -the unfortunate day in question-I found him on the banks of Loch Lubnaig-his creel half filled. The old fellow had on a green tartan coat-very respectably patched with a remnant of all the clans. "A devilish fine day!" quoth the Doctor. "Excellent weather!" quoth I. (I never swear.)" Any thing taking ?"—" So and so; but isn't it a d-d fine day?"-" Capital," quoth I. "Devilish good," quoth he." But yonder comes a black cloud," said I ; we shall have rain soon."-" Hem," says he, a fine day!" We fished on-our baskets were cramful, when, lo! down comes a thunder-plump-such a shower! we might as well have been under water.— "You are out, doctor," quoth I. "No," says he; "it's d-d fine weather!"-" Trouts don't take in thunder." "The devil they don't!" and back he walks with a couple of pounders at the end of his line. "Yo ho! oho! infernally good weather!" But the doctor had been incautious in his retrograde motion; he had waded along a shelf of gravel without noticing a black deep pool in his Down he falls, head foremost-his rod snapping, and the poor fellow himself between death and life, walloping towards the edge. I luckily caught hold of him, and dragged him safe on shore. "D-d fine day this!" were the first words he uttered. "It will cost me four and sixpence for a new top-piece. Good gracious! my basket is empty! They are all out, every one of them! but it's a d-d fine day!" At this moment his soliloquy was interrupted by a peal of terrific thunder. "This is hot work, boys! let us up to the mast-head, and spy the enemy;" and he took me by the shoulder, wishing to Amazon in her drapery above us. drag me up to the top of Ben Ledi, frowning like a giant To dissuade him from his purpose was impossible. I loved the old man, and accompanied him. After we had advanced a few yards, "Now," says he, "let us sit down and enjoy the day." We did so, and pulling out our pocket-pistols, took each an inspiring draught. The doctor soon started up, but a twig of heather caught his foot, and down again he came full length, his nose striking against a stone. "Claret," quoth he, as he wiped with his sleeve the bleeding prominence. He soon recovered his legs, and bursting into a fit of laughter, reiterated his unvarying text, "Now, isn't this a devilish fine day?" A moment after he was at full gallop down the hill; and being a second time unable to control his career, found himself plunged in the loch. This was no joke; the doctor was drowning; molten lead could scarce have borne up his weight of fat. I rushed forward, seized him by the head, (his hat had decamped half-way over the loch,) and brought him again to shore. But the doctor never moved-his eyes were shut. I suspected he was dead. Calling to a shepherd in the distance, we got him conveyed to the nearest hovel. Being put to bed, and the usual remedies applied, signs of returning animation began to appear. Suddenly he opened his eyes, accompanying the act with a deep groan. I expected the worstwhen all of a sudden, out came the astonishing anathema "Blast this bloody infernal weather!" T. T. S. A poet, who liveth not far from the border, hath transmitted to us the following lively lucubration : SONG, Written on the occasion of Sir Walter Scott's visit to We've had by far the brightest star Has dined upon our crag, man. We've had the pride o' Europe wide, Like some deep dream descending from on high, That heaven into its bosom, and to lie In a still smile! as fearful it may wake. There is a living silence in the air; There is a breathing quiet on the woods; The rocks, the hills, the distant solitudes Are wrapt in conscious stillness, as there were A pause in Nature's course, while she survey'd, With trembling rapture, all her God had made. N. R. Much are we pleased with the naïveté of the following letter: To the Editor of the Literary Journal. Do ye Mr Editor,-What comes o' the bits o' sangs that you dinna like, an' daurna for the life o' ye prent? burn them? or do ye pit them, like your frien' the black chap, intill a box? Wae's me! wae's me! this ane, written by a frien' o' mine, now in the West Indies, I doubt will be added to the number; for he telt me afore he gaed awa',-quo' he, "Sandy, there's a sang that no a yeditor in a' Edinbro' wad tak' wi'." Quo' I," Peter, we'se see." So the ship sailed awa', and I ne'er hae hard frae him, deed or leeving, sin' syne. Yours truly, SANDY SNODGRASS. Fear not, honest Sandy; your friend's song shall have a place. Here it is, and when its author comes back, we shall be glad to see him : SONG. TUNE-" Tam Glen." What means a' this scorning, my lassie, If love be the cause, though I doubt it, Gin I be the loved ane mysell; I'm but a puir hand at beseeching, An' words hae na mony to spare, Our readers shall have another song, full of the true Scotch spirit in more senses than one. A better national song has not been printed for many years: SONG. THE BARLEY BREE. (Humbly Inscribed to the Members of all Temperance Societies.) TUNE-"Bide ye yet." The barley bree! the barley bree! Let heathen bards rave about Venus and Cupid, The example of the Romans is much held up by the visionary worthies of temperance notoriety, who, absurdly enough, attribute the great personal strength of the "conquerors of the world," to their drinking vinegar and water. |