his mental optics---but she never appeared in a tangible form. Without her essential presence, all the world beside was to him as a blank--a wilderness.

Madness invariably takes possession of the mind which broods over-much or over-long upon some engrossing idea. So did it prove with this singular lover. He grew innocent, as the people of this country tenderly phrase it. His insanity, however, was little more than mere abThe course of his mind was stopped at a par

straction.

ticular point. After this he made no further progress in any intellectual attainment. He acquired no new ideas. His whole soul stood still. He was like a clock stopped at a particular hour, with some things, too, about him, which, like the motionless indices of that machine, pointed out the date of the interruption. As, for instance, he ever after wore a peculiarly long-backed and high-necked coat, as well as a neckcloth of a particular spot---being the fashion of the year when he saw the lady. Indeed, he was a sort of living memorial of the dress, gait, and manners of a former day. It was evident that he clung with a degree of fondness to every thing which bore relation to the great incident of his life. Nor could he endure any thing that tended to cover up or screen from his recollection that glorious yet melancholy circumstance. He had the same feeling of veneration for that day--that circumstance---and for himself, as he then existed--which caused the chivalrous lover of former times to preserve upon his lips, as long as he could, the imaginary delight which they had drawn from the touch of his mistress's hand.

When I last saw this unfortunate person, he was getting old, and seemed still more deranged than formerly. Every female whom he met on the street, especially if at all good looking, he gazed at with an enquiring, anxious expression; and when she had passed, he usually stood still a few moments and mused, with his eyes cast upon the ground. It was remarkable, that he gazed most anxiously upon women whose age and figures most nearly resembled that of his unknown mistress at the time he had seen her, and that he did not appear to make allowance for the years which had passed since his eyes met that vision. This was part of his madness. Strange power of love! Incomprehensible mechanism of the human heart!

"I ken, gentle youth! that a' nature looks braw in Her robe wrought wi' flowers, and her saft smile o' glee; But look at this leaf that beside me hath fa'en,

It has fa'en, puir thing, and ne'er miss't frae the tree; O sae maun I fa' soon, and few will e'er miss me,

My sleep is for aye, when I next close my ee; But the dew will weep o'er me, and friendly Death bless me, And the wind through the night will cry, ' O wae's me!'

"I ken they look fair, every rose on yon thorn,

Wi' the innocent wee buds just opening their een; But the rose I liked best, is a' blighted an' torn, And o'er its dead blossom the grass grows green!

Then leave me, youth, leave me; through life's flowery lawn,

Go seek out a maiden more fitting for thee; Oh! what wad ye do wi' a weak trembling han',

And a poor broken heart, that maun lie down and dee?"

A poem, entitled, "And art thou False," in the last EDITOR In His Slippers, will probably be recollected, because it was a powerful and original composition. We subjoin another by the same author :

THE RINGLET.

I tear thy ringlet from my breast,
The last remaining token
Of spirits wed,-of love confest,---
Of promises all broken ;—

I shed no tear, I heave no sigh,
No show of grief I borrow,
But there is meaning in my eye,
And language in my sorrow.
Though silent-though it utter not

The sounds of noisy feeling,
My heart bleeds, burns---a blighted spot,
Too wither'd far for healing.

For many years, with anxious care,
Through other lands I bore it;
It spoke of thee, it chased despair,
And on my heart I wore it.

O God! the hour is present now,

'Tis through my memory rushing---
That hour 'twas taken from thy brow,
Our hearts with rapture gushing;
O! every word, and every look,

The hour, the place, the fond confession,
Sweep through my bosom, wildly shook

By torturing memory's whirlwind passion.
Loved one! that night, when far from men,
We pledged an oath in sight of heaven!
An oath I've often breathed since then,---
May oaths be broken and forgiven?
That oath is broken, well I know,

Else had I never known this sadness;
'Tis broken !---broken by a blow

That urged my brain, my soul, to madness!

I know not what I write ;---nor why!
The poison'd past is round me gather'd,
And through the present I descry

Futurity untimely wither'd.

O! was it not enough for me---
Misfortune's vilest venom drinking,
The foot-ball of adversity,

Beneath a world of misery sinking,--
Say, was it not enough that I

Had these and hate and envy borne,
That thou shouldst faith and fondness fly,
And on thy lover look with scorn!
Ah! if I e'er again should view

The scenes of love and youthful dreaming,
Where oft we met, and meet with you

By crystall'd rills through woodlands streaming-
How shall we meet,---how pass---how part?
'Tis for an hour like this I tremble;
Absent, I may control my heart,
But present, I could not dissemble.
But go, and if thy heart forgive,
Loved one, I shall ne'er upbraid thee;
Farewell! and mayst thou happy live,
Happier far than I had made thee!

I tear thy ringlet from my heart,

And with it all thy vows I sever;
And now farewell! We part,---yes, part !---

Are twain from henceforth and for ever!

There is a mixture of the comic and the sad in the following Scotch ballad, which pleases us :

Mochte they not melt thy stony herte in thee?"
Then lyke a whyte swanne from a willow grove,—
Or as a beme from a derke cloud you see,—
The knychte was ware of her that he did lufe ;

She threw the lattice wyde, and thus said shee,— "Goode manne! I wish thie herpe was atte the Divill! Go home to bedde !"--which was not very civill.

At the battle of Sheriff-Muir, somebody called out, "O! for one hour of Dundee !" We shall give our readers just five minutes of Dundee, in the shape of some good, spirited stanzas, which come from that town, and are written by a gentleman who signs himself "F."

A GREEK SAILOR'S WAR SONG.

My gallant ship! again—again in freedom shalt thou bound, Once more upon the trembling main thy thunders shall resound;

And heroes from thy boards shall leap on the red deck of the foe,

When the grappling fight is ship to ship, and sabres deal the blow.

Hark! messmates, now the breeze is loud, to the wind your canvass spread;

Again we feel our hearts beat proud, as the sounding deck we tread.

Farewell-the maids of that soft isle-though long we've own'd their sway

Nor melting tear, nor witching smile, shall tempt our farther stay.

Far other raptures now we seek than Love's soft votaries

We will wipe out the slavish stain our race has borne so long, And Greece shall be the land again of heroes and of song; And Genius from her slumbers deep shall wake to sleep no more!

And Salamis' blue waves shall sweep as proudly as of yore! One other short effusion, and we have done. The idea of the following song is pretty, and we recommend it as well worthy of a place in any gentleman's album, who may be in want of something of the kind, to indicate that he is just a little unhappy :

And nightshade drops its deadly dew Sadly on the sombre yew,--

Evergreen of misery--

'Tis for me.

The slumber of a summer night is about to steal upon us, yet, before we sleep, we have a serious word to say. Let it not enter the imagination of any one, that it is a light and easy matter to secure an introduction to the EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS. Solemnly do we declare, that we look upon it as the highest compliment which can be Our selections upon the prepaid to any living author. sent occasion have exceeded our usual limits, not because we have been one iota less scrupulous in our choice, but because, after laying aside whole cart-loads of dross, we still found that communications had poured in so thick upon us, we had an embarras de richesses to contend with. The day may yet come, when men shall tell it to their children, and to their children's children, that the Great EDITOR IN HIS SLIPPERS, HE who never looked either to the right or to the left, but straight on in pursuit of genius, spoke kindly of some one of their productions, and handed it down to posterity along with his own timehonoured name. That day may yet come!---we see it bursting through the far futurity ;---" think on't,---dream on't."

ORIGINAL POETRY.

A SUMMER EVENING DREAM.
By Charles Doyne Sillery.

ONE bright summer day, in my own native bowers,
I lay down to sleep mid the beautiful flowers;
I was lull'd by the zephyrs that play'd through the trees,
With the sweet song of birds, and the murmur of bees;
And I dreamt me a dream of so lovely an elf,
That to think of that vision is heaven itself!
Methought through the sunshine came floating, from far,
A bright burning planet-a beautiful star!
And the nearer it hung o'er my wondering eyes,
The brighter its beauty, the deeper its dyes ;-
Then I saw, through a cloud of carnations and roses,
The Spirit of Bliss, in that star who reposes;—
Her fair flowing hair was like morn's living gold,
When the sun in his robes of rich purple is roll'd;
Her eyes were as soft as the dewy blue-bells,
That bow their gemm'd cups in my own native dells;
As pure was her bosom, as bright was her brow,
As the new-fall'n flake of the cold mountain snow;
And Flora had lavish'd her loveliest wealth
On her cheeks, which were tinged with the blushes of
health:

And she press'd to her red lips her delicate hand,
As taper'd and white as the peel'd willow wand;
And the diamond tiara that circled her head
Was ywoven with roses all dewy and red :
She sat mid the flowers, like a spirit of light,
In the heaven of her loveliness, beaming and bright!
And she earnestly gazed, as she something would say,
While the bower of her beauty was floating away:
But I heard a sweet voice, that cried, " Angel! on! on!"
I awoke with the music-the spirit was gone!

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.
By Charles Doyne Sillery.
"Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."
THOU art gone, sweet babe! to an early tomb;
As a rose-bud is pluck'd ere it opens to bloom :
Thou art gone, dear babe, thou art gone to heaven,
As the dew-drop exhaled from its earthly leaven.

Ah, yes!-thou art gone to thy home in the skies,
Where the tears, dear child, shall be wiped from thine eyes ;
Where thine innocent soul shall expand in bliss,
In a world far brighter and better than this!

Ah! beautiful babe! may thy heart's pure love
Bud-bloom, like the rose, in these realms above;
May the green turf lie light o'er thine innocent breast-
God love thee, my baby!-O! sweet be thy rest!
As the praise which hath pass'd from an angel's tongue,
As a hymn which a spirit in Heaven has sung,
As a cloud that dissolves in the boundless blue sky,
As the tear that has fall'n from thy grieved mother's eye;
As the star lost in light on the bright brow of morning,
As a wild-flower that fades while the forest adorning,
As a snow-flake just melted away in the river,—
Thou art gone, lovely babe, thou art gone for ever!

LITERARY CHIT-CHAT AND VARIETIES.

MR BUCKINGHAM'S LECTURES. This gentleman's Lectures, which commenced on Monday last, and have continued every evening during the week, appear to be exciting much interest, and giving great satisfaction, in this city. We are, for our own part, heartily disposed to approve of the favourable impression which he has made. We have heard him with no common degree of pleasure; and consi der ourselves called upon to declare, that we were never before in possession of such vivid and accurate notions of all that is remarkable in the countries he undertakes to describe, as those with which we have been supplied by him. Egypt, Arabia, Palestine, Mesopotamia, and Persia, have been successively delineated, with all their wonders, both of art and nature, in a manner which makes us now feel comparatively at home upon these subjects. Numerous circumstances concur in recommending Mr Buckingham's Lectures to the public, viewing them merely in a literary and popular point of view, and altogether apart from the grand national question with which, however, they are all more or less connected. In the first place, Mr Buckingham has himself been in the countries of which he treats, and has seen with his own eyes every thing he describes. If he speaks of the Pyramids, he has stood on their top; if of the Nile, he has bathed in its waters; if of Mecca, he has made the pilgrimage to the holy shrine; if of Palmyra, he has been among its ruins. In the second place, information conveyed orally has a great advantage over that which comes to us through the medium of books. It is amazing how much the looks and gestures of the speaker contribute to give distinctness and graphic force to the pictures he attempts to sketch. A book is the best substitute we can have for its author, but it is only a substi tute. Mr Buckingham is both the book and the author in one, and the effect produced is therefore doubled. In the third place, Mr Buckingham's manner is exceedingly prepossessing and agreeable. One sees at once that he is a gentleman, and entitled to respect as well as to attention. He is a man apparently fully past middle life, but hale and active, with an intelligent and pleasant expression of countenance, and with a modest but energetic and business-like mode of delivery, which effectually prevents the minds of his audience from wandering. In addition to all this, he is excellently skilled in the art of pleasing a popular assembly, by intermixing with his graver and more important matter a number of light and amusing stories. On the whole, we can safely say, that we know of no way in which a body of really substantial and useful knowledge may be more easily and effectually attained than by attending a course of Mr Buckingham's Lectures. So much does this seem to be also the opinion of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, that he has found it necessary to desert the Hopetoun Rooms for the still larger hall in the Waterloo Hotel, where he is to lecture upon India, this day, and on Monday, at one o'clock. These two lectures will not be purely commercial, but will embrace a great variety of interesting facts respecting the institutions of the country and the condition of the people, which are as deserving the attention of ladies and professional gentlemen as of commercial men.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, Mr Buckingham will lecture in Leith, and on Thursday he leaves Edinburgh, on a pretty extensive tour, in the course of which he will stop at the following towns in their order, in all of which he will deliver lectures,-Dundee-Aberdeen-Inverness-Glasgow-Paisley-Carlisle-and thence back to London, through the middle districts of England.

Mr Hood, the Author of Whims and Oddities, has a new work in the press, entitled, Epping Hunt. It describes the adventures of a worthy citizen who joins the hunt, and is to be illustrated with several engravings on wood, after the designs of George Cruikshank. We understand that Mr Hood has also a comedy in preparation for next

season.

Mr John Parker Lawson, Author of the Life and Times of Archbishop Laud, is preparing for publication the Life of Samuel Horsley, LL.D., late Lord Bishop of St Asaph, in one volume 8vo. In this work there will be much interesting matter connected with the pub. lic characters of last century, both in church and state. Dr Macnish, the Author of the Anatomy of Drunkenness, is preparing a new work, to be entitled, The Philosophy of Sleep.

Mr D. M. Moir, Surgeon, Musselburgh, is preparing for publication a medico-popular treatise on the Diseases and Dietetic Management of Children; with an appendix on the culture of the infant mind, and the relative excellences and defects of the various systems of education now in use.

Mr Galt is preparing for publication a work on the present state and prospects of the settlements in Upper Canada.

We have received a copy of a new edition, just published at Paisley, of the Memoir of the Rev. Pliny Flisk, late Missionary to Pales tine, with a Preface and Notes, by the Rev. Robert Burns, D.D. We noticed the Edinburgh edition of this work some time ago.

Pelham, the Disowned, and Almack's Revisited, have been translated into German, and published at Aix-la-Chapelle.

A complete edition of the works of Moliere has been published in the Polish language.

Mr Kendal is preparing for publication a full and illustrated statement of his hypothesis, that the circulation in the sea is analagous to the circulation of the blood.

Memoirs of the Life and Works of George Romney, the celebrated painter, by his son, the Reverend John Romney, B.D., is in the

press.

PLAGIARISM.-(From a Correspondent.)—In the number of the Monthly Magazine for the present month, there occurs the following egregious blunder at the conclusion of a review of the "Life and Services of Captain Beaver." "Among the documents which are collected at the end of the volume, is a single ballad, written by Captain Beaver at the age of fifteen. It has enough of lyrical ease to prove that, if he had cultivated the art, he might have succeeded; and as a song of the sea, by a sailor, it is a curiosity." They then quote the well-known song, slightly altered from the original,—

"Up in the wind, three leagues or more," which all the world (excepting the biographer of Beaver, and the reviewer) is aware was written by Richard Cumberland, the celebrated dramatist, after the action between the Milford frigate, and the Duc de Coigny, fought 10th May, 1780, in which frigate Cumberland sailed on a mission to Lisbon for the British Government, and an account of which he details in the first volume of his amusing memoirs, along with a copy of the song above alluded to; yet this very song is copied by two wiseacres as the production of Captain Beaver at the age of fifteen! This is as bad as the oft-repeated blunder about the lines on the Bible, spoken by the White Lady of Avenel, in the "Monastery," but which have been (in spite of all that has been said in contradiction) inserted in every collection of sacred and serious poetry for the last half-dozen years, with the Signature of Lord Byron eternally appended to the right-hand corner of the said lines!

Theatrical Gossip.-The season of the Italian Opera, or King's Theatre, is drawing towards a close. Laporte, the manager, has already commenced preparations for his next campaign. To his present strength, which consists principally of Malibran, Sontag, Pisaroni, Mlle. Blasis, Donzells, and Curioni, he proposes to add Lalande, the celebrated prima donna of Naples and Milan, and Lablaiche, an equally famous bass singer. Pasta, Velluti, and De Begnis, seem to be keeping aloof from the Opera at present. Caradori, it is said, is about to visit Italy for a few months.-A new Opera, by Rossini, called William Tell," is to be produced speedily at Paris.-Miss Paton has been singing at the Ipswich Theatre.-Wallack has just returned from America, and is accompanied by a younger brother, who is said to be an excellent actor, especially in Irish characters.— The managing committee of Drury-lane are stated to have agreed to a considerable reduction in the rent to the lessee next year, so inadequate have been the profits of the season, notwithstanding the success of the pieces produced. It is also reported, that Mr Price, having failed to prevail on the committee to proceed against Elliston, for performing regular plays at the Surrey, has resolved to undertake the prosecution himself.-The Caledonian Theatre here continues to be respectably attended, and we should suppose is paying.

TO OUR CORRESPONDENTS.

SEVERAL Reviews of new and interesting works are unavoidably postponed.

The interesting account of the Ayrshire Sculptor's recent works will appear in our next.

We are afraid that "Woman's Love-A Sketch," by J. C." will not suit us." Theta's" communication from London is deficient in novelty of information.-"J. H." does not entertain the same opinion that we do of the compositions to which he alludes.-We shall endeavour to find time to reply to the letter regarding the autographs.

We hope to find a place for the poem by Dugald Moore of Glas gow." The Mountain Cairn" is more prosaic than its author's for iner contributions.-We cannot give " P. M." of Aberdeen any grea encouragement.-The Lines by “R. K.”—“ J. G. M.”—and "R. B W." of Glasgow, will not suit us.-The Lines from the German o Heine are in types.