I gazed alternately at the bearer and his billet, not knowing how to demean myself, until he deigned to make his farewell bow, the which I politely returned, together with every expression of thankfulness that dumb show could possibly devise, and we parted without exchanging a syllable, he to follow his lawful business, and I to ponder in my study, quite delighted with the young man's selfdenial, and the fine-toned delicacy of his uncle. Thus, Mr Editor, have I honestly delineated the visage of every material fact, just as it occurred, without distorting a single feature; and therefore it only remaineth for me to say, my dear Sir, will you have the goodness to dispose of Mr D.'s mental donation, precisely in the same manner as you appropriaed that of my anonymous friend X. Y. Z., and thereby oblige yours, for evermore, London, 1823. SAML. KILLIGREW. Brackenfell, a Reverie. TIME hath neither withered my cheek, nor age thinned my temples, nor kindlier climes tempted me to forsake my native stream, even for a a season; yet do I live in a strange place, and dwell amongst neighbours of yesterday's growth. The spirit of adventure stimulated many of my young friends to seek for graves in a distant land; disease carried off many more; and the sword hath had its share. Thus am I left alone without a companion, whose joyous face welcomed me to the play-green. Even the scenery I wont to range when a boy, is partially shifted, and the hamlet that gave me birth is no more; so effectually hath fanciful improvement been at work for these last fifty years. Yet, notwithstanding the many changes that time, and chance, and whim, have brought about, all tending, in my opinion, to blemish the fair face of nature,-though the bat flitteth in my father's house, and every scene that delighted my young heart is gradually passing away,— though the burn, whose every pool I knew, is denominated a "Trouting Stream,"-prosecution awaiting all men who presume to finger a fin therein, without leave of the proprietor, and notwithstanding the favourite broomy knowes whereon I played are all fenced about, and full of man-traps and spring-guns, to deter the unqualified man from turning aside,-still do I love to linger on the highway, like a ghost "permitted to review this world," surveying the grounds that my associates of yore, and their now forsaken companion, perambulated, without forgathering with a surly gamekeeper, to say, "What doest thou?" and light leaps my heart when I descry the Cairn Croft, where many a mettlesome game at "England and Scotland" was played, and the little rill that turned our water-mill, and the Borestone of our mock Bannockburn, where swords of rushes, and spears of bullrushes, were broken and shivered in bloodless fray. Then the Auld Hu', roofless and desolate, calleth on every social recollection that inhabiteth my breast. I cast a sorrowful look on the ancient gables matted with ivy, and gaze on the barren hearth, so often compassed about, in my father's lifetime, with neighbourly good fellowship, and bethink me of the joyous days and the merry forenights that stole away before we were aware; recollections written on my heart too legibly ever to be eradicated. Scenes of delight, dissolv'd like phantom air, Teeming with bliss, too exquisite to last; My heart, though wrung with ever-gnaw Come, with thy check so ruddy and so ripe, Thy beaming eye, the harbinger of morn, Waking the love-lorn shepherd's mountain-pipe, Or winding the blithe dalesman's harvest-horn. Though worldly men may eye thy charms with scorn, Yet ever wilt thou seem, lov'd lass, to me, Fair as the day-star of my marriage-morn, Dear as the infant smiling on my knee. Charm'd by the magic smile, in Habbie's Howe, Did rural Ramsay to the heart indite, And taught, in living strains, the breast to glow, The ravish'd ear to listen with delight. Again, on hermit Ayr, the whistling hind, Unknown and poor-rough at the rustic plough, Thy goodness found, illum'd his mighty mind, And o'er him "thine inspiring mantle threw" Stampt his wild throbbing heart with Nature's seal; Taught him his country's loves and joys to sing; And in his breast infus'd what good men feel, When kneeling down to heaven's eternal King. Still to unletter'd genius thou art The fondling friend, the tutor of his tongue, Still whispering to the peasant's artless heart The rural themes, and rural scenes unsung. The witch'ry of thy voice, diffusing glad, And waking harmony on every spray, Enticed to Ettrick Banks the shepherd lad, And taught him on his mountain-pipe to play. Call'd from their graves, thine ancient sons of song, The Dalesman brave and doughty Humming the soul-delighting strains that Along the heath I wend my lonesome way, I pass the ancient cairn and haunted cleugh, With panting speed I climb the beacon brac, And down the fell my wayward route pursue. Now hasting onward through the broomy park, A welcome, well-known voice salutes mine ear, The kindly collie fawns, I hear his bark, Full well he knows a friendly foot is near. I climb the milking stile in eager haste, I see the icicles hanging from the thatch, ear, With trembling hand I lightly lift the latch, And enter with my wonted "Peace be here!" Creative Fancy, like a powerful magician, having thus called together" the companions of my happier days," I salute them all, from the gudeman to the herd ladie, and sit me doun on an ideal langsettle. Then is the book of remembrance unclasped. I turn over the leaves, and read a select passage here and there, illustrative of the characters before me. Every one of them is recorded precisely as he ranked in my esteem. But there is a private leaf, that no man ever perused, save he who enjoyed my earliest friendship, -a leaf, whereon the secrets of my heart are written, and as I read the sacred pages, and ponder on its margins, and call to mind the warmhearted youth whose memory is dear to me, because we were like David and Jonathan, A cold hand lifts the latch, and opes the door, A welcome foot falls lightly on the floor, A gliding spectre rushes on my view, Whose face my dear first-born affections knew. In Highland garb, full on the floor he stands, Bleak are his limbs, and bloody are his hands; He bares his breast, where gapes the battle-wound, He heaves a sigh, and wildly looks around And plaid, whose tartan folds became thee well, The plaid thou wont to wear at Brakenfell. My young friend becomes one of us, and the illusive waking-dream approximates so nigh to reality, that I see the grey-haired men laying aside their plaids, and the youngsters resigning their seats. O how the blissful vision delighteth my heart! how cheerily the dear remembrances that dwell in my breast commune together! Now they are seated in perfect order, and all busy in their way. The lads weave their stockings, the lasses take to their wheels, the facetious grey-beards to joke and jest, and I to treasure up their apothegms. But the marrowy sayings that fill my heart with joy, and my head with wisdom, are unmeet for the ears of men and women now-a-days. finement hath scrubbed their understandings, and pruned their judgments, and blanched their intellects so very effectually with boardingschool leys and acids, that wholesome knowledge is become altogether un Re But other play for him was will'd by palatable, and frivolity the only men fate, And other game his manhood did await, When he, with native ardour flaming high, Glanced on the fiery Gaul a soldier's eye; And, with his wonted valour, fought and bled, Where Abercrombie found a soldier's bed, Where he, death-stricken in his full career, Heard "Victory" resound from van to rear: Saw, e'er he clos'd for ay a soldier's eye, The vaunting foe before his valour fly; Felt, e'er he sunk in everlasting sleep, What heroes feel, who Glory's harvests reap, The joy of lifting up his country's name, And living in the voice of her acclaim. Companion of my youth, mine carly friend, Brought by thine ardour to a bloody end, Why gleams on me that battle-beaming eye, Keen as the sheering brand upon thy thigh? Why, like a stranger, stands the mighty brave, Clad in the weeds of an untimely grave? Dismiss that martial air, and lay aside The garb of war, in crimson deeply dyed; And, in the homely weeds of peace appear, The jerkin, vest, and trews thou wont to wear, tal sustenance they can partake of. Hence it is, that our modern belles and beaux learn to dance before they have learnt the decalogue, and are taught to preside at table before they can say the grace. Hence it is, that their morals are lax, their conversation effeminate, their manners childish, and as for conviviality, How quaint their humour, and how vague their wit! How tame and marrowless the tales they tell! Unlike the merriment that wont to flit Around the heartsome hearth of Bra Thy home with 'scutchons, nor with plumes thy hearse ? Yet will thy memory live in Niddesdale, Thou man of sinless mirth and social glee; But there is a man whom the unfortunate look up to-a visitor of no mean degree-seated on the gudeman's right, and his favourite dog Varro panting on the hearth before him. I see his well-known fowlingpiece standing against the inner hallan, discharged of its death-dealing load, and his game-bag hanging on the kipple-pin. He hath been successful on the moor as a sportsman, and doubly so as a philanthropist, for the wail of three little children called him to a lone house, where disease and accident were about to make them or Whilst hawthorns shed their fragrance on phans, and he entered like a minis the gale, Whilst round the lily hums the moun tering spirit. Eminent and experienced is he in medicine, skilful and tender-hearted where the surgeon's hand is requisite, and, like unto his Master, he goeth about doing good— Like angel aid, descending from on high, His helping hand did smooth my friendless way; And now grown rich, the sacred debt will I, With chearful soul and grateful heart, |