to suppose that Sir Edgar Vavasour would ever connect himself with an ill-bred, awkward, hump-backed girl."

Exclamations and explanations, laughter and railleries, intermixed with more serious feelings, followed; but the result of all was-that -that-that we were married.

-From The Blank-Book of a Small Colleger.

WHILE TAKIN' A WIFT O' MY PIPE.
BY EDWIN WAUGH.1

While takin' a wift o' my pipe tother neet,
A thowt trickled into my pate,
That sulkin' becose everything isn't sweet,
Is nought but a foolish consate;

Iv mon had bin made for a bit of a spree,
An' th' world were a marlockin' schoo',
Wi' nought nobbut heytin', an' drinkin', an' glee,
An' haliday gam to go through,

He'd sicken afore

His frolic were o'er,

An' feel he'd bin born for a foo'.

Poor crayter, he's o' discontentment an' deawt,
Whatever his fortin may be;

He's just like a chylt at goes cryin' abeawt,
"Eawr Johnny's moor traycle nor me;"

One minute he's trouble't, next minute he's fain,
An' then, they're so blended i' one,

It's hard to tell whether he's laughin' through pain,

Or whether he's peawtin' for fun;

He stumbles, an' grumbles,

He struggles, an' juggles,—

He capers a bit,-an' he's gone.

It's wise to be humble i' prosperous ways,
For trouble may chance to be nee;
It's wise for to struggle wi' sorrowful days
Till sorrow breeds sensible glee;

He's rich that, contented wi' little, lives weel,
An' nurses his little to moor;

He's weel off 'at's rich, iv he nobbut can feel
He's brother to thoose that are poor;

An' to him 'at does fair,
Though bis livin' be bare,

Some comfort shall olez be sure.

We'n nobbut a lifetime a-piece here below,
An' th' lungest is very soon spent;
There's summat aboon measur's cuts for us o',
An' th' most on 'em nobbut a fent;

Lung or short, rough or fine, little matter for that,

We'n make th' best o'th stuff till it's done,
An' when it leets eawt to get rivven a bit,
Let's darn it as weel as we con;

When th' order comes to us
To doff these owd clooas,

There'll surely be new uns to don.
1 From Lancashire Songs.

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

[Alexander Wilson, born in Paisley, 6th July, 1766; died in Philadelphia, 23d August, 1813. A poet and the founder of American ornithology. For several years he worked at the loom as a weaver in his native town, and afterwards travelled through the country as a peddler. He published his first volume of poems in 1790, and two years later issued, anonymously, his humorous ballad of Watty and Meg, which, much to the author's delight, was attributed to Burns. He emigrated to America in 1794; and found occupation as a schoolmaster. Upon settling at Kingsessing, he began to prepare for his great work on American ornithology; he explored the country, generally alone, and personally collected all his specimens. He lived to complete the eighth volume of the work; the ninth was produced under the care of his friend and occasional Wilson's companion in his explorations, George Ord. poetical talent has been almost forgotten, whilst his fame as an ornithologist remains undiminished.]

Of all professions that this world has known,
From clowns and cobblers upwards to the throne;
From the grave architect of Greece and Rome,
Down to the framer of a farthing broom,
The worst for care and undeserved abuse,
The first in real dignity and use

(If skill'd to teach and diligent to rule),
Is the learn'd master of a little school.
Not he who guides his legs, or skills the clown
To square his fist, and knock his fellow down:
Not he who shows the still more barbarous art
To parry thrusts and pierce th' unguarded heart;
But that good man, who, faithful to his charge,
Still toils the opening reason to enlarge;
And leads the growing mind, through every stage,
From humble A, B, C, to God's own page;
From black, rough pothooks, horrid to the sight,
To fairest lines that float o'er purest white;
From numeration, through an opening way,
Till dark annuities seem clear as day;
Pours o'er the mind a flood of mental light,
Expands its wings, and gives it powers for flight,
Till earth's remotest bound, and heaven's bright train
He trace, weigh, measure, picture, and explain.
If such his toils, sure honour and regard
And wealth and fame will be his dear reward.
Sure every tongue will utter forth his praise,
And blessings gild the evening of his days!
Yes!-bless'd indeed, by cold ungrateful scorn,
With study pale, by daily crosses worn,
Despised by those who to his labours owe
All that they read, and almost all they know;
Condemn'd, each tedious day, such cares to bear
As well might drive e'en Patience to despair;
The partial parent's taunt-the idler dull-
The block head's dark impenetrable skull-
The endless round of A, B, C's whole train
Repeated o'er ten thousand times in vain.
Placed on a point, the object of each sneer,
His faults enlarge, his merits disappear:

If mild-"Our lazy master loves his ease,
The boys at school do anything they please."
If rigid "He's a cross hard-hearted wretch,
He drives the children stupid with his birch.
My child, with gentle means, will mind a breath;
But frowns and flogging frighten him to death."
Do as he will his conduct is arraign'd,
And dear the little that he gets is gain'd;
E'en that is given him, on the quarter day,
With looks that call it-money thrown away.
Just heaven! who knows the unremitting care
And deep solicitude that teachers share;
If such their fate, by thy divine control
O give them health and fortitude of soul!

Souls that disdain the murderous tongue of Fame, And strength to make the sturdiest of them tame. Grant this, ye powers! to Dominies distress'd, Their sharp-tailed h clories will do the rest.

THE TURNIP.

BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

There were two brothers who were both soldiers; the one was rich, the other poor. The poor man thought he would try to better himself; so, pulling off his red coat, he became a gardener, and dug his ground well, and sowed turnips.

When the seed came up, there was one plant bigger than all the rest; and it kept getting larger and larger, and seemed as if it would never cease growing; so that it might have been called the prince of turnips, for there never was such a one seen before, and never will again. At last it was so big that it filled a cart, and two oxen could hardly draw it; and the gardener knew not what in the world to do with it, nor whether it would be a blessing or a curse to him. One day he said to himself, "What shall I do with it? if I sell it, it will bring no more than another; and for eating the little turnips are better than this; the best thing perhaps is to carry it and give it to the king as a mark of respect."

Then he yoked his oxen, and drew the turnip to the court, and gave it to the king. "What a wonderful thing!" said the king; "I have seen many strange things, but such a monster as this I never saw. Where did you get the seed? or is it only your good luck? If so, you are a true child of fortune." "Ah, no!" answered the gardener, "I am no child of fortune; I am a poor soldier, who never could get enough to live upon; so I laid aside my red coat, and set to work, tilling the ground. I have a brother, who is rich, and your majesty knows him well, and all the world knows him; but because I am poor, everybody forgets me."

The king then took pity on him, and said, "You shall be poor no longer. I will give you so much that you shall be even richer than your brother." Then he gave him gold and lands and flocks, and made him so rich that his brother's fortune could not at all be compared with his.

When the brother heard of all this, and how a turnip had made the gardener so rich, he envied him sorely, and bethought himself how he could contrive to get the same good fortune for himself. However, he determined to manage more cleverly than his brother, and got together a rich present of gold and fine horses for the king; and thought he must have a much larger gift in return: for if his brother had received so much for only a turnip, what must his present be worth?

The king took the gift very graciously, and said he knew not what to give in return more valuable and wonderful than the great turnip: so the soldier was forced to put it into a cart, and drag it home with him. When he reached home he knew not upon whom to vent his rage and spite; and at length wicked thoughts came into his head, and he resolved to kill his brother.

So he hired some villains to murder him: and having shown them where to lie in ambush, he went to his brother and said, "Dear brother, I have found a hidden treasure; let us go and dig it up, and share it between us." The other had no suspicions of his roguery; so they went out together, and as they were travelling along the murderers rushed out upon him, bound him, and were going to hang him on a tree.

But whilst they were getting all ready, they heard the trampling of a horse at a distance, which so frightened them that they pushed their prisoner neck and shoulders together inte a sack, and swung him up by a cord to the tree. where they left him dangling, and ran away. Meantime he worked and worked away, till be made a hole large enough to put out his head

When the horseman came up he proved to be a student, a merry fellow, who was journeying along on his nag, and singing as he went. As soon as the man in the sack saw him passing under the tree, he cried out, "Good morning good morning to thee, my friend!" The stu dent looked about everywhere, and seeing no one, and not knowing where the voice came from, cried out, "Who calls me?"

Then the man in the tree answered, “Lift up thine eyes, for behold here I sit in the sack of wisdom; here have I, in a short time, learned great and wondrous things. Compared to this seat all the learning of the schools is as empty

air. A little longer, and I shall know all that man can know, and shall come forth wiser than the wisest of mankind. Here I discern the signs and motions of the heavens and the stars, the laws that control the winds, the number of the sands on the sea-shore, the healing of the sick, the virtues of all simples, of birds, and of precious stones. Wert thou but once here, my friend, thou wouldst feel and own the power of knowledge."

The student listened to all this, and wondered much; at last he said, "Blessed be the day and hour when I found you; cannot you contrive to let me into the sack for a little while?" Then the other answered, as if very unwillingly, "A little space I may allow thee to sit here, if thou wilt reward me well and entreat me kindly; but thou must tarry yet an hour below, till I have learned some little matters that are yet unknown to me."

So the student sat himself down and waited a while; but the time hung heavy upon him, and he begged earnestly that he might ascend forthwith, for his thirst of knowledge was great. Then the other pretended to give way, and said, "Thou must let the sack of wisdom descend, by untying yonder cord, and then thou shalt enter." So the student let him down, opened the sack, and set him free. "Now, then," cried he, "let me ascend quickly." As he began to put himself into the sack, heels first, "Wait awhile," said the gardener, "that is not the way." Then he pushed him in head first, tied up the sack, and soon swung up the searcher after wisdom, dangling in the air. "How is it with thee, friend?" said he, "dost thou not feel that wisdom comes unto thee? Rest there in peace, till thou art a wiser man than thou wert."

So saying, he trotted off on the student's nag, and left the poor fellow to gather wisdom till somebody should come and let him down.

WOMAN.1

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is, to die.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 1First printed in the Vicar of Wakefield, c. xxiv.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

[George Gordon, Lord Byron, born in London, 22d January, 1788; died at Missolonghi, 19th April, 1824. Guards, and Catherine Gordon, of Gight, Aberdeen

He was the only child of Captain John Byron, of the

shire. Until the age of ten he was educated at Aberdeen under the care of his mother; he was then-having become heir to the title and estate of his grand-uncle, Lord Byron of Newstead Abbey-removed to Harrow, and subsequently to Cambridge. In 1807 appeared the Hours of Idleness, and the severe comments made upon it by the Edinburgh Review inspired the poet with his satire of the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809). He travelled on the Continent for a couple of years, and soon after his return issued the first two cantos of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1812), which at once elevated him to the pinnacle of poetic fame. In 1815 he married Miss Millbanke; a year afterwards Lady Byron, with her infant daughter Ada, returned to her father's house in Leicestershire. Byron thereupon quitted England with the determination never to return. He flitted about from place to place, but spent most of his time

in Italy. In 1823 he proved his devotion to Greece by joining in the attempt to secure its independence, giving to that object his fortune and his life-for it was in the course of this enterprise that he was attacked by the illness which closed his career. His life provoked many scandals, which have been more than once revived since his death; and on this subject a French critic makes the following observations: 1-"Our curiosity has killed our enthusiasm; whether it regards a great poet or a great man, we lose sight of his work or

his actions to occupy ourselves only with his private life. . . . The heritage of a great man is not in that which brings him down to our level, but in that which exalts him above us." 2]

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

1 Henri Blaze de Bury in the Revue des Deux Mondes, 1st October, 1872.

2 Of Byron's works Macaulay wrote:-"It was in description and meditation that he excelled. 'Description,' as he said in Don Juan, was his forte. His manner is indeed peculiar, and is almost unequalledrapid, sketchy, full of vigour; the selection happy; the strokes few and bold. Never had any writer so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn, misanthropy, and despair. That Marah was never dry. But, after the closest scrutiny, there will still remain much that can only perish with the English language."

The mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persian's grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations;-all were his! He counted them at break of dayAnd when the sun set where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

"Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks a blush for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopyla!

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah! no;-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise,- we come, we come!" "Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain-in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble callHow answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gaveThink ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:

He served but served Polycrates-
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades!

Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind!

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope of courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade-
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mineDash down yon cup of Samian wine!

THE WAVERLEY MYSTERY.

It is difficult nowadays to realize the inten sity of the curiosity which long prevailed regarding the authorship of the Waverley Novels. The secret was well kept; several intimate friends had no doubt that Scott was the author, but few were certain of it. The works were attributed to various known and unknown men; then the rapidity with which one novel followed the other gave rise to the idea that they could not be the productions of one man. This suggested to Scott the most humorous of all his introductions, namely, the preface to the Betrothed, which he called Minutes of sederunt of a general meeting of the shareholders designing to form a joint-stock company, united for the purpose of writing and publishing the class of works called the Waverley Novels." Curiosity was at length satisfied and false rumours extinguished by Sir Walter Scott's public acknowledgment of the authorship at the first dinner of the Edinburgh Theatrical Fund,

held in the Assembly Rooms, on Friday, 23d February, 1827. The fund had been established in 1819, under the patronage of Frederick, Duke of York, for the benefit of sick and aged players. It was considered advisable by the managers of the institution to attract attention to the charity by means of a public dinner, and Sir Walter Scott consented to preside on the occasion. The following sketch of the proceedings appeared shortly after the event in a Glasgow periodical called the Ant, and is valuable as the report of an eye-witness:

"Never was dinner so delayed, or so little worth being waited for, till the company was stupified, and in that mood taken by surprise on the entrance of Sir Walter Scott, Lord Fife, and other gentlemen, by the centre door. When they were recognized, every man stood up and cheered, as the chairman, with his 'peers,' halted his way up the middle passage to the elevated seat beneath the royal canopy at the cross table, looking down the There was no grace before meat, and very little at it, believe me, for we were all as ravenous as wolves, and every man was there 'his own carver.'

room.

"As I sent you more than one of the Edinburgh papers, it is needless for me to recapitulate the proceedings of the evening, as, upon the whole, they were faithfully reported; although it was impossible for them to convey an idea of the intense spirit of sociality, and intimate brotherhood of feeling, as it were, which speedily pervaded the meeting, and distinguished it from the stiff formality and ostentatious parade of public dinners in general. All that I can do is merely to gather up a few crumbs of intelligence that escaped the regular caterers for the public, or were deemed too trivial for their notice. Sir Walter spoke of the memory of the Duke of York with the feeling of one who had lost a friend, but we were obliged to pledge it and many other toasts with empty glasses. Mr. Robertson, the jolly croupier, even whose rotundity hardly made him visible to one-half of the company, so lowly was he seated, did not relish this, and prevented Sir Walter from going farther till he, at least, was supplied. At a later period he rose up and declared, with rich emphasis, that the room was still full of waiters, but empty of wine,' and at last we all got to port. The chairman hesitated considerably in his opening or formal speech. He seemed to have written and forgotten it; but no sooner was the task-work over, than he felt at and made his auditors be at theirs. In fact, each of us very speedily experienced the same agreeable feeling that would have

his own ease,

been ours had we been seated at table with Sir Walter, and been on terms of perfect intimacy with him. At length Lord Meadowbank got up and petrified us all by his direct, and, as it at first appeared, scandalously rude allusion to his friend's being the author of Waverley. The next sensation was that of wonder, how Sir Walter, so involved, would contrive to extricate himself from the dilemma. He rose up; a smile played upon his rough and shagged, but expressive face; and in a low tone, which yet was heard in the remotest corner of the room, revealed the truth that no one there had doubted, but that every one was electrified to hear from his own lips-that he was the author -or, as he added, the sole author of the writings that have placed Waverley and its successors at the head of the romance literature of the world. There was, as you may guess, cheering at this till the roof sent back the thundering plaudits. . . . I must conclude. Mackay's speech was well written; but he has only one way of delivery, whether of 'my conscience!' or 'the immortal Garrick,' &c. can sing plaintively, however, and with feeling, as well as comically and with mirth, as he that night evinced. The badinage between him and Sir Walter was highly dramatic-so much so, as to appear premeditated to some. Goodnature, rather than very good taste, at all events, prompted the giving a second-rate actor's health next, after such a ceremony as the revelation of the Veiled Prophet.' The more minute touches-in which it was that the chairman excelled, of course could not be detailed in the newspaper reports-as where he alluded to his son's being a hussar-where he spoke of auld Scotland, and 'every lass in her cottage, and countess in her castle'—and of Mrs. Siddons-Mrs. Anne Page, and 'her probabilities'-and Lord Ogilby and his 'twinge'-nor can they convey to you the Northumbrian raciness of his 'hurra'-of P. Robertson's mellow tones, smacking of old port and good living."

He

Sir Walter Scott took the chair, amid enthusiastic greetings, at six o'clock, supported on his right hand by the Earl of Fife, and on the left by Lord Meadowbank. On the right of the Earl of Fife were Sir John Hope of Pinkie, Bart., Admiral Adam, Robert Dundas, Esq. of Arniston, and several officers of the 7th Hussars; and on the left of the chair sat Baron Clerk Rattray, Gilbert Innes, Esq. of Stow, James Walker, Esq. of Dalry, and several officers: Patrick Robertson, Esq., Advocate, and Sir Samuel Stirling of Glorat, Bart., croupiers. Professor Wilson was ill, and unable to attend the meeting.