gogues, the modern world has been continually and progressively improving in everything that really concerns the wellbeing of men and of societies. We have no need to be ashamed of our ancestors; and, instead of hewing out entirely new institutions for our posterity, we ought to be contented with preserving for them those which we ourselves inherited-gradually amending and refining themselves, as these always have been, and always must be, in proportion to the increasing civilization and illumination of the world.

matter. No one ever wished to defend the lawlessness of those old times-no one in his senses ever wished to represent the era of barons, and burghers, and rapine, and rebellion, as better than the days of quiet, and subordination, and settled government. But an attempt was made in the last age in Europe, and made with astonishing skill as well as zeal, to persuade men that there was, in the days of their forefathers, everything to be ashamed of, nothing to be proud of. The most successful literature of our age has been directed to meet this attempt, and this only: And the author of Goetz von Berlichingen, has the honour of having been the first to give this direction to the most potent engine in the modern world. The lesson, the great lesson to be derived from this drama, and from all the works which have been composed in the same view-is simply this, that in spite of all the sneers of philosophers, the elements of virtue and excellence were predominant among those who formed the Gothic institutions of Europe; and, secondly, that in spite of all the outcry of dema

The translation, from which we have quoted so largely, appeared in the midst of the first volunteering enthusiasm in this country; and we are old enough to entertain a distinct recollection of the powerful impression which its fine warlike tone, and lofty character of sentiment throughout, made upon the minds of many, who were then, for the first time, beginning to think, as well as to sing,

"No music like my bugle-horn." P. K.

THE SHEPHERD'S COT.

You ask me, do you, for the Shepherd's cot,
That with its honey-suckled walls, and roof
Of neatest thatch, stood, at the time you speak of,
Throwing its blue smoke o'er the orchard trees?
It was a figure of my youthful mind,

A spectacle that oft, in reverie,

I conjured up 'mid city noise and strife,

To whisper me of sweetest solitude;

And, as I wander'd 'mid these scenes, which bring
Still to the eye of memory such delight,
How could I otherwise than seek the spot,
Woven with ancient thoughts, and gaze upon it?
Renewing, in the landscape all around,

A bright acquaintanceship with boyish days.

In the park I stood; but lo! the orchard trees-
Wild plum, and cherry dark, and pear convolved-
Met not my view. I look'd to left to right-
I saw the old hereditary forest;

But orchard there was none. Instead, behold
A wide and open plain, a level field,
Where oxen low'd, and melancholy sheep
Reposing, nibbled the autumnal grass;

Yet the tall ash-tree, from the ravage spared,
Stood in the corner, shadowing with hoar boughs
The shepherd's cot.-How alter'd!

Ruin grey

Had made an altar of its wasted walls,

O'er which aslant the mouldering roof-tree hung;
Piled on the gable chimney, sticks and straw
Told that the raven, undisturb'd, built there
VOL. XVI.

D

Its loose nest, fearless of rude schoolboy's hand;
Into some patches of remaining thatch,

Rotten and dark, the glutinous houseleek struck
Its roots, and flourish'd with the dock. To rains
Open, and to the howling winds of night,

Stood the bare lattice boles, still whitening-stain'd;
Wall-flowers, long-seeded, green'd the window-sills;
And on the floor, once sanded o'er so nice,

Lay straw and stones, rank weeds and stagnant water.
'Twas desolate! and when I thought how oft,
How oft in happiness, and hopeful fear,
By the chimney in my boyhood I had sate,
While blazed the faggot, hissing as it glow'd
On winter eves, listening the old man's tale
Of legendary lore, wild sights, and sounds,
Dark superstitions dread, and tempests dire,
Such as in modern times the eye beholds not ;—
When I thought how oft, at noon, the housewife kind
Proffer'd us, wandering schoolboys, her new cheese,
Tempting, and oaten cakes, and fragrant milk;
And how we lay luxuriously along,

'Mid sunshine, the green turf-seat by the door,
I sigh'd, and o'er my feelings lay a cloud
Of gloom, that only deepen'd as I sigh'd.-
The shepherd and his wife, his family,

Our rustic playmates, where was each, were all?
Deep is the tomb, and countless are its crowds,
Wide is the world, and much is scatter'd there!

Brief though our human life may be, my friend,
Its pleasures still are briefer. Surely they
Who hold that this fair earth is destitute
Of joys, do deeply err; or, if not, why
Is grief allow'd so oft to cloud the brow
For loss of what is valueless-so oft

Doth disappointment shadow us, for what,
Even if our hearts attain'd, is nothing worth?
Truly such doctrine errs-vicissitude

Makes both our misery and happiness,

People with hideous shapes the shadowy future;

And, out from the abyss of coming years,

Conjures unreal phantoms, frowning all,

Children of doubt and death; while blue-eyed Hope,

With iris-hues, colours the fields of earth,

Pierces through the dark, and, triumphing in faith,

Sees gold-illumined pinnacles-bright joys

Calm cloudless skies-and bliss without an end.

As the mind sinks and soars, (you have felt it so,) Tinged by the mind, reality becomes

Darker or brighter, ever trembling, like

The needle to the pole, it follows still.

The wintry cloud that, with its sombre shade,
Seems to involve the universal sky,

Showers, and at length is scatter'd by the wind-
So pass our earthly sorrows; while our joys
Are like the bright forms of a summer heaven,
Beneath the reign of evening: all seems fix'd
In beauty, permanently fair, while lo!

Even as we gaze, change follows change; at length
The pageant, glorious in magnificence,

Wanes ray by ray, and tint by tint, and ends

In unillumined twilight, sad and cold!

A

MEN AND WOMEN;

Brief Hypothesis concerning the Difference in their Genius.
MR NORTH,

HEAVEN be praised!—the cause of woman has at last found a serious defender among the northern coalition -the men of Scotland-the Knights of the Black Wood. This is as it should be. I am glad of it. I have been looking, impatiently, for a champion to appear in that quarter, who would enter the tilting ground, in full panoply, with a lance of bright steel, sharpened; not with his collar open, his clothes falling off, a wreath of wet vine leaves rustling, smoking, and steaming about his temples; no, nor in white kid gloves, covered with bride-favours, boarding-school keepsakes, sky-blue ribbons, true-lovers' knots, flowers, &c. &c.; with a run-away sash flut tering at the end of a yard-stick, or an umbrella.

As I live, I haven't seen a spectacle half so exhilarating, this twelvemonth, as the opening of this new tournament, in favour of women-a young knight, (he must be young, and desperately brave,) leaping, with one blast of the trumpet, into the old place of contention; and throwing down his iron gauntlet before all the world, in defence of a wronged woman-a woman whose extraordinary power and superb talent have been, hitherto, almost universally misunderstood, and misrepresented-I mean Joanna Baillie. For many years, I have thought and spoken, and, on one occasion, written, of her dramatick genius and brave style of poetry, with very much the same kind of serious enthusiasm, and absolute confidence, which characterize the writer, who took up her cause in the late Number of your Magazine.

I have long regarded Joanna Baillie (ever since I read her De Montfort, indeed) as a woman of more simple, masculine energy-more amplitude of mind-and more beautiful boldness of thought, (without being rash, or passionate,) than any other woman, of whom we have any account; and I rejoice, therefore, to find her cause undertaken, as it is, against the unrighteous and perverse judgment of the Edinburgh Review-the melancholy indifference of the world-and

the sad insensibility of men, to female power, so extraordinary as hers.

I hate blarney, and I hate sentimentality, everywhere; but nowhere so heartily, as where one is eternally meeting with both; to wit, where women are concerned.

I am for treating women like rational beings-not like spoilt children, who are never to be contradicted or thwarted, though we catch them playing with tilted coffee-pots, poisoned arrows, or lighted thunderbolts, in a powder magazine. I would have them reasoned with, ('pon my soul, I would) not laughed at ; put aside, reverently, with an appeal to their good sense, not by a sarcasm, a bow, or a joke; dealt plainly with, not flattered; spoken to, peremptorily, when they deserve it, but kindly and respectfully, nevertheless. In one word, I would have women treated like men, of common sense. Take my word for it, whatever we may now think, we shall find them worthier of our love; and they will like us the better for it. I never knew a woman in my life, who did not relish sincerity, when it was unquestionable sincerity; one who would not bear admonition, at least, as well as men do; nor one of common sense who did not choose her husband (if she had her own way) from among those, who were sincere with her, and would neither flatter, nor coax her.

I appeal, for the truth of this, to every man of much experience among women. Let him reflect; and he will find that (whatever were his objecttheir destruction, their friendship, or their love) plain dealing, and absolute sincerity, were the only things for him to depend upon, in the long run; that the favourites of women, who may be justly reckoned formidable, or dangerous, are seldoin, or ever, young or handsome men; and yet more rarely, coxcombs or flatterers; and that every man, who has ever held women, whatever were their capacities, in a strong and permanent thraldom, will be found to have done it, by sincerity and bold

ness.

Now, if this be true, in any degree, (and who, of even moderate experi

Quere-If the period should not end here-to please most people?