by way of "doch-an-dorris," as the inches. After a tremendous sound sleep, I was up betimes in the morning, though a wee drumly about the head, anxious to inquire at Tommy Bodkin, the head of the business department, me being absent, if any extraordinars had occurred on the yesterday; and found that the only particular customer making inquiries anent me, was our old friend, Cursecowl, savage for the measure of a killing-coat, which he wanted made as fast as directly. Though dreadfully angry at finding me from home, and unco swithering at first, he at length, after a volley of oaths enough to have opened a stone wall, allowed Tommy Bodkin to take his inches; but as he swore and went on speaking nonsense all the time, Tommy's hand shook, partly through fear, and partly through anxiety; and if he went wrong in making a nick in the paper here and there in the wrong place, it was no more than might have been looked for, from his fright and inexperience. In the twinkle of an eye-lid, I saw that there was some mortal mistake in the measurement; as, unless Cursecowl had lost beef at no allowance, I knew, judging from the past, that it would not peep on his corpus by four The matter was, however, now past all earthly remede, and there was nothing to be done but trusting to good fortune, and allowing the killingcoat to take its chance in the world. How the thing happened, I have bothered and beat my brains to no purpose to make out, and it remains a wonderful mystery to me to this blessed day; but by long thought on the subject, both when awake and in my bed, and by multifarious cross-questionings at Tommy's self, concerning the paper measurings, I am devoutly inclined to think, that he mistook the nicking of the side-seams and the shoulder-strap, for the girth of the belly-band. For more than a week, there was nothing but open war and rebellion throughout the parish, Cursecowl making the whole town of Dalkeith stand on end. I saw that he was not likely soon to hold out a flag of truce, so I judged it best for both parties to sound a parley; and offer either to take back the coat, or refund part of the purchase-money. James Batter was sent as ambassador, and the latter was agreed on; Cursecowl accepting ten shillings by way of bloodmoney, and making a legacy of the coat to his nephew, young Killim. The laddie was a perfect world'swonder every Sunday, until he at last rebelled, and fairly threw it aff; and I was always in bodily terror, that, had he gone to Edinburgh, he would have been taken up by the police, on suspicion of being a highwayrobber. THE LAND OF DREAMS. BY MRS. HEMANS. "And dreams, in their developement, have breath, O SPIRIT-LAND! thou land of dreams! Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, Thou art like a City of the Past, With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, Yes! thou art like those dim sea-caves, A realm of treasures, a realm of graves! And the shapes, through thy mysteries that come and go, But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep! And thy bowers are fair-even as Eden fair! They are there-and each blessed voice I hear, I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow, I listen to music of long ago; But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint through the lay— "It is but a dream, it will melt away!" I sit by the hearth of my early days, All the home-faces are met by the blaze And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say "It is but a dream, it will melt away!" And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone, And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone! Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear Bright faces, kind voices !—where are ye, where ? Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams! The past as it fled by my own blue streams- For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return. Call out from the future thy visions bright, From the world o'er the grave take thy solemn light, Show me my home, as it yet may be. As it yet may be in some purer sphere, No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear; So my soul may bear on through the long, long day, CHANGE. BY L. E. L. I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring, The green leaves early falling from thy boughs- Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers ;- To haunt the ruined heart, which still recurs To former beauty; and the desolate Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls WHEN those eyes have forgotten the smile they wear now, Then wilt thou remember what now seems to pass By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there As the rose by the fountain flings down on the wave The charmed light darkens, the rose-leaves are gone, Oh! long ere one shadow shall darken that brow, When thy feelings lie fettered like waters in frost, SKETCHES OF CONTEMPORARY AUTHORS, STATESMEN, &c. POETRY is almost coeval with the ori- occasional elevation of thought, a fit of animation, or a strong excitement, will lead the speaker into a course of diction superior to the tameness of ordinary conversation. Figurative and metaphorical language, forcible allusions and apt comparisons, drawn both from nature and from art, will offer themselves to the mind of one who unites imagination with talent; a measured cadence will soon follow; and this species of amusement will at length become an art. Thus poetry may be supposed to have arisen. Sometimes it was left to make its own impression without accompaniment on other occasions it was aided by the rude music of early times. After the introduction of writing, it necessarily became more regular in its construction, more elegant and refined. The earliest poets of whose genius we have any remains, were those of the Hebrew race. The Greeks subsequently became famous in the poetic art, and were apparently the first nation that reduced it to precise and systematic rules. But a servile adherence to rule is disclaimed by many modern bards, who think that poets are privileged to soar above all critical laws. Genius, indeed, ought not to be closely fettered: yet every branch of literature may be improved by rules, because, in general, they are founded on common sense. The writer who now demands our notice is well acquainted with the dicta and the maxims of Aristotle and Longinus; and, if he does not always observe them, it is because he ventures sometimes to think for himself. Mr. Thomas Moore was born in Dublin about the year 1780. Being the son of a respectable merchant, he received a good education, first under Mr White, an able instructer, and afterwards at Trinity College, where his attainments as a classical scholar distinguished him above the generality of his fellow-students. In the year 1795 he became a member of the society of the Middle Temple. It was then his intention to study the law; but he did not find it necessary to practise that profession. His inclinations leading him into another course, he devoted himself to poetry and elegant literature. His translation of Anacreon, published before he had completed his twenty-first year, evinced his learning and talent; and it was soon followed by a volume of poems, chiefly of an amatory complexion. Some of these pieces are neither loose nor indelicate; but others seem to require the apology which the author made for them, alleging that they were the "productions of an age when the passions very often give too warm a coloring to the imagination, which may palliate, if it cannot excuse, the air of levity that pervades so many of them." In 1803 he procured an appointment which gave him an opportunity of visiting the United States. Being a strenuous advocate for freedom, he anxiously observed the nature of the government and the state of society in the republic; but he found the former less pure than he expected, and the latter less pregnant with comfort. He then repaired to St. George, one of the Bermuda islands, and began to act as registrar to the vice-admiralty court: but he did not long execute the office in person, being content to resign one half of the emolument to a deputy, by whose imputed acts of embezzlement he was afterwards subjected to trouble and vexation. Continuing his literary pursuits, he at length established his fame by the beauties of Lalla Rookh. His illustration of a variety of national melodies, by appropriating characteristic poetry to each, highly gratified the public; and the subsequent productions of his Muse did not (as is sometimes the case) detract from the prevailing opinion of his merit. He has also distinguished himself as a biographer. His Life of Sheridan is marked by spirit and ability, as well as by the graces of style; and it is free from that partiality which is too frequently shown where the life of a selected individual is the object. His acquaintance with the history of his native country is displayed in the supposed Memoirs of Captain Rock; and his satirical asperity is as conspicuous in that work, as in the account of the Fudge family. But of all his works, the one which we think most worthy of his genius and reputation, and which will be a durable monument to his fame, is "The Epicurean," published in 1827. Although written in prose, this is a poem, and a masterly poem, alike valued for its lustre and its purity. The style has all the liveliness which usually marks his compositions, and abounds in those sparkling illustrations which give animation to his poetic prose. Take, for example, some at random,-" fountains and lakes, in alternate motion and repose, either wantonly courting the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its embrace,""though melancholy, as usual, stood always near, her shadow fell but halfway over my vagrant path, and left the rest more welcomely brilliant from the contrast," "I could distinguish some female tones, towering high and clear over all the rest, and forming the spire, as it were, into which the harmony lessened as it rose,”—“ I saw the love-bower and the tomb standing side by side, and pleasure and death keeping hourly watch upon each other." The design is simple, and exhibits no remarkable mechanical ingenuity; but it is executed with a flowing pencil, and in warm and brilliant colors. There is no straining after vehemence and sublimity; but there is throughout, abundance of poetical thought and imagery, grace, refinement and pathos. The chief features of Mr. Moore's poetry are grace and tenderness; yet he is not deficient in animation or in force. He seems to pour forth his whole soul when he treats of the enchanting passion of love; and, if the other feelings of the heart are not so well delineated by him, he at least touches them with an elegant pencil. He may be styled the minstrel of the day; for he is at once a poet, singer, composer, and instrumental performer. VARIETIES. "Come, let us stray Where Chance or Fancy leads our roving walk." ASIA MINOR. THERE are few spots of earth visited by the traveller calculated to excite emotions more melancholy than those experienced by such as have passed over even the most frequented portions of Asia Minor. Except in the immediate vicinity of its cities, he encounters few traces of life or civilization; all beyond is "barren and unprofitable;" his path lies across plains tenanted by the stork and the jackal, or over hills whence the eye wanders along valleys, blooming in all the luxuriousness of neglected nature, or withering in loneliness and sterility. Throughout lands once adorned with the brightest efforts of genius and of art, and rife with the bustle and activity of a crowded population, his footstep will light upon nothing save the speaking monuments of decay, and his eye meet no living forms except those of his companions, or by chance a dim prospect of the weary caravan, that creeps like a centipede across the plain, or winds amidst the mazes of distant hills. There are few scattered hamlets, and no straggling abodes of mankind; danger and apprehension have forced the remnant of its inhabitants to herd together in towns for mutual security, and to leave the deserted country to the bandit and the beast of prey. The wandering passenger pursues his listless route surrounded by privations and difficulties, by fatigue and apprehension, few beaten tracks to guide his course, and few hospitable mansions to shelter his weariness. By night he rests beside his camel in the karavan-serai; and by day he hurries along with no comforts save those which he carries with him, and no companions but his thoughts. But these are sufficient, and they spring up with every breath and at every turning his very loneli |