so then, when passion and imagination were young,—and her image, her undying, unfading image, is so now, when passion and imagination are old, and when from eye and soul have disappeared much of the beauty and glory both of nature and life. I loved her from the first moment that our eyes met, and I see their light at this moment, the same soft, bright, burning light, that set body and soul on fire. She was but a poor shepherd's daughter; but what was that to me, when I heard her voice singing one of her old plaintive ballads among the braes,—when I sat down beside her,—when the same plaid was drawn over our shoulders in the rain-storm,—when I asked her for a kiss, and was not refused,-for what had she to fear in her beauty, and her innocence, and her filial piety,—and was not I a mere boy, in the bliss of passion, ignorant of deceit or dishonour, and with a heart open to the eyes of all as to the gates of heaven? What music was in that stream! Could "Sabean odours from the spicy shores of Araby the Blest" so penetrate my soul with joy, as the balmy breath of the broom on which we sat, forgetful of all other human life! Father, mother, brothers, sisters, uncles, and aunts, and cousins, and all the tribe of friends that would throw me off,-if I should be so base and mad as to marry a low-born, low-bred, ignorant, uneducated, crafty, ay, crafty and designing beggar,-were all forgotten in my delirium, if indeed it were delirium,—and not an everlastingly sacred devotion of the soul to nature and to truth. For in what was I deluded? A voice,—a faint and dewy voice,— deadened by the earth that fills up her grave, and by the turf that, at this very hour, is expanding its primroses to the dew of heaven,―answers, "In nothing!"

"Ha! ha ha!" exclaims some reader in derision, "here's an attempt at the pathetic, a miserable attempt indeed, for who cares about the death of a mean hut-girl? we are sick of low life." Why, as to that matter, who cares for the death of any one mortal being? Who weeps for the death of the late Emperor of all the Russias? Who wept over Napoleon the Great? When Chatham or Burke, Pitt or Fox died-don't pretend to tell lies about a nation's tears. And if yourself, who, perhaps, are not in low life, were to die in half an hour, (don't be alarmed,) all who

knew you, except two or three of your bosom friends, who, partly from being somewhat dull, and partly from wishing to be decent, might blubber-would walk along Prince's Street at the fashionable hour of three, the very day after your funeral. Nor would it ever enter their heads to abstain from a comfortable dinner at the British Hotel, ordered, perhaps, a month ago, at which time you were in rude health, merely because you had foolishly allowed a cold to fasten upon your lungs, and carry you off in the prime and promise of your professional life. In spite of all your critical slang, therefore, Mr. Editor or Master Contributor to some literary journal, SHE, though a poor Scottish Herd, was most beautiful; and when, but a week after taking farewell of her, I went, according to our tryst, to fold her in my arms, and was told by her poor father that she was dead,―ay, dead and buried-that she had no existence-that neither the daylight nor I should ever more be gladdened by her presence—that she was in a coffin, six feet in earth-that the worms were working their way towards the body, to crawl into her bosom—that she was fast becoming one mass of corruption-when I awoke from the dead-fit of horrid dreams in which I had lain on the floor of my Agnes's own cottage, and cursed the sight of the heaven and the earth, and shuddered at the thought of the dread and dismal God-when I

We wish that we had lying on the table before us Grahame's pleasant poem, "The Birds of Scotland;" but we lent our copy some years ago to a friend-and a friend never returns a borrowed book. But here is a very agreeable substitute" A Treatise on British Song Birds," published by John Anderson, jun., Edinburgh, and Simpkin & Marshall, London. The small musicians are extremely well engraved by Mr. Scott, of Edinburgh, from very correct and beautiful drawings, done by an English artist, and there is a well-written introduction, of forty pages, from the pen of Mr. Patrick Syme. We presume that the rest of the letter-press is by the same gentleman—and it does him very great credit. The volume includes observations on their natural habits, and manner of incubation; with remarks on the treatment of the young, and management of the old birds, in a domestic state.

“The delightful music of song-birds is, perhaps, the chief reason why these charming little creatures are, in all countries, so highly prized. Music is an universal language;—it is understood and cherished in every country— the savage, the barbarian, and the civilized individual, are all passionately fond of music, particularly of melody. But, delightful as music is, perhaps there is another reason that may have led man to deprive the warblers of the woods and fields of liberty, particularly in civilized states, where the intellect is more refined, and, consequently, the feelings more adapted to receive tender impressions ;—we mean the associations of ideas. Their sweet melody brings him more particularly in contact with groves and meadows-with romantic banks, or beautiful sequestered glades the cherished scenes, perhaps, of his early youth. But, independent of this, the warble of a sweet song-bird is, in itself, very delightful;—and, to men of sedentary habits, confined to cities by professional duties, and to their desks most part of the day, we do not know a more innocent or more agreeable recreation than the rearing and training of these little feathered musicians."

Now, we hear many of our readers crying out against the barbarity of confining the free denizens of the air in wire or wicker cages. Gentle readers, do, we pray, keep your compassion for other objects. Or, if you are disposed to be argumentative with us, let us just walk down stairs to the larder, and tell the public truly what we there behold-three brace of partridges, two ditto of moor-fowl, a cock-pheasant, poor fellow,-a man and his wife of the aquatic, or duck kind, and a woodcock, vainly presenting his long Christmas bill—

"Some sleeping kill'd-

All murder'd."—

Why, you are indeed a most logical reasoner, and a most considerate Christian, when you launch out into an invective against the cruelty exhibited in our cages. Let us leave this den of murder, and have a glass of our wife's home-made frontiniac in her own boudoir. Come, come, sir,-look on this newly married couple of canaries. The

architecture of their nest is certainly not of the florid order, but my Lady Yellowlees sits on it a well satisfied bride. Come back in a day or two, and you will see her nursing triplets. Meanwhile, hear the earpiercing fife of the bridegroom!-Where will you find a set of happier people, unless, perhaps, it be in our parlour, or our library, or our nursery? For, to tell you the truth, there is a cage or two in almost every room of the house. Where is the cruelty-here, or in your blood-stained larder? But you must eat, you reply. We answer-not necessarily birds. The question is about birds-cruelty to birds; and were that sagacious old wild-goose, whom one single moment of heedlessness brought last Wednesday to your hospitable board, at this moment alive, to bear a part in our conversation, can you dream that, with all your Jeffreyan ingenuity and eloquence, you could persuade him the now defunct and dejected-that you were under the painful necessity of eating him with stuffing and apple-sauce?

The intelligent author of the treatise on British birds does not condescend to justify the right we claim to encage them; but he shows his genuine humanity in instructing us how to render happy and healthful their imprisonment. He says very prettily, "What are town-gardens and shrubberies in squares, but an attempt to ruralize the city? So strong is the desire in man to participate in country pleasures, that he tries to bring some of them even to his room. Plants and birds are sought after with avidity, and cherished with delight. With flowers he endeavours to make his apartments resemble a garden; and thinks of groves and fields, as he listens to the wild sweet melody of his little captives. Those who keep and take an interest in song-birds, are often at a loss how to treat their little warblers during illness, or to prepare the proper food best suited to their various constitutions; but that knowledge is absolutely necessary to preserve these little creatures in health for want of it, young amateurs and bird-fanciers have often seen, with regret, many of their favourite birds perish."

Now, here we confess is a good physician. In Edinburgh we understand there are about five hundred medical practitioners on the human race,—and we have dog-doc

tors, and horse-doctors, who come out in numbers-but we have had no bird-doctors. Yet often, too often, when the whole house rings from garret to cellar with the cries of children teething, or in the hooping-cough, the little linnet sits silent on his perch, a moping bunch of feathers, and then falls down dead, when his lilting life might have been saved by the simplest medicinal food skilfully administered. Surely if we have physicians to attend our treadmills, and regulate the diet and day's work of merciless ruffians, we should not suffer our innocent and useful prisoners thus to die unattended. Why do not the ladies of Edinburgh form themselves into a society for this purpose?

Not one of all the philosophers in the world has been able to tell us what is happiness. Sterne's Starling is weakly supposed to have been miserable. Probably he was one of the most contented birds in the universe. Does confinement, the closest, most uncompanioned confinement-make one of ourselves unhappy? Is the shoemaker, sitting with his head on his knees in a hole in the wall from morning to night, in any respect to be pitied? Is the solitary orphan, that sits all day sewing in a garret, while the old woman for whom she works is out washing, an object of compassion? or the widow of fourscore, hurkling over the embers, with a stump of a pipe in her toothless mouth? Is it so sad a thing indeed to be alone? or to have one's motions circumscribed within the narrowest imaginable limits?-Nonsense all. Nine-tenths of mankind, in manufacturing and commercial countries, are cribbed and confined into little room,-generally, indeed, together, but often solitary.

Then, gentle reader, were you ever in a highland shieling? It is built of turf, and is literally alive; for the beautiful heather is blooming, and wild-flowers too—and walls and roof are one sound of bees. The industrious little creatures must have come several long miles for their balmy spoil. There is but one human creature in that shieling, but he is not at all solitary. He no more wearies of that lonesome place, than do the sunbeams or the shadows. To himself alone, he chants his old Gaelic songs, or frames wild ditties of his own to the raven or red deer. Months thus pass on; and he descends again to the lower