serable night," she replied, "in consequence of an appalling incident which occurred last night in your immediate vicinity. Soon after you left us, four nuns from the convent of St. Clara, called upon me on their way to chant a midnight requiem over the dear remains of my blessed sister, and requested me to accompany them on a harp, which is usually left for this purpose in the sepulchre. As I have found a melancholy gratification in this solemn service, which the nuns perform twice every week, when their convent duties permit, I did not allow the still distant storm, nor the cool white gown which had replaced my hot mourning dress, to deter me from an act of duty to the dear departed one. I accompanied the nuns to the sepulchre, and, after they had sung the requiem, I was kneeling in silent prayer against the sarcophagus, when suddenly, the brazen gates of the vault were shaken with a giant's grasp -I beheld the figure of a colossal woman in white garments on the outside and a voice shrieked "Cecilia! Cecilia!" in tones so wild and unearthly, that the nuns in terror dropped their tapers, and we fled into the inner vault, pulling the heavy door after us with a shock, which reverberated like thunder, and greatly increased our alarm. There we remained some time in an agony of terror, and in total darkness, until the hoarse voice of the approaching storm warned us to depart, and we fled through the grove to the villa, trembling at the sound of our own footsteps." It was now my turn to explain the various wonders of the night; and, with a view to cheer my drooping and agitated relatives, I endeavored to relieve with humorous coloring the ex traordinary adventures which had crowded upon me in such rapid succession. I enjoyed the heartfelt gratification to see my efforts crowned with success. The pale and care-worn features of my aunt and cousin relaxed into frequent smiles as I pursued my strange narrative, and the ludicrous climax of my adventure with the two gardeners created even a hearty laugh at my expense. When I had concluded, the lovely Julia repaired the awful damage inflicted on my dressinggown, and my aunt made me a present of the formidable portrait of the hapless Leah; the removal of which, she said, would alone convince the villagers that the unhappy original no longer walked the castle at midnight. During a few weeks of delightful intercourse with these intelligent and amiable women, I greatly recruited my injured constitution, and at length succeeded in my earnest endeavors to prevail upon my aunt and her daughter to quit for some months an abode fraught with melancholy associations, and to pass the autumn and winter under my mother's roof in Berlin. There I had the delight to see their deeply seated woe gradually yield to the influence of frequent collision with a select and sympathising circle, and assume a more tranquil and cheerful character. There, too, my daily intercourse with the unassuming and lovely Julia rapidly matured my early prepossession into a fervent and enduring attachment; and the following summer I revisited the "Robber's Tower," no longer an emaciated and fanciful invalid, but in the full enjoyment of health and happiness, the husband of my adored Julia, and the joint consoler of her still mourning, but resigned and tranquil parent. OFT as the bright sun dips Beneath the western sea, A prayer is on my lips, DIURNAL PRAYERS. Dearest! a prayer for thee! I know not where thou wanderest now, O'er ocean wave, or mountain brow; I only know that He Who hears the suppliant's prayer, Where'er thou art, on land or sea, Alone can shield thee there. Oft as the bright dawn breaks For thee my earliest prayers are prayed; NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ. [We have often been asked why we do not give in the Atheneum parts of the Noctes Ambrosianæ of Blackwood's Magazine. Our reason for not doing it has been, they contain so much relating to politics and local affairs, and so much that is otherwise unsuitable for our pages, that we could only make use of small, detached portions. We have put together below a few extracts, however, and shall occasionally adopt the same plan in future numbers.-These productions consist of familiar conversations, (real or supposed,) between Christopher North, Editor of Blackwood's Magazine, James Hogg (the Ettrick Shepherd), Timothy Tickler, and sometimes other literary friends of the Editor and contributors to that work.] SCENE-Ambrose's, Picardy Place. NORTH AND THE SHEPHERD. [Enter Mr. Ambrose, with a Board of Oysters.] Shepherd.-EISTERS dinna interrupt taukin'. Does that dear, delightfu' creter, Mrs. Hemans, continue to contribute to ilka Annual, ane or twa o' her maist beautifu' poems? North.-She does so. Shepherd.-It's no in that woman's power, sir, to write ill; for, when a feeling heart and a fine genius forgather in the bosom o' a young matron, every line o' poetry is like a sad or cheerful smile frae her een, and every poem, whatever be the subject, in ae sense a picture o' hersell-sae that a' she writes has an affectin' and an endearin' mainnerism and moralism about it, that inspires the thochtfu' reader to say in to himsell-that's Mrs. Hemans. North. From very infancy, Felicia Dorothea was beloved by the Muses. I remember patting her fair head when she was a child of nine yearsand versified even then with a touching sweetness about sylphs and fairies. Shepherd.-Early female geniuses, I observe, for the maist pairt, turn out brichter in after life than male anes. Male anes generally turn stoopiter and stoopiter, till by thirty they're sumphs. North.-I fear it is too true. Miss Bowles is equal to Mrs. Hemans. Aye, that Andrew Cleaves in the Magazine was a subduin' tale. TIME-Evening. my heart has often and often amaist dee'd within me, to think that a' we love and long for, pine to possess, and burn to enjoy-a' that passion maddens for on the midnicht pillow, in the desert day-dream-a' that the yearning sowl would fain expand itself to embrace within the rainbow circle o' its holiest and maist heavenly affections-a' that speeritualeezes our human nature, till our very dust-formed bodies seem o' the essence o' licht, or flowers, or music, something no terrestrial, but akin to the elements o' our native regions on the blue cloudless lift North.-You touch a chord, James -You do indeed-you touch a chordShepherd.-Should a' be delusiona glamor flung ower us by a celestial but deceitful spirit-felt and seen, as soon as it is broken and dissolved, to have been a fiction, a falsehood, a lie -a soft, sweet, bright, balmy, triumphant and glorious lie, in place of which nature offers us in mockery, during a' the rest o' our lives, the puir, paltry, pitiful, faded, fushionless, cauld-rifed, and chittering substitute. Truth. O, sir! waes me, that by stripping a' creation, fauld after sauld, o' gay, glitterin', gorgeous and glorious apparelin', you are sure at last to come to the hard naked Truth North.-Hamlet has it, James-" a foul congregation of vapors”— Shepherd.-Or say rather, like a body carelessly or purposely pressin' Shepherd.-O man! Mr. North, but a full-blawn or budding rose atween his finger and his thoomb, scalin' leaf after leaf, till what hae you in your hand at last but the bare heart o' the flower, and you look down amang your feet in vain for the scattered and dissipated bloom that a moment afore thrust its bold beauty into the eyes of the sun, and seemed o' its ain single self to be scenting the haill wilderness, then sweet wi' its grassy braes, as if the heavens had hung over mountains o' bloomin' heather steeped in morning dew evaporating in mistwreaths exhaled from earth to heaven in morning sacrifice! North. And Tibbie is married? Another phantom, then, of my imagination, has melted, like a dew-drop from the earth. Shepherd.-Another phantom o' my imagination has melted, like a dewdrop frae the earth-and a sappier eister never play'd plump intil a human stamack. North.-James, that is a sacrilegious parody on the expression of one of the finest feelings that breathes a sadness over our common humanity. Eat your oysters after your own fashion-but Shepherd. Her poetry is now prose. North.-Gone all the light lyrical measures! all the sweet pauses transposed. The numerous verse of her virgin being shorn of all its rhymes so musical-a thousand tunes, each in its specific sweetness murmuring of a separate soul, blended indistinguishably into one monotony-and marriage, marriage, marriage is the deadening word! Shepherd. That's treason, sirtreason against natur. Is the young lintie, I would ask, flutterin' amang the broom, or balancin' itsell in sportive happiness on ane o' the yellow jewels, half sae bonny as the same lintie sitting in its nest within a briarbush, wi' its head lying sae meek and lovingly on the rim o' the moss, and a' its breast yearning wi' the still deep instinctive bliss o' maternal affection, -or fleeing ten times in a minute frae briar-bush to bracken-brae, and frae bracken-brae to briar-bush, wi' 58 ATHENEUM, VOL. 1, 3d series. insects, and worms, and caterpillars, and speeders, in her neb, to satisfy the hunger o' a nest a' agape wi' yellow-throated young anes, and then settlin' hersell down again, as saftly as if she were naething but feathers, aboon her brood in that cozie bield, although but a bit sillie burdie, happy as ony angel in the heaven o' heavens? North. A sweet image, James; an image that beams the light of Poetry on the Prose-ground of human life! But, alas! that thin golden ring lays a heavy weight on the hand that wears it-The finger it seriously and somewhat sadly decks, never again, with so lightsome touch, braids the hair above the fair forehead,-the gay, gladsome, tripping, dancing, and singing maiden soon changes into the staid, calm, douce, almost melancholy matron, whose tears are then sincerer than her smiles-with whom Joy seems but a transient visitor,-Grief a constant guest. on ane and the Were Grief ban Shepherd.-And this warld, ye ken, sir, and nane kens better, was made for Grief as weel as for Joy. Grief and Joy, unlike as they appear in face and figure, are nevertheless sisters, and by fate and destiny, their verra lives depend same eternal law. ished frae this life, Joy would soon dwine awa into the resemblance o' her departed Soror-aye, her face would soon be whiter and mair woebegone, and they would soon be buried, side by side, in ae grave. North.-Shake hands, my dear James. I am in bad spirits to-night, and love to listen to your benign philosophy. Shepherd.-Our ancestors hae for generations been as wise in the best o' a' wisdom as oursells-though there has been great improvement in a' the airts, and aiblins the scee-ences,-but o' the latter I shanna for I canna speak-and aboon a' things else, there has been wrought by that means a great and a beneficial change in the agricultur o' the kintra. North. Yet something, I fear, on till anither fifty-and then, to be James, may have been lost. Shepherd.-Ay, mony a thing, that had I my ain way, shud leeve forever. But religion, wi' a' the cauld-rife changes in life, and manners, and customs, still strongly survives-and, thanks to Robert Burns-and aiblins ane or twa mair, there is still poetry amang our braes,—and o' nae shepherd on our Scottish hills could it be truly said, in the language o' Wordsworth : A primrose on the river's brim, For as gude a poet as Wordsworth, and in my opinion, a better too, has tauld us what he felt frae the sicht o' a Mountain Daisy. North. There is comfort in that creed, my dear James. I feel as if an oppressive weight were taken from my heart. Shepherd. Then that's mair than I do-mair than you or ony ither man should say, after devoorin' half a hunder eisters-and siccan eisters-to say naething o' a tippenny loaf, a quarter o' a pund o' butter-and the better part o' twa pats o' porter. North.-James! I have not eat a morsel, or drank a drop, since breakfast. Shepherd. Then, I've been confusioning you wi' mysel. A' the time that I was sookin' up the eisters frae out o' their shells, ilka ane sappier than anither in its shallow pool o' caller saut sea-water, and some o' them takin' a stronger sook than ithers to rug them out o' their cradles,-I thocht I saw you, sir, in my mind's ee, and no by my bodily organs, it would appear, doin' the same to a nicety, only dashing on mair o’the pepper, and mixing up mustard wi' your vinegar, as if gratifying a fawse appeteet. North. That cursed cholera— Shepherd.—I never, at ony time o' the year, hae recourse to the cruet till after the lang hunder-and in September-after four months fast frae the creturs-I can easily devoor them by theirsells just in their ain liccor, sure, just when I'm beginning to be a wee stau'd, I apply first the pepper to a squad, and then, after a score or twa in that way, some dizzen and a half wi' vinegar, and finish aff, like you, wi' a wheen to the mustard, till the brodd's naething but shells. North. The cholera has left me so weak, that————— Shepherd. I dinna ken a mair perplexin' state o' mind to be in than to be swithering about a farther brodd o' eisters, when you've devoor'd what at ae moment is felt to be sufficient, and anither moment what is felt to be very insufficient-feelin' stau'd this moment, and that moment yawp as ever-noo sayin' into yoursell that you'll order in the toasted cheese, and then silently swearin' that you maun hae anither yokin' at the beardies North. This last attack, James, has reduced me much-and a few more like it will deprive the world of a man whose poor abilities were ever devoted to her ser Shepherd.-I agree wi' ye, sir, in a' ye say about the diffeeculty o' the dilemma. But during the dubiety and the swither, in comes honest Mr. Awmrose, o' his ain accord, wi' the final brodd, and a body feels himsell to have been a great sumph for suspecking ae single moment that he wasna able for his share o' the concluding Centenary o' Noble Inventions. There's really no end in natur to the eatin' o' eisters. North.-Really, James, your insensibility, your callousness to my complaints, painfully affects me, and forces me to believe that Friendship, like Love, is but an empty name. Shepherd.-An empty wame! It's your ain faut gin it's empty—but you wadna surely be for eatin' the verra shells? Oh! Mr. North, but o' a' the men I ever knew, you are the most distinguished by natural and native coortesy and politeness—by what Cicero calls Urbanity. Tak it-tak it. For I declare, were I to tak it, I never could forgi'e mysell a' my days. Tak it, sir.-My dear sir, tak it. North.-What do you mean, James? -What the d-l can you mean? Shepherd. The last eister-the mainners eister-it's but a wee ane, or it hadna been here. There, sir, I've douk'd it in an amalgamation o' pepper, vinegar, and mustard, and a wee drap whiskey. Open your mouth, and tak it aff the pint o' my forkthat's a gude bairn. North. I have been very ill, my dear James. Shepherd.-Haud your tongue-nae sic thing. Your cheeks are no' half that shrivelled they were last year; and there's a circle o' yeloquent blood in them baith, as ruddy as Robin's breast. Your lips are no like cherries-but they were aye rather thin and colorless since first I kent you, and when chirted thegither-Oh! man, but they have a scornfu', and savage, and cruel expression, that ought seldom to be on a face o' clay. As for your een, there's twenty gude year o' life in their licht yet. But, Lord save us !-dinna, I beseech you, put on your specs; for when you cock up your chin, and lie back on your chair, and keep fastenin' your lowin' een upon a body through the glasses, it's mair than mortal man can endure -you look sae like the Deevil In carnate. North.-I am a much-injured man in the estimation of the world, James, for I am gentle as a sleeping child. Shepherd.-Come, now-you're wishin' me to flatter you-ye're desperate fond, man, o' flattery. North. I admit-confess-glory that I am so. It is impossible to lay it on too thick. NORTH, TICKLER HERD. clearer to me, sir, than the natural Shepherd.-Oh, sir, you speak weel. I like you when you're wutty-I admire you when you're wise-I love and venerate you when you're good→ and what greater goodness can there be in a world like this than charity? Tickler. But then, my worthy AND THE SHEP- friend, for one man to interfere with another's charities is always delicate North.-There are people who will nay dangerous; for how can the bepetition for the forfeited life of a fe- nevolent stranger, who comes to me lon, a forger, and an incendiary, who to solicit my aid to some poor family, will be shy of subscribing a pound for whose necessities he wishes to relieve, the relief of the blind aged widow, know either my means, or the claims who, industrious as long as she saw that already lie upon me, and which I Heaven's light, is now a palsied but am doing my best to discharge? uncomplaining pauper. asks me for a guinea—a small sum, as Tickler. Nothing seems much he thinks-the hour after I have given He |