"There are times in life when every man. feels as if his sympathies were extinct. This arises from various causes; sometimes from vicissitudes of fortune; sometimes from the sense of ingratitude, which, like the canker in the rose, destroys the germ of all kindness and charity; often from disappointments in affairs of the heart, which leave it incapable of ever again loving; but the most common cause is the consciousness of having committed wrong, when the feelings recoil inward, and, by some curious mystery in the nature of our selfishness, instead of promoting atonement, irritate us to repeat and to persevere in our injustice.

"Into one of these temporary trances Claud had fallen when his wife left him; and he continued sitting, with his eyes rivetted on the ground, insensible to all the actual state of life, contemplating the circumstances and condition of his children, as if he had no interest in their fate, nor could be affected by any thing in their for

tunes.

"In this fit of apathy and abstraction, he was roused by the sound of some one approaching; and on looking up, and turning his eyes towards the path which led from the house to the bench where he was then sitting, he saw Walter coming.

"There was something unwonted in the appearance and gestures of Walter, which soon interested the old man. At one moment he rushed forward several steps, with a strange wildness of air. He would then stop and wring his hands, gaze upward, as if he wondered at some extraordinary phe nomenon in the sky; but seeing nothing, he dropped his hands, and, at his ordinary pace, came slowly up the hill.

"When he arrived within a few paces of the bench, he halted, and looked, with such an open and innocent sadness, that even the heart of his father, which so shortly before was as inert to humanity as casehardened iron, throbbed with pity; and was melted to a degree of softness and compassion, almost entirely new to its sensibilities.

"What's the matter wi' thee, Watty ?' said he, with unusual kindness. The poor natural, however, made no reply,-but continued to gaze at him with the same inexpressible simplicity of grief.

Hast t'ou lost ony thing, Watty ??— 'I dinna ken,' was the answer, followed by

Walter moved his eyes slowly round, as if he saw and followed something which filled him with awe and dread. He then suddenly checked himself, and said, 'It's naething; she's no there.'

"Sit down beside me, Watty,' exclaimed his father, alarmed; sit down beside me, and compose thysel.'

"Walter did as he was bidden, and, stretching out his feet, hung forward in such a posture of extreme listlessness and helpless despondency, that all power of action appeared to be withdrawn.

"Claud rose, and believing he was only under the influence of some of those silly passions to which he was occasionally sub ject, moved to go away, when he looked up, and said,

-

"Father, Betty Bodle's dead!—My Betty Bodle's dead!'

"Dead !' said Claud, thunderstruck. "Aye, father, she's dead! my Betty Bodle's dead!'

"Dost t'ou ken what t'ou's saying?? But Walter, without attending to the ques tion, repeated, with an accent of tenderness still more simple and touching,

"My Betty Bodle's dead! She's awa up aboon the skies yon'er, and left me a wee wee baby;' in saying which, he again burst into tears, and, rising hastily from the bench, ran wildly back towards the Divethill-house, whither he was followed by the old man, where the disastrous intelligence was confirmed, that she had died in giving birth to a daughter.

"Deep and secret as Claud kept his feelings from the eyes of the world, this was a misfortune which he was ill prepared to withstand. For although in the first shock he betrayed no emotion, it was soon evident that it had shattered some of the firmest intents and purposes of his mind. That he regretted the premature death of a beautiful young woman in such interesting circumstances, was natural to him as a man; but he felt the event more as a personal disappointment, and thought it was accompanied with something so like retribution, that he inwardly trembled as if he had been chastised by some visible arm of Providence. For he could not disguise to himself that a female heir was a contingency he had not contemplated; that, by the catastrophe which had happened to the mother, the excambio of the Plealands for the Divethill would be rendered of no avail; and that, unless Walter married again, and had a son, the re-united Kittlestonheugh property must again be disjoined, as the Divethill would necessarily become the inheritance of the daughter.

"The vexation of this was, however, alleviated, when he reflected on the pliancy of Walter's character, and he comforted himself with the idea, that, as soon as a reasonable sacrifice of time had been made VOL. XIII.

to decorum, he would be able to induce the natural to marry again. Shall we venture to say, it also occurred in the cogitations of his sordid ambition, that, as the infant was prematurely born, and was feeble and infirm, he entertained some hope it might die, and not interfere with the entailed destination of the general estate? But if, in hazarding this rash supposition, we do him any injustice, it is certain, that he began to think there was something in the current of human affairs over which he could acquire no control, and that, although in pursuing so steadily the single purpose of recovering his family inheritance, his endeavours had, till this period, proved eminently successful, he yet saw, with dismay, that, from the moment other interests came to be blended with those which he considered so peculiarly his own, other causes also came into operation, and turned, in spite of all his hedging and prudence, the whole issue of his labours awry. He perceived that human power was set at nought by the natural course of things, and nothing produced a more painful conviction of the wrong he had committed against his first-born, than the frustration of his wishes by the misfortune which had befallen Walter. His reflections were also embittered from another source; by his parsimony he foresaw, that, in the course of a few years, he would have been able, from his own funds, to have redeemed the Divethill without having had recourse to the excambio; and that the whole of the Kittlestonheugh might thus have been his own conquest, and, as such, without violating any of the usages of society, he might have commenced the entail with Charles. In a word, the death of Walter's wife and the birth of the daughter disturbed all his schemes, and rent from roof to foundation the castles which he had been so long and so arduously building. But it is necessary that we should return to poor Walter, on whom the loss of his beloved Betty Bodle acted with the incitement of a new impulse, and produced a change of character that rendered him a far less tractable instrument than his father expected to find.

fused; and, when it was brought in, he assisted with singular tranquillity in the ceremonial of the coffining. But when the lid was lifted and placed over the body, and the carpenter was preparing to fasten it down for ever, he shuddered for a moment from head to foot; and, raising it with his left hand, he took a last look of the face, removing the veil with his right, and touching the sunken cheek as if he had hoped still to feel some ember of life-but it was cold and stiff.

There's

"She's clay noo,' said he. nane o' my Betty Bodle here.' "And he turned away with a careless air, as if he had no farther interest in the scene. From that moment his artless affections took another direction; he immediately quitted the death-room, and, going to the nursery, where the infant lay asleep in the nurse's lap, he contemplated it for some time, and then, with a cheerful and happy look and tone, said, 'It's a wee Betty Bodle; and it's my Betty Bodle noo.' And all his time and thoughts were thenceforth devoted to this darling object, in so much, that when the hour of the funeral was near, and he was requested to dress himself to perform the husband's customary part in the solemnity, he refused not only to quit the child, but to have any thing to do with the burial.

"I canna understand,' said he,' what for a' this fykerie's about a lump o' yird? Sho'elt intil a hole, and no fash me.'

"It's your wife, my lad,' replied his mother; 'ye'll surely never refuse to carry her head in a gudemanlike manner to the kirk-yard.'

"Na, na, mother, Betty Bodle's my wife, yon clod in the black kist is but her auld boddice; and when she flang't off, she put on this bonny wee new cleiding o' clay,' said he, pointing to the baby.

"The Leddy, after some farther remonstrance, was disconcerted by the pertinacity with which he continued to adhere to his resolution, and went to beg her husband to interfere.

"Ye'll hae to gang ben, gudeman,' said she, and speak to Watty. I wis the poor thing hasna gane by itsel wi' a broken heart. He threeps that the body is no his wife's, and ca's it a hateral o' clay and stones, and says we may fling't, gude guide us! ayont the midden for him. We'll just be affrontit if he'll no carry the head.'

66 Claud, who had dressed himself in the morning for the funeral, was sitting in the elbow-chair, on the right side of the chimney-place, with his cheek resting on his hand, and his eyelids dropped, but not entirely shut, and, on being thus addressed, he instantly rose, and went to the nursery.

"What's t'ou doing there like a hussy-fellow ?' said he. Rise and get on thy mournings, and behave wise-like, and leave the bairn to the women.'

6

"It's my bairn,' replied Watty, and ye hae naething, father, to do wi't.-Will I no take care o' my ain baby-my bonny wee Betty Bodle ?'

"Do as I bid thee, or I'll maybe gar thee fin the weight o' my staff,' cried the old man sharply, expecting immediate obedience to his commands, such as he always found, however positively Walter, on other occasions, at first refused; but in this instance he was disappointed; for the widower looked him steadily in the face, and said,—

"I'm a father noo; it would be an awfu' thing for a decent grey-headed man like you, father, to strike the head o' a motherless family.'

"Claud was so strangely affected by the look and accent with which this was expressed, that he stood for some time at a loss what to say; but soon recovering his self-possession, he replied, in a mild and persuasive manner,

"The frien's expek, Watty, that ye'll attend the burial, and carry the head, as the use and wont is in every weel-doing family.'

"It's a thriftless custom, father, and what care I for burial-bread and services o' wine? They cost siller, father, and I'll no wrang Betty Bodle for ony sic outlay on her auld yirden garment. Ye may gang, for fashion's cause, wi' your weepers and your mourning strings, and lay the black kist i' the kirk-yard hole, but I'll no mudge the ba' o' my muckle tae in ony sic road.' T'ou's past remede, I fear,' replied his father thoughtfully; but, Watty, I hope in this t'ou'll oblige thy mother and me, and put on thy new black claes ;t'ou kens they're in a braw fasson,-and come ben and receive the guests in a douce and sober manner.

666

"The minister, I'm thinking, will soon be here, and t'ou should be in the way when he comes.'

6

"No,' said Watty, no, do as ye like, and come wha may, it's a' ane to me—I'm positeeve.'

"The old man, losing all self-command at this extraordinary opposition, exclaimed,

"There's a judgment in this; and, if there's power in the law o' Scotland, I'll gar thee rue sic dourness. Get up, I say, and put on thy mournings, or I'll hae thee cognost, and sent to bedlam.'

I'm sure I look for nae mair at your hands, father,' replied Walter, simply; for my mither has often telt me, when ye hae been sitting sour and sulky in the nook, that ye would na begrudge crowns and pounds to mak me compos mentis for the benefit of Charlie.'

"Every pulse in the veins of Claud stood still at this stroke, and he staggered, overwhelmed with shame, remorse, and indignation, into a seat.

as to afford no materials for gifted men to mould them into striking personifications, and to enrich thereby the possessions of English literature? Are there no labourers worthy of hire to collect the harvest, or is there no harvest to collect? We wish to have an answer to this simple question. Scotland produces annually crops of printed books, that smack of her fields and her atmosphere-redolent of spring. Our country is reflected in the mirror of imagination, and we are all proud to see Auld Scotia's weather-beaten face in such shadowy portraiture. We are an arrogant set of people, no doubt, even the humblest of us, and many airs we give ourselves, even down to the very finger-nails, not always the clearest of horn. But, after all, we have something to be proud of, going on in Auld Reekie, and elsewhere; and we will just trouble England to beat us upon our own ground-and to produce a Great Unknown-or even a Small Known or a Burns—or a Galt— or a Hogg-or an Allan Cunningham. Our friends in London may laugh; but if, with the exception of the first,

it be an easy matter to beat all these national painters hollow, and leave them at the distance-post, pray do so, and allow them all to come hobbling in, like so many broken-winded ones, or roarers, among shouts of derision from the multitude.

Gentlemen of Cockaigne, we send you the compliments of the season. You are a puny pen of Bantams, feathered down to the toes, and assiduous crowers; but little worth, either for breeding or for battle. It seems that you write books. Indeed! why, that is very comical. Do send us presentation copies of your works, and we will review them. It seems you hate Galt. That is natural enough, for you pretend to admire Allan Cunningham. The strapping Nithsdale swain must look like an ogre eyeing a covey of pigmies-what a flutter of wings when he appears to give them their crowdy! -what a clatter of pecking beaks!— what a strutting of toes in and toes out!—and what a reddening of coxcombs! Fowls and feathers !-Fee, fa, fum!-and farewell!

THIS is confessedly the age of confession, the era of individuality-the triumphant reign of the first person singular. Writers no longer talk in generals. All their observations are bounded in the narrow compass of self. They think only of number one. Ego sum is on the tip of every tongue and the nib of every pen, but the remainder of the sentence is unuttered and unwritten. The rest of his species is now nothing to any one individual. There are no longer any idiosyncrasies in the understanding of our essayists, for one common characteristic runs through the whole range. Egotism has become as endemical to English literature as the plague to Egypt, or the scurvy to the northern climes. Every thing is involved in the simple possessives me and mine-and we all cry out in common chorus,

What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come mine own?

D'ALEMBERT.

Since, then, the whole tribe of which I am an unworthy member, have one by one poured out their souls into the confiding and capacious bosom of the public; since the goodly list of scribblers, great and small, from the author of Eloise to the inventor of Vortigern-since the Wine-drinker, the Opium-eater, the Hypochondriac, and the Hypercritic, have in due succession "told their fatal stories out," I cannot, in justice to my own importance, or honesty to the world, leave the blank unfilled, which stands gaping to receive the Confessions of a Glutton, and thus put the last leaf on this branch of periodical personality.

I have one appalling disadvantage beside my contemporaries, in that want of sympathy which I am sure to experience from readers in general. Many a man will be too happy to acknowledge himself hypocondriacal-it is the fashion. Others are to be found in great abundance who will bravely