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food, the richest and most elaborate ornaments, and what-
ever else might be deemed agreeable to the known tastes
and habits of the deceased, were thrown into the flames.
If it was the funeral of a military leader, the soldiers and
other attendants marched thrice round the pile from right
to left with inverted arms, which they sometimes also cast
away to be consumed. The expiring flames were quenched
with wine, and then the ossilegium, or collecting of the
bones into the urn, took place, which was the special duty
of the nearest relatives. A small glass phial, containing
tears (lachrymatorium), was placed beside the ashes in the
urn, and the latter was consigned to a tomb, when a priest
sprinkled the mourners three times with a branch of olive
or laurel steeped in lustral water, and then dismissed
them with the word Ilicet (begone). Pronouncing the
word Vale (farewell), or Salve (God save thee), in a sor-
rowful tone, and wishing that the turf might lie lightly on
their lost friend, the mourners depart. Games and gla-
diatorial combats, and the sacrifice of wild beasts and men,
were reckoned to add to the dignity of these funerals,
where the horrible, the grand, and the ridiculous were
strangely blended; for shows, and games, and merry-
makings generally closed the most solemn obsequies.
The funeral practices of the barbarian Scythians, as de-
tailed by Herodotus, were somewhat similar to those which
yet prevail amongst the natives of Old Calabar. When a
king amongst the ancient barbarians died, the corpse was
embowelled, the belly stuffed with aromatic herbs, and
sewed up again; and then it was placed upon a car and
paraded through all the provinces which had been subject
to the dead monarch, the people manifesting the most
savage appearances of grief, sometimes cutting off pieces
of their ears, shaving their heads, gashing their arms, fore-
heads, and noses, and transfixing their left hands with
darts. A large square pit had been dug upon the demise
of the king, in a spot set apart for the royal tombs, and
after the oration was ended the corpse was brought to
its final repository, when it was laid upon a bed of turf
and leaves, over which, supported by upright spears, were
beams of wood, covered with a thatch of hurdles. One of
the king's women, his cupbearer, his cook, his groom,
valet, and courier, having been previously strangled, were
thrown into the pit, together with horses and utensils of
every kind, which were calculated to conduce to the com-
fort of a living king; and then the pit was filled up, each
man striving with all his might to raise the barrow to as
great a height as possible. After the monarch had been
buried a year, fifty native slaves, carefully selected on ac-
count of their superior physical qualities, were strangled,
together with their horses, upon the grave, and were em-
bowelled and stuffed with straw. The horses, supported
by a framework of hoops and trestles, surrounded the
barrow; their heads were fastened by bridles to upright
stakes; and upon them were mounted the corpses of the
slaves, each being supported by a stake which impaled
him, and was fixed into the pole which passed through the
horse. Private burials were conducted upon a process
somewhat similar to the preceding, save with regard to
the sacrifices. The relatives conveyed the body to the
houses of their friends in a car, at each of which a feast
was prepared, and the viands offered to the dead as well
as the living. After forty days of perambulation the body
was consigned to the dust.

and beasts, which soon skeletonised them. It seems, how-
ever, as in the case of Cyrus, that a reservation was made
in favour of royalty, and that a king could extend the fa-
vour of immediate sepulture to his especial favourites.
The Ethiopians were very careless with regard to the
burial of their dead, and the usages of some tribes are cha-
racterised by an Italian historian as so beastly and ridi-
culous that he believed they would be esteemed incredible,
although they were well-established facts, proved by the
history of the Troglodytes. The Sindians, a tribe in
European Scythia, now Russia, buried with each of their
dead warriors as many fishes as he had slain men in
battle; the Bactrians, an Asiatic nation living on the bor-
ders of Scythia, gave their dead to dogs kept expressly for
the purpose of devouring them; the Calatians, a people
of India, practised the horrible custom of devouring their
own dead; the Pontines, an Asiatic nation near Medea,
dried and preserved the heads of their relatives; the Col-
drians, a neighbouring people, wrapped their dead in the
newly-stripped hides of animals, and hung them upon
willow trees; the Coans beat their remains in a mortar
until they were reduced to a dust, and then they shook
them through sieves into the sea. The Gauls were parti-
cularly extravagant in the celebration of their funerals:
they burned their dead, and threw upon the pile every-
thing that they thought the deceased's spirit would have
the least desire for, and slaves and other animals were
added to the oblation. The Germans performed their rites
with more regard to economy, neither casting robes, nor
spices, nor other expensive substances upon the pile; some-
times, however, they buried the horse and arms of a warrior,
piling up earth and stones as a monumental record.

A specification of the remaining phases of superstition indulged in upon occasions of death and burial will form materials for another paper on this interesting subject.

USES OF FALLEN LEAVES. IN the eyes of nine-tenths of the world, the man who permitted the dead leaves to accumulate among his shrubs would be set down as a sloven; and yet that man would be a better gardener than he who is continually exercising the broom and the rake, and treating his garden as the housemaid treats her chambers. When nature causes the tree to shed its leaves, it is not merely because they are dead and useless to the tree, but because they are required for a further purpose-that of restoring to the soil the principal portion of what had been abstracted from it during the season of growth, and thus of rendering the soil able to maintain the vegetation of a succeeding year. Every particle that is found in a dead leaf is capable, when decayed, of entering into new combinations, and of again rising into a tree for the purpose of contributing to the production of more leaves, and flowers, and fruit. If the dead leaves, which nature employs, are removed, the soil will doubtless, upon the return of spring, furnish more organisable matter without their assistance, because its formality is difficult to exhaust, and many years must elapse before it is reduced to sterility. But the less we rob the soil of the perishing members of vegetation which furnish the means of annually renewing its fertility, the more will our trees and bushes thrive; for the dead leaves of autumn are the organic elements out of which the leaves The funeral ceremonies of the ancient Persians were of summer are to be restored to the mysterious laboratory rigorously concealed from the Greek historians, so that of vegetation. They contain the carbon or humus, and the the account of Herodotus is little more than conjectural. alkaline substances essential to the support of growing It was asserted to him, however, that no Persian was plants; and although such substances can be obtained buried until the body had been torn by a dog or lacerated from the soil, even if leaves are abstracted, yet they can by a bird of prey. This custom was openly practised never be so well obtained as through the decay of those with the magi, however, which gave him authority for be- organs. The dead leaves of autumn then should not be lieving it to be general. Their bodies were exposed until removed from the soil on which they fall. Neatness, no they had been partly denuded of flesh; they were then doubt, must be observed; and this, we think, will be suflicovered with wax and buried. The Persians paid adoration ciently consulted if leaves are swept from walks and lawns, to the elements, as they termed them, of fire, air, earth, and where they do no good, and cast upon the borders in water, and would neither burn nor bury without incerat- heaps, where they will lie and decay till the time for diging, nor consign to the deep a dead body, lest it would pollute ging has arrived, when they can be spread upon the earth things so sacred; the dead were consequently left to birds, like so much manure.

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THE RAGGED PHILOSOPHER. POVERTY is sometimes associated with discontent, but it is not necessarily nor by any means invariably so, and even when it is there may be much excuse to be made for the association. Wealth is still more frequently associated with discontent, and this unholy alliance is an object at once of surprise and disgust to the reflective mind; but there is an association so admirable that it warms one's heart to its possessor, and makes one rejoice that honest old human nature hath some fragments and vestiges of its original excellence discernible under the wreck and ruin of its fall. The connection to which we allude is that of poverty and content-happiness in humility-philosophy in rags. It is hardly too much to say that discontent is the perallar portion of the rich. It is not the shivering pauper, with whose looped and windowed raggedness the bitter wind makes merry, in whose scanty silvery hair the hailstone lingers before it melts, that is found generally giving rent to murmurs; and if it were we could not wonder. It is not the long sick lazar, whose weary hours have been cast away in the sad exercise of counting them; it is rather the man who suffers from the plethora of prosperity who gives way to the mutterings of disquietude. Anticipated Wishes, pleasures unhoped, the absence of excitement attendant upon continual gratification, this is too often the well-spring of the bitter waters of discontent. He who can taste life's pleasures at any time has seldom any relish to taste them at all; he who has the enjoyments of the world ontinually within his reach, can have little excitement in the pursuit of them. Thus the rich and powerful too often beme the slaves of mental lassitude and moral weariness. Curse there are exceptions. Many a rich and prosper man enjoys the good gifts of Providence with a warm heart and an open hand; and, alas! many a poor a looks with an eye of envy and a heart of bitterness his wealthy neighbour. Misled by appearances, ang blasphemy in his bosom-the blasphemy of the bear if it extend not to that of the tongue-he entertains Lard thoughts of the Most High, and hates the prosperity of his neighbour-prosperity that he identifies with happiSuch, we say, are the exceptions; the general rule, it is to be feared, is that of contented poverty and murmurwealth. It is indeed amusing to observe how some take infinite pains to make themselves miserable. They are the most unhappy of mortals because they have titimate cause for unhappiness. They have, comparatively speaking, no cares, no troubles, no wants, no Ves. Having no real troubles they are compelled to fictitious ones, so they have the double trouble of Ching and carking.

habitation or a name.' House or home he had never enjoyed the stable-stall of that house, the empty barn of this, the hayloft of another-such were the scenes of his nocturnal hours; and when he was awake he inhabited the neighbourhood, and yet he was an instance of contentment, displaying a cheerful hilarity, a buoyancy of spirit that did you good to see. He was called Frank.' We suppose he must have had a surname, and it is barely possible that he knew it himself, unless, indeed, from long disuse, he had forgotten it; of this we are quite sure, that if he knew it he was in possession of a piece of information peculiar to himself-the world knew it not, the oldest inhabitant' had never heard it. Frank he was called, and to Frank he answered; and as soon should we expect our dog Charlie to demand Charlie what?' as Frank to be so superfluous as to seek a surname. This poor fellow was the most complete stray waif on the highway of the world that ever we met with. He had no home, no friends, no money. He was every man's man, but no man's money, and seldom was any man's money found in his pockets. He would do anything for anybody, and yet nobody would permanently employ him. You see, he was not exactly the stuff out of which you could make anything. He was not smart enough for a footman, nor skilful enough for a gardener, nor careful enough for a groom. He was a hardfeatured, undersized, elderly man; nobody remembered him young, nobody could imagine him young; we never noticed the least change on him in that respect. He was probably one of those old-fashioned fellows who seem old when they are young, and never change their appearance until they shuffle off this mortal coil.' But his dress! that was the oddest part about him, the strangest medley you can imagine. You see, everybody gave him old garments; his services, indeed, of whatever kind, were generally recompensed with cast-off clothes; and as these sundry garments were the exuvie of all sorts and sizes of people, one article of clothing would be as much too long as another was too short, one as much too large as another was too little. We verily believe that, in the whole course of his life, he never possessed a single article of apparel that was made or purchased expressly for him; and yet, from the days of Diogenes, there never was a more complete philosopher in rags. Diogenes! catch Frank saying to the meanest of her majesty's subjects, 'get out of the way, you shade me from the sun.' Frank's civility was invincible, his good-humour indomitable. Yes; this man was practically, if not theoretically, a great moral philosopher. Shame! shame upon the discontent of the rich and great! This man, a servant of servants, without hopes, prospects, or anticipations; this man ever wore a smile and whistled a tune, and was a standing sarcasm on all the spleen-engendered woes, the home-made miseries, the idle cares, that fortune fancies and the world believes. Whistle! we wonder whether Frank was born with his mouth in the proper position, and whistled instead of weeping in his babyhood-now he never ceased. On the Sabbath, indeed, for which he had a profound respect, he allowed no breath to come through his pursed-up lips; but if you only looked at him you thought he was whistling, and some of our savans opined that he whistled internally, inspiring instead of expiring; but as he was never known to catch a cold in his inside by the act, their theory fell to the ground-a thing so common among modern theories as to excite little alarm in the minds of men. Frank probably whistled as he went, for want of thought;' howbeit, he certainly whistled for want of care, and few things could stop his mouth in that particular. We once saw him placed in one of those predicaments which, having no danger in them to make a man energetic and his misery respectable, are sufficiently vexatious to make a man angry. He had received the extraordinary donation, from a gentleman in the neighbourhood, of a pair of white cord knee-tights, but as they had been made for a man half as big again as himself, instead of buttoning under the knee, they fastened somehow above the ankle. This, however, according to Frank, saved stockings, and was therefore an advantage. He was not a little proud of the novelty of

Here is a man of easy fortune, of prosperous circumstances; what then? He has a fine house, but the ceilare cracked; a beautiful garden, but it has a bad Aspect; a capital horse, but he does not like its four white feet Nothing, in short, is there which ought to give him pleasure but gives him pain. He cannot rejoice in the flower of his own happiness, because there may be a worm in the bud unseen by him. His wife is as bad as he; ever were such fenders and fire-irons to rust, and pierasses to spot in the silvering, and picture-frames to tarBhin the gilding, as she is plagued withal; never had an such servants to annoy her, such children to agitate her. And so this misery-making pair proceed, agreeng in nothing but to disagree with one another. They have been nursed on the soft lap of luxury until they have here the spoiled children of prosperity, the pampered ets of fortune. Not so the healthy-minded man of labour fatigue, the hardy son of indigence and toil; he has e time to make miseries, and less to heed them if they pon him. Hence it is not uncommon to find a philo

pher in rags.

e remember one of this sort in a poor fellow who indel the neighbourhood in which we dwelt. We are night in the expression inhabited the neighboura fer never had dame fortune afforded him a local

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his appearance, and was in the very act of admiring the proportions of his nether man when he walked off the high path into a marsh by which it was skirted. This morass was formed of a kind of adhesive clay with mud and water, and Frank, at the first plunge, went well nigh up to his knees. There he stuck as fast as if his legs had been wedged into the iron boot; struggling only made matters worse, he could not stir a foot. What did Frank dostand and fret? Not at all. A tuft of rushes happened to be within convenient distance, and upon it he contrived to sit down, whistling all the while 'O'er the muir amang the heather.' There sat our philosopher until some persons passing that way came to his assistance. It was some time before they could render this, for the cacoethes ludendi came over them too strongly, and Frank laughed the loudest of the three. At length they got him fairly under the arms, and with a stout pull his legs came out with a heavy swash. No sooner was he landed high and dry than he regarded his muddy continuations and said, with a smile, 'There, I wanted no stockings before, now I need no gaiters.'

One of Frank's unfortunate propensities, and that which stood most obstinately in the way of his worldly advancement, was a tendency to make mistakes. With the best intentions, and the most active zeal in your service, he often did more harm than good. Ready! never was dog, when he watches his master's eye and wags his tail, his whole body full of alacrity, more ready to run for a stone than was Frank to do anything and everything you required. Indeed, he was rather too ready, for, like the aforesaid dog, which often overshoots the stone and kicks up the dust some yards ahead of it, Frank in his readiness overdid his commission. He could not wait till the stone was out of your hand, he would not stop to hear half your commission, or in his indiscreet zeal he added so much as to mar the whole. We saw him once most effectually annoy a young lady whom he would have laid down his life to serve. In the dark afternoons in December he was sometimes employed to light people across the common in our neighbourhood-though, by the way, he generally contrived to interpose his person between his lantern and your footsteps-and his services had been bespoken for this lady and her sister on a particular afternoon. Now, it so happened that a celebrated public-house stood on the skirts of the common, contiguous to the house of their friend, and so far was Frank to go with his lantern. The people were coming out of church on the Sunday morning, when Frank, in his indiscreet zeal, hailed the ladies from the other side of the road, and exclaimed with startling energy, as he lifted his old shapeless hat from his head,Miss Mary, I'll meet you to-morrow at the Black Lion.' The idea of an appointment with such a man, at such a place, and that before all the people, made the eloquent blood mantle in the young lady's face most cruelly. Indeed, it not only brought a blush into her face but a tear into her eye, with sheer vexation, for explanation was out of the question. A very audible titter was heard, and I fear poor Frank lost the patronage of that family, for Miss Mary took a disgust against the man, which she could not perfectly overcome. He had, however, done it for the best,' and that was his invariable source of consolation under such circumstances. He had been ordered by a third party to attend, and wished to be particular. Well, sir, you know I did it for the best,' quoth Frank, when rallied upon the subject; and truly this is no mean consolation to men of wiser heads than Frank, when they can truly take it to themselves. It is worse than worthless to regret unavoidable disappointments, and particularly when we can say with poor Frank, 'Well, sir, you know I did it for the best.'

One of the most serious disasters that to our knowledge ever befell our hero-for a hero he was-a much greater one than some who have slain their thousands--was the breaking of his arm. The poor fellow was taken to the hospital, and for a considerable time confined there. It was rather a tedious case, the bone having splintered, and gave much trouble in the setting; but it was attended with considerable inflammation and subsequent debility. We

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'Well, Frank, you have been a sad sufferer.'

Eh! but, sir, what a grand place is yon hospital. Such beds, and such beef-tea, and such gruel, my stars! My broken arm has kept me better all this time than ever my two hands did in all my life.'

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Well, it will be a warning to you not to get on the way of a runaway horse again.'

"Why, you know, sir, I did it for the best.' And so the poor fellow had. The gentleman whose horse had broken its knees, fretted and fumed, and, as he sat in his stuffed elbow-chair, surrounded by every luxury, bored his friends to death about the disaster; and Frank, who had broken his arm, and received not so much from the gentleman as to pay for a plaster, lay on his trucklebed, and thought of the grand hospital and the glorious beef-tea. And, putting the grief of the wound' out of the question, which was the happier man-the rich gentleman, in his easy-chair, or the poor peasant, on his simple mattress? Nay, taking the grief of the wound into the question, was not the balance of happiness in favour of Frank?

Another great misfortune that befell our philosopher was the finding of a five-pound note. It happened upon a certain day, the date of which we do not know, nor would it be of any consequence if we did, Frank, having quitted a house at which he had been employed, in the garden, espied a piece of paper lying on the path, and discovered it to be a five-pound note. It was not far from the gate, but it was in the middle of the pathway, and it never entered into Frank's head that it might have been dropped by his late employer, when he pulled the latch-key of his garden-gate out of his pocket.

Frank knew very well that the money must be restored if he could find the owner, and if not, what was he to do with such a formidable sum? Besides, if he should lose it! His pockets were anything but the most secure of receptacles, so he ripped up a portion of the lining of his waistcoat, and secured it in that. This was all done for the best,' but sometimes bad's the best. Next morning Frank was aroused from his slumbers by the presence of a policeman. Frank scratched his head and rubbed his eyes, and wondered what in the world he could have done to procure him the honour of a visit from so dignified a public functionary. It was soon explained. The gentleman at whose house he had been working as a lowly assis tant to the gardener had lost a five-pound note. Frank had been the only stranger about the premises, and naturally enough suspicion fell upon him. The gentleman's dressing-room had a window opening upon the lawn on which Frank had been employed. Why, it was as clear as the daylight: the gentleman must have put the fivepound note upon his dressing-table with some other articles He did not remember to have done so, but of course h had; and as the dressing-table was at a low window Frank must have put his hand into the room and the money into his pocket. All this was plausible enough, certainly As to dropping the note near his own gate, such a thin never entered the gentleman's head. The policema laughed at Frank's relation of the fact. It was not th first time that truth has been laughed at for a lie. Th note was found concealed on his person-not in his pocke mark you, but concealed on his person. Frank was carrie off to a magistrate. The gentleman who had lost the not -a good-natured man in the main-was sorry for th circumstance. He would have retracted, but it was no too late. He was committed, and so was Frank. We a appeared to speak to Frank's character, but what cou we say? The first question floored us-What was trade, profession, occupation, calling? Why, he had no at all-no regular or ostensible means of obtaining a liv lihood. Where did he live? Why, somewhere about t neighbourhood-no stated home-no business or prof

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sion; why, he was the very man to steal a five-pound note. We were brow-beaten and insulted by the little prig of a magistrate for attempting to speak to the character of such a fellow; and Frank, having been duly bullied, was sent to the tread-mill for some months. We thought this would have effectually broken the poor fellow's spirit; his honesty had never before been impeached, and confinement was a hard thing upon his habits, which, it certainly must be admitted, were of a most vagrant and erratic character. But it was not so. When we met him after his release he was whistling ‘Such a gettin' up stairs,' and was more happy-looking than ever. 'Well, Frank,' quoth we, how did you like the tread-mill?' Why, sir, the work's hardish and the company low, but the living's certain and the lodging dry. For a man in want of regular employment, the tread-mill is no bad place.'

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This last misfortune, indeed, turned out pretty well for Frank. The gentleman who had dropped the five-pound note, desirous to make some reparation for the disaster that he had occasioned, advanced Frank to the post of under-helper's assistant in the stable. So our philosopher has shifted out of his rags into a fine yellow-striped waistcoat and leather leggins. He wears a daisy in the corner his mouth, and yet most ingeniously contrives to continue his whistle. Frank has thus at last a permanent employment, a stated place of residence, and tells with great glee that the only step up in the world that he ever got was-the tread-mill.

Now, beloved reader, can you contemplate such a character as this (not altogether fictitious) and go on grumbling at the petty miseries of life? The game of life, like many another pastime, is very much as you make it.' One man grieves more over a bruised shin than another over a bruk leg. Physical evils, indeed, are real substantial things: and we are none of those who expect a man to be cheerful with a touch of the toothache, or gay under a fit of the gout, though even such things are mightily lightened bra cheerful spirit; and as most of our troubles are rather from within than without, a cheerful spirit will half-annihilate them. For our own part we would rather be Demeritus in a hovel than Heraclitus in an escurial-Jean quirit in rags than Jean qui pleure in gold and diamonds.

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ing several hundred feet above the level of the ocean, with the top abruptly broken off. Such is the rock on which Edinburgh Castle is built, and such, too, is the Bass Rock, the subject of this article. before we close; meanwhile, the reader is informed that it We shall speak of its geology constitutes an uninhabited island in the mouth of the Frith of Forth, three miles east of North Berwick, and two from the coast of East Lothian. But why write an article on an uninhabited island? Gentle reader, bear with us a little, and thou shalt receive full satisfaction on this important question. In the meantime, the two following answers may suffice:-First, if men of acknowledged talent and discretion write a ok about it, surely we may write an article. In the second place, there is, beyond all doubt, not a little about the Bass Rock deeply interesting and highly important, in a national point of view. The Bass Rock'-we mean the book, not the islandis rather a singular production, and it has also a singular history. Some time ago, a spirited gentleman projected the idea of having a work of this sort-a work that should at once contain a faithful and full account of its civil and religious history, and interesting sketches of its geological character, its plants and creatures. self the responsibility of the novel undertaking. Several He took upon himgentlemen, greatly distinguished in their various walks of science and literature, were corresponded with, and ultimately engaged to supply each his portion of the forthcoming work. Professor Thomas M-Crie undertook the civil history of the island-a part which he has performed with judgment and good taste. The Rev. James Anderson furnishes full sketches of thirty-nine individuals who were, in the days of the Stuarts, confined on this island, and are thence called the Martyrs of the Bass.' Those were certainly trying times-in the expressive language of the day, it was killing time-and our ancestors were compelled to endure much, many of them yielding up their lives in behalf of a good conscience. But though we ourselves claim relationship to the spirited and dauntless Covenanters, yet there creeps over us a feeling of disappointment and regret when we read their lives. Close contact with them dispels many a fancy, which, from our earliest childhood, we have cherished, when first our imagination was roused into (perhaps undue) exercise, upon reading the life and prophecies' of the good but eccentric Alexander Peden. The with a cautious and tender pen. The partisan is obvious truth must be told; and it is told by Mr Anderson, but throughout; and the indignant denunciations of the spirit of persecution, when harassing and consuming the poor but conscientious Covenanters, are soothed into the most gentle terms, when the same spirit, though powerless through circumstances, manifests itself among the leaders of the suffering party. The case of Gillespie is a notable illustration of our remark. No man is perfect; and perhaps we unconsciously place our suffering ancestors in a brighter day than that in which their lot was cast, and in it retains its deep dark green, and greatly relieves the eccentricities. We admire and reverence their stern but the light of our own times judge of their infirmities and wide-spread desolation; and in spring, when the rich blos- Scriptural principles; let us not be critically severe on the makes its appearance, it shines afar, like a canopy of friend who generously casts a covering over their infirmibarnished gold. Others appear as if the bubble had ties, or refuses to expose their faults and inconsistencies burst; and then, in the course of ages, the one half of the to the rude gaze of every passer-by. The geology of the elevated matter has been carried away by some mighty island was intrusted to Mr Hugh Miller. agent, which, though leaving behind it numerous indica- that it could not have been committed into better hands; All will agree tions of its presence, has now disappeared. The eastern for where will you find one more intimately acquainted half is uniformly left; consequently, this class of hills pre- with the geologic history and features of his country? and sent an abrupt face to the west. Such are the eminences where shall the pen be sought for that can aspire to his which the martial genius of our ancestors has erected power of description? From his fertile pen there flows forth the castle of Stirling, and other strongholds. Others, a delicious strain of geological description, extending over sein, assume the appearance of a regular cone, and rise ninety pages. From some acquaintance with the district, eral hundred feet above the level of the sea, and constitute a bold feature in the landscape. Such is Arthur's though they are occasionally treated to what is, in strictwe can affirm its accuracy; and assure our readers, that Beat, under whose shadow our good city lies in calm se-ness, extraneous matter, yet they will find it replete with Carty, and North Berwick Law, the ancient and dauntless interest. Professor Fleming, of the New College, Edinettel, placed by dame nature over the channel that burgh, furnishes a sketch of the zoology; and Professor vible round it base. There is still another species of hill the diversifies the great Scottish coal-field. This may be described as a truncated cone-a noble pillar of rock ris- Martyrology, Zoology, and Botany. Edinburgh W. P. Kennedy.

THE BASS ROCK.

Is the extensive valley that lies between the Ochills on the north, and the Lammermoor and Pentland hills on the wouth, the eye accustomed to scan the physical features of & country detects numerous round-topped isolated hills. Some assume the perfect dome-shape, and present the idea of a magnificent rock-bubble, fully inflated, but not burst. The sort of hill is generally cultivated far up its sides, and capped with a mingled covering of furze and broom. In the winter, when

'Chill November's surly blasts

Make fields and forests bare,'

The Bass Rock, its Civil and Ecclesiastical History, Geology,

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Balfour, of the Edinburgh University, does the same for the botany of the Bass. In the spring of last year, a select party, including four of the gentlemen already mentioned, left Edinburgh, and spent a day on the rock, previous to the execution of their respective parts in the magazine-book. It was a delightful morning, and the scene was most animating. In high spirits, they quickly traversed the scene, so beautifully described by Delta' of 'Blackwood's Magazine,' stretching eastward from our ancient city

'Traced like a map, the landscape lies
In cultured beauty, stretching wide;
There Pentland's green acclivities-

There ocean with its azure tide

There Arthur's Seat, and, gleaming through,
Thy southern wing, Dunedin blue!
While in the orient, Lammer's daughters,
A distant giant range, are seen-

North Berwick Law with cove of green,
And Bass among the waters.'

Arrived at their destination, each betook himself to the ardent investigation of his own subject. One examined the ruins of the ancient-chapel and fortress; another occupied himself in studying the nests, and watching the evolutions of the solan geese, and other birds; a third pleasantly spent the time in examining the plants, from the delicate lichen to the well-developed tree-mallow; while the whole admired the stupendous rock, whose southern sloping surface is so beautifully exposed to the sun, and whose stubborn perpendicular cliffs resist the everlasting dashing of the waters.

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In the first place, we shall take a glance at the history of this rock among the waters.' Old Hector Boece, in describing it, says, it is ane wounderful crag, risand within the sea, with so narrow and strait hals (passage), that na schip nor boit may arrive bot allanerlie at ane part of it. This crag is callit the Bas; unwinnabile by ingine of man. In it are coves, als profitable for defence of men, as if they were biggit be crafty industry. Every thing that is in that crag is ful of admiration and wounder.' It were useless to enlarge on the old man's description, so we shall pass on. The first notice we have of the Bass is at the close of the sixth century. The peep with which we are favoured is dim, but is admirably fitted to cast a shade of rich romance over the singular character whose name is first associated with it. It appears that, so early as the above date, a hermit, by name St Baldred, had taken a fancy to this rock as a dwelling-place; and sure we are he could not have made choice of one less likely to be exposed to the intrusion of his fellow-men. There was then, as there is now, for several months in the year, vast numbers of gannets (solan geese), who make their nests upon the cliffs, and rear their young amid a perfect babel of guttural and discordant voices. Then, as now, the waves of the German Ocean rolled their thunder around its base; but no foot of mortal pressed its green sod, and no human voice relieved the melancholy monotony of the gannets' chatter. St Baldred was alone; but how he occupied his leisure hours tradition gives no information. Some will have him to have been bishop of Glasgow, and successor to the famous St Mungo, the patron saint of that city. But this is obviously absurd. The hermit we take to have been a simple, good-hearted, earnest man, who found it necessary for retirement, and perhaps also for safety, to take shelter on this island, just as Columba did in Iona, and Adamnara in Inchkeith. Curious stories are afloat concerning the sayings and doings of this saint. For example, it is said that he observed, with deep sorrow, that a certain rock, between the island and the shore, frequently, in stormy weather, caused shipwrecks. St Baldred, moved by piety as well as by pity, caused himself to be placed upon the rock, and, at his nod, up it rose, and, like a ship, was driven to the nearest shore, where it may now be seen, as a memorial of the miracle, and is to this day called St Baldred's Coble. Another rock is called St Baldred's Cradle, which is said to be rocked by the winds and the waves. It would seem that St Baldred died on the Bass in the year 606. The stories circulated of the disputes relative to his body, and the place where it should be de

posited, we leave in their monkish archives, whence they never should have been brought forth to the light of day.

The earliest proprietors of the Bass on record were the ancient family of the Lauders, hence called the Lauders of the Bass.' There is a charter in existence in favour of Robert Lauder from William de Lambert, Bishop of St Andrews, dated 1316. This is a curious document, but too long for us to transcribe. The following extract will be interesting to the reader. It sets forth that the island in the sea called the Bass,' is 'TO BE HOLDEN by the said Robert and his heirs, from us and our ancestors, for ever, with all liberties, commodities, and easements, and with the pertinents, freely and quietly, in all and by all, without any reservation; paying, therefore, the said Robert and his heirs, to us and our successors at Tynyngham, at the term of Whitsunday, yearly, one pound of white wax, in name of feu-favour, for all lands, services, and demands which can be exacted or demanded by us and our successors for the said island with the pertinents.' It remained in the possession of this ancient family for several centuries. A curious episode happened in the history of the Bass, about the middle of the seventeenth century. At this time it is said to belong to the Laird of Wauchton.' Cromwell was on the eve of his departure to invade Scotland, and it was feared that the public records of the church would be in danger. It was proposed that the Bass might be made secure for the registers, as it had been in a former day of calamity.' The proprietor 'most gladlie offered to receave them, promising his outmost care to secure and preserve them from all danger.' But the precaution was vain. The Bass soon submitted to the indomitable Cromwell; and in the following spring the Parliament order the Records of the Kirk' to be 'packed up in cask' and sent to the Tower, there to remain in the same custody that the other records that came from Scotland are.' These documents perished in the conflagration which occurred in the House of Commons, October, 1834.

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From the Laird of Waughton it passed into the hands of Sir Andrew Ramsay, lord provost of Edinburgh, and great-great-grandfather of the present Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, the lineal descendant of the Lauders of the Bass.' It was purchased from Sir Andrew, in October, 1671, by Lauderdale, in name of the government, to be used as a state prison. A pamphleteer of that period, referring to the matter, says, 'My Lord Lauderdale, to gratify Sir Andrew, moves the king, upon the pretence that the Bass was a place of strength, like to a castle in the moon, and of great importance, the only nest of solan geese in these parts, to buy the rock from Sir Andrew, at the rate of £4000 sterling, and then obtains the command and profits of it, amounting to more than £100 sterling yearly, to be bestowed upon himself.' The history of this rock now presents, for a number of years, a series of acts most cruel and oppressive. About forty individuals, chiefly clergymen, were confined here, for periods averaging from two months to six years, on no other accusation than that they followed their own conscientious convictions in matters of religion, rather than yield compliance to the will of the king. A great part of the time spent there by the persecuted servants of God was spent in solitary confinement. No one was permitted to see his neighbour, and seldom were they allowed to leave their cells. Sometimes, indeed, they would be permitted, two by two, to walk on the rock above, and within the fortress; but this was more a precaution against the approach of bad health than the evidence of the cruelty of their persecutors relenting. Diseases were caught there by not a few, which cleaved to and enfeebled them for life; and poor Blackadder's cell proved his grave.

'Five years on the lone rock, yet sweet abode,
He Enoch-like enjoyed, and walked with God;
Till by long living on this heavenly food,
His soul grew up by love too great, too good
To be confined to jail, or flesh, or blood.'

The landing of the Prince of Orange in England, in 1688, changed the entire aspect of things; but for two

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