there's a tincture of imagination in all feelings of any pith or moment -nor do we require that they should always be justified by reason. On looking on a tree with any emotion of grandeur or beauty, one always has a dim notion of its endurance--its growth and its decay. The place about it is felt to belong to it-or rather they mutually belong to each other, and death alone should dissolve the union.

Shepherd. I fin' mysell convincin' that is being convinced-but no by your spoken words, but by my ain silent thochts. I felt a' you say, and mair too-the first time I tried to transplant a tree. It was a birk*- -a weepin' birk-and I had loved and admired it for twenty years by its ain pool, far up ane o' the grains o' the Douglas water, where I beat Mr. North at the fishin'

North. You never beat me at the fishing, sir, and never will beat me at the fishing, sir, while your name is Hogg. I killed that day— in half the time-double the number

My kreel was mair

Shepherd. But wecht, sir-wecht, sir-wecht. nor dooble yours's wecht-and every wean kens that in fishin' for a wager, wecht wins-it's aye decided by wecht.

North. The weight of your basket was not nearly equal to mine, you

Shepherd. Confound me gin, on an average, ane o' my troots did not conteen mair cubic inches than three o' yours-while, I had a ane to produce, that on his first showin' his snoot, I cou'd hae sworn was a sawmon;-he wou'd hae filled the creel his ain lane-sae I sent him hame wi' a callant I met gaun to the school. The feckt o' yours was mere fry-and some had a' the appearance o' bein' baggy-menons. You're a gran' par-fisher, sir; but you're nae Thorburn either at troots, morts, or fish.

North, (starting up in a fury.) I'll fish you for

Shepherd. Mr. North! I'm ashamed to see you exposin' yoursell afore Mr. De Quinshy-besides, thae ragin' fits are dangerous-and, some time or ither'll bring on apoplexy. Oh! but your fearsome the noo-black in the face, or rather blue and purple-and a' because I said that you're nae Thorburn at the fishin'! Sit doon, sit doon, sir.

(MR. NORTH sits down, and cools and calms himself.) Opium-Eater. Mr. Hogg, you were speaking a few minutes ago of transplanting

Shepherd. Ou aye. There it stood, or rather hung, or rather floated, ower its ain pool, that on still days showed anither birk as bonny's itsell, inverted in a liquid warld. A bed o' fine broon mould had sunk down frae the brae abune, a' covered wi' richest moss-embroidery, and

* Birk,—the birch-tree. In some parts of Scotland, they tap this tree, and make a pleasant wine from the fluid which comes off.-M.

+ Wecht, weight.-M.

Feck, it means part of a thing, and is here used for maist feck or greatest part.-M.

there a' by itself, never wearyin' in the solitary place, grew up that bonniest o' a' bonny birks frae a seedlin-when first I saw't-like a bit wee myrtle plant-ilka year gracefu'er and mair gracefu' till a fullgrown tree-sic brae-born birks are never verra tall-it waved it's light masses o' delicate leaves, tress-like, in the wind, or let them hang doon, dependin' in the loun air as motionless as in a pictur. The earliest primroses aye peeped out a' round its silver stem-and whether 'twas their scent, or that o' the leaves of my sweet tree, I never cou'd tell—but oh! as I used to lie in my plaid aneath its shade --scarcely a shade, only a sort o' cool dimness-besides the dancin' linn-as Thamson says, the "air was balm," indeed-and sae thocht the wee moorland birds that twittered-unalarmed at me-amang the foliage. Like a fond but foolish lover, I said until mysell, ae day o' especial beautifulness, as I was touchin' its silken bark" I'll tak it doon to Mount Benger, and plant it on the knowe afore the door, early some morning, to delight wee Jamie wi' astonishment." Wae's me! for that infatuation! I did sae, and wi' as much tenderness as ever I took a bonny lassie in my arms—but never mair did the darling lift up its head-lifeless-lookin' frae the first were a' its locks o' green licht-the pale silk bark soon was sairly ruffled—and ere midsummer came--it was stane-dead! Aften-aften-in the drought— did wee Jamie gang wi' his watering-pan, and pour the freshness amang its roots-but a' in vain—and wud ye believe't the lovin' cretur grat when he saw that a' the leaves were red, and that it had dee'd just as his pet-lamb had dune—for his affection had imbued it with a breathin' and a sentient life.

Tickler. Why, James, you are "poachin' for the pathetic." Sir Henry Steuart's groves* are a living proof of skill and science-but they are not the haunts dear to my imagination. I love the ancient gloom of self-sown, unviolated woods. But these trees were not born here they are strangers-aliens-or, worse-upstarts. I should wish to feel round my mansion the beauty of that deep line of Cowley's (I think)—

"And loves his old contemporary trees!"

But these whatever their age-were carted hither-all their roots have been handled

Shepherd. Nae mair about it. It's still usefu'-sic transplantation -and I esteem every man who, by ony sort o' genius, skill, or study,

Sir Henry Steuart, of Allanton, devoted much attention and expenditure, to perfecting a plan of moving trees, for transplantation, with comparatively small expense, labor, and delay. He found his own park entirely treeless, and succeeded, in a few years, in giving it a good stock of ornamental timber. One of his principles was to let the transplanted tree stand in the same direction, as regarded the cardinal points, as that in which it had originally been placed. He published an interesting history of his proceedings, which excited much attention, and was very favorably noticed by Sir Walter Scott, in his Essay on Landscape Gardening, published in 1828, and now in his miscellaneous works.-M.

contributes to the adornment o' naked places, and, generally speakin', to the beautifyin' o' the earth. Sir Henry has dune that-in his degree-and may, therefore, in ae sense or licht, be ranked among the poets. Nae man loves trees as he does, without poetry in his soul-his skill in transplantin' is equal to his skill in translation; and I'm tauld he's a capital Latin scholar-witness his English Sawlust; and I wush he had been at Mount Benger when I carried aff that bonnie virgin birk frae her birthplace-in that case, she had been alive at this day, we' bees and burdies amang her branches.

Tickler. I should like to be at a bear-hunt. My friend Lloyd describes it capitally, in those most entertaining volumes, "Northern Sports," or what do you call them-published t'other day by Colburn.

Shepherd. It's a shame to kill a bear, except, indeed, for his creesh and skin. He's an affectionate creature amang his kith and kin-in the bosom o' his ain family, sagawcious and playsome-no sae rouch in his mind as in his manners-a good husband, a good son, and a good father.

Tickler. Did you receive Lardner's Pocket Encyclopædia, James ?* Shepherd. Aye-I did sae. Was't you that sent it out? Thank ye sir, it's chokefu' o' maist instructive and enterteenin' matter. Cheap?

Tickler. Very. And Bowring's Poetry of the Magyars?

Shepherd. Them too? Mr. Bowering is a benefactor, sir. National poetry shows a people's heart. History's aften cauldrife; but sangs and ballants are aye warm wi' passion. Ilka national patriotism has its ain peculiar and characteristic feturs, just like ilka national face. A Hun's no a Scot, nor a Dutchman a Spaniard. Yet can they a' feel ane anither's national sangs, could they read ane anither's language. But that they canna do; and therefore a man wi' the gift o' tongues, like Mr. Bowering, extends, by his translations, knowledge o' the range o' the infinite varieties o' our common humanities, and enables us to break doon our prejudices and our bigotries, in the conviction that all the nations o' the earth hae the same sympathies as ourselves, racy as our own, and smellin' o' the soil in which they grow, be it water'd by the Rhine, the Ebro, the Maese, or ony ither outlandish river.

This was one of the imitations (Murray's Family Library was another) of Constable's Miscel lany-the first attempt at cheap literature in Great Britain. It was edited by Dr. Dionysius Lardner, the individual who is presented, in Warren's Ten Thousand-a-Year," as Doctor Diabolus Gander. For this series, Scott, Moore, and Macintosh respectively wrote histories of Scotland, Ireland, and England. Among the contributors also were Sir John Herschell, Connop Thirlwall (now Bishop of St. David's), Southey, Montgomery, Mrs. Shelley, the younger Roscoe, and many other writers of established reputation. The earlier volumes sold well, but the character of the series became deteriorated, cheaper publications arose, and the Cabinet Cyclopædia expired, of inanition, after lingering on for some years.-M.

+ Cauldrife, chilly.-M.

Bowring was merely a literary man until 1828, when the British Government sent him to the Low Countries, to examine into the manner of keeping the public accounts. In 1831, he

Tickler. What say ye, James, to the vote t'other day in Parliament about the Jews?

Shepherd. I hae nae objections to see a couple o' Jews in Parliament. Wull the members be made to shave, think ye, sir? Ould cloes! Ould cloes! A' that the Hoose'il want then, for picturesque as weel as political effeck, will be a few blacks—here and there a Negro. North. Gentlemen, no politics.

Shepherd. Be't sae. Mr. North, what for do you never review books about religion?

North. Few good enough to deserve it. I purpose, however, articles very soon, on Dr. M'Crie's Progress and Suppression of the Reformation in Spain, (also his History of similar events in Italy,) and Inglis's admirable View of the Evidences of Christianity; Mr. Douglas' of Cavers' delightful volume, the Truths of Religion-The Natural History of Enthusiasm, a very able disquisition-Le Bas' Sermons, eloquent, original, and powerful-Dr. Morehead's ingenious and philosophical Dialogues

Shepherd. I love that man

North. So do I, James, and so do all that know him personallyhis talents—his genius-and better than both, his truly Christian cha racter-mild and pure

Shepherd. And also bricht.

North. Yes, bricht.

"In wit a man-simplicity a child."

Shepherd. What sort o' volls, sir, are the Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, published by Curry in Dublin?

North. Admirable. Truly, intensely, Irish. The whole book has the brogue-never were the outrageous whimsicalities of that strange, wild, imaginative people, so characteristically displayed; nor, in the midst of all the fun, frolic, and folly, is there any dearth of poetry, pathos, and passion. The author's a jewel, and he will be reviewed next number.*

went on a like mission to France. In 1831, he was employed to examine the tariff of England and France, with a view to their relaxation. From 1834 to 1838, he was in various foreign countries inculcating the principles of Free Trade. He sat in Parliament (after two unsuccessful efforts in 1832 and 1835), for a Scotch and finally for an English borough. He was an ultra-liberal in politics, and edited the Westminster Review under Jeremy Bentham, whose works he collected, writing his life also. He is best known by his translations from the poetry of various nations. He left school at 14, literally having "little Latin and less Greek," but in two years from that time had mastered French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. He was continually acquiring foreign languages, and has taught himself (so as to speak and write them), the Sclavonic dialects, in Russian, Servian. Polish, Bohemian, Bulgarian, Slovakian, and Illyrian; the Scandinavian, in Icelandic, Swedish, and Danish; Teutonic, Anglo-Saxon, High Dutch, Low Dutch, Frisian, and Allemannish; Esthonian, Lettish, and Finnish; Hungarian, Biscayan, French, Provençal, and Gascon; Italian, Spanish, Portuguese. Catalonian, Valencian, and Gallician. He has written in favor of a Decimal Coinage in England. In 1849, he was appointed to a Consulate in Cantor, and was afterwards promoted to Hong-Kong. Returning to England in 1853, he was made Governor of Hong-Kong, and (in February, 1854) was knighted, thereby becoming Sir John Bowring. He was born in 1792.-M.

He was not reviewed. The author was William Carleton, born in 1798, son of in Irish peasant, educated as a "poor scholar." intended for the Roman Catholic priesthood, becoming a

Shepherd. The Eerishers are marchin' in leterature, pawri pashu, wi' us and the Southrons. What's stirrin' in the Theatre?

North. T. P. Cooke, THE SEAMAN, is to take his benefit one of these nights

Shepherd. Let's a' gang in a body, to show our pride and glory in the British navy, of which he is the best, the ony ideal representative,* that ever rolled with sea-born motion across the stage. Nae caricaturist he-but Jack himsel'. He intensifies to the heart and the imagination the word-TAR.

North. So, in a different style, does Baker of the Caledonian Theatre.

Shepherd. Bass is a speerited manager.

North. He is; and there I heard a few weeks ago, one of the strongest, and most scientific singers that now chants on the boardsEdmunds. His Black-Eyed Susan is delicious. He is but a lad—but promises to be a Braham.

Shepherd. Is it possible that Mr. Murray is gaun to alloo Miss Jarman to return to Covent Garden ?† North. Impossible! A fixed star. The sweet creature must remain in our Scottish sky-nor is there now on any stage a more delightful actress. Her genius on the stage is not greater than her

worth in private life.

Tickler. An accomplished creature-simple and modest in mind and manners—yet lively—and awake to all harmless mirth and merriment-a temper which is the sure sign and constant accompaniment of purity and innocence. We must not lose the Jarman.

North. Nor her sister Louisa-a charming singer, and skilful teacher of singing-quite the lady-and in all respects most estimable. Shepherd. Saw ye ever Miss Smithson ?

North. Yes-in Jane Shore. She enacted that character finely and powerfully, is an actress not only of great talent, but of genius-a very lovely woman-and, like Miss Jarman, altogether a lady in private life.

Shepherd. I'm glad to hear ye say sae-for you're the best judge o' actin' in a' Scotland.

North. Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh!

Protestant, and visiting Dublin with his "Traits and Stories," in which the Irish peasantry are described to the life. His success with these determined him to follow literature as a profession, and his works of fiction, always on Irish subjects, stand at the head of their class. He has a pension of £200 a-year from the country. Those who have seen Sir Walter Scott and William Carleton, will agree with me, that in stature, make, features, and (above all) the peculiar lofti ness of brow, there is a strong personal resemblance.-M.

*T. P. Cooke has long been celebrated for his personation of seamen. His Long Tom Coffin was never equalled. Baker was a mere imitator. Edmunds did not fulfil his early promise John Braham (who made his last appearance as vocalist, at the age of 74) made his debut on the stage, in 1787, when he was only ten years old! Few, therefore, have had a longer professional reign. -M.

† Miss Jarman, an excellent actress in her youth, was an especial favourite at the Edinburgh Theatre

Miss Smithson, who was very successful at the English Theatre in Paris, shortly before the Revolution of 1830, married Hector Berlioz, the composer, and died early in 1854.