Obrazy na stronie

ther in houses or in the highwayes; so that no man maye passe saifly from house to house; and their insolencie in the houses where they are quartered fills poor women and children with terror, and both men and women with great vexation. They make also excursions in tens and twelves upon other places, and specially under cloud of night, and break into houses with bended pistols and naked swords, cursing and swearing that they shall burne and kill if all be not readily given that they demand. I hear not yet of any killed by them, but severals are grievously wounded and beaten; and in effect, the poor people's lives, goods, and chastities, are exposed to the cruelty of these strange locusts. Many of the countrey people have left and abandoned their houses and all to their mercy. The other day I heard, that, at the burying of a child, the burial company was assaulted by some of these ruffians; and, after a great scuffle, the mortcloth was robbed off the coffine, and that notwithstanding all that their officers could do to hinder or recover it. They tell me also, that some of these savages, not knowing what the coffine meaned, as being a thing with them not usual, would have broken it open and searched it, if not restrained by their neighbours. In some places they beginne to exact money over and above their victuals, and also to make the people pay for dry quarters (that is, for men that they have not), and for assistant quarters (that is, where they contract and make the places they leave free pay in money, and yet the places that they lye upon do really maintain all.) I am furder told, that evil company is like to corrupt good manners; and that even many of the militia forces and Perthshire gentlemen beginne to take free quarters. But it is like that a little more time with our march westward will furnish much more matter of this kind; for the marches are indeed the sorest and most afflicting to the poor people, seeing that partly for the service, partly under pretence thereof, horses are forced, and many of them not restored; as likewise there is little order kept in the march, but they run out and spread themselves over the countrey and catch all that they can lay hold upon; for in these occasions, whatever thing they can get is clear prey, without any fear And yet all these are

of recovery.

said to be but whips, wherewith this country is scourged, in respect of the scorpions intended for Ayrshire; and some of the committee being spoke to about the abuse of free quarters, said, that the quarters now taken were but transient quarters, but after the returns made about the Band, there would be destructive quarters ordered against its refuisers. Yet I would not have you think that all those Highlanders behave after the same manner. No, there is a difference both among the men and leaders. And the M. of Athol's men are generally commended both as the best appointed and best behaved. Neither do I hear of any great hurt as yet done by the E. of Murray's men in Cathcart parish: but all of them take free quarters, and that at their own discretion. forces have hitherto carried pretty regularly, and appear very ready on all occasions to restraine and correct the Highlanders' insolencies, of which I could give you several instances; but when these men, who were lately this people's only persecutors, are now commended by them for sobrietie, and in effect are looked on by many of them as their guardians and protectors, you may easily judge what is the others' deportment. Feb. 1, 1678.

The standing

(Woodrow MSS. 4to. vol. xcix. 29.)


From "A Mock Poem upon the Expe

dition of the Highland Host; by COL. CLELAND. Edit. 1697.


WHEN this was done their ranks were broken;
Some ran for dring their drought to slocken:
Some were chasing hens and cocks,
Some were loosing horse from yocks;
Some with snapwarks, some with bowes,
Were charging reers of toops and ewes ;
Their stomacks so on edge were set,
That all was fish came in the nett;
Trumpets sounded, skeens were glanceing,
Some cryed, here to her Laird and Lady,
Some were Tonald Cowper danceing:

豪 备

Some to her mother and her daddie,
And Sir King too-if the Laird please
Then up with plaids
Some were stealing, some were riveing,
Some were wives and lasses grieving:
Some for cold did chack and chatter;
Some from plaids were wringing water:
Yea to be short, moe different postures,
Than's sewed on hangings, beds, and bol-

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A Reverie.

SWEET Village! on thy pastoral hill
Arrayed in sunlight sad and still,
As if beneath the harvest-moon,
Thy noiseless homes were sleeping!
It is the merry month of June,
And creatures all of air and earth
Should now their holiday of mirth
With dance and song be keeping.
But, loveliest Village! silent Thou,
As cloud wreathed o'er the Morning's brow,
When light is faintly breaking,
And Midnight's voice afar is lost,
Like the wailing of a wearied ghost,
The shades of earth forsaking.

"Tis not the Day to Scotia dear,
A summer Sabbath mild and clear!
Yet from her solemn burial-ground
The small Kirk-Steeple looks around,
Enshrouded in a calm

Profound as fills the house of prayer,
E'er from the band of virgins fair
Is breathed the choral psalm.
A sight so steeped in perfect rest
Is slumbering not on nature's breast
In the smiles of earthly day!
"Tis a picture floating down the sky,
By fancy framed in years gone by,
And mellowing in decay!

That thought is gone!the Village still
With deepening quiet crowns the hill,
Its low green roofs are there!
In soft material beauty beaming,
As in the silent hour of dreaming
They hung embowered in air!

Is this the Day when to the mountains
The happy shepherds go,

And bathe in sparkling pools and fountains
Their flocks made white as snow?
Hath gentle girl and gamesome boy,
With meek-eyed mirth or shouting joy,
Gone tripping up the brae ?

Till far behind their town doth stand,
Like an image in sweet Fairy Land,
When the Elves have flown away!
-O sure if aught of human breath
Within these walls remain,
Thus deepening in the hush of death,
'Tis but some melancholy crone,
Who sits with solemn eyes
Beside the cradle all alone,
And lulls the infant with a strain
Of Scotia's ancient melodies.

What if these homes be filled with life?
'Tis the sultry month of June,
And when the cloudless sun rides high
Above the glittering air of noon,

All nature sinks opprest,-
And labour shuts his weary eye
In the mid-day hour of rest.

Yet let the soul think what it will,
Most dirge-like mourns that moorland rill !
How different once its flow!
When with a dreamy motion gliding
Mid its green fields in love abiding,
Or leaping o'er the mossy linn,
And sporting with its own wild din,
Seemed water changed to snow.
Beauty lies spread before my sight,
But grief-like shadows dim its light,
And all the scene appears

Like a church-yard when a friend is dying,
In more than earthly stillness lying,
And glimmering through our tears!

Sweet Woodburn! like a cloud that name
Comes floating o'er my soul !
Although thy beauty still survive,
One look hath changed the whole.
The gayest village of the gay
Beside thy own sweet river,
Wert Thou on Week or Sabbath day!
So bathed in the blue light of joy,
As if no trouble could destroy
Peace doomed to last for ever.
Now in the shadow of thy trees,
On a green plat, sacred to thy breeze,
The fell Plague-Spirit grimly lies
And broods, as in despite

Of uncomplaining lifelessness,

On the troops of silent shades that press Into the church-yard's cold recess, From that region of delight.

Last summer, from the school-house door,
When the glad play-bell was ringing,
What shoals of bright-haired elves would

Like small waves racing on the shore,
In dance of rapture singing!
Oft by yon little silver well,
Now sleeping in neglected cell,
The village-maid would stand,
While resting on the mossy bank,
With freshened soul the traveller drank
The cold cup from her hand;
Haply some soldier from the war,
Who would remember long and far
That Lily of the Land.

And still the green is bright with flowers,
And dancing through the sunny hours,
Like blossoms from enchanted bowers

On a sudden wafted by,

Obedient to the changeful air,
And proudly feeling they are fair,
Glide bird and butterfly.

But where is the tiny hunter-rout
That revelled on with dance and shout
Against their airy prey?

Alas! the fearless linnet sings,
And the bright insect folds its wings
Upon the dewy flower that springs
Above these children's clay.
And if to yon deserted well
Some solitary maid,

As she was wont at eve, should go-
There silent as her shade

She stands a while-then sad and slow
Walks home, afraid to think

Of many a loudly-laughing ring
That dipped their pitchers in that spring,
And lingered round its brink.

On-on-through woful images
My spirit holds her way!

Death in each drooping flower she sees :
And oft the momentary breeze
Is singing of decay.

-So high upon the slender bough
Why hangs the crow her nest?
All undisturbed her young have lain
This spring-time in their nest;
Nor as they flew on tender wing
E'er fear'd the cross-bow or the sling.
Tame as the purpling turtle-dove,
That walks serene in human love,
The magpie hops from door to door;
And the hare, not fearing to be seen,
Doth gambol on the village green
As on the lonely moor.

The few sheep wandering by the brook
Have all a dim neglected look,
Oft bleating in their dumb distress
On her their sweet dead shepherdess.
The horses pasturing through the range
Of gateless fields, all common now,
Free from the yoke enjoy the change,
To them a long long Sabbath-sleep!
Then gathering in one thunderous band,
Across the wild they sweep,

Tossing the long hair from their eyes→→→
Till far the living whirlwind flies
As o'er the desart sand.

From human let their course is free-
No lonely angler down the lea

Invites the zephyr's breath

And the beggar far away doth roam,
Preferring in his hovel-home

His penury to death.

On that green hedge a scattered row

Now weather-stained-once white as snow-
Of garments that have long been spread,
And now belong unto the dead,
Shroud-like proclaim to every eye,
"This is no place for Charity!"

O blest are ye! unthinking creatures!
Rejoicing in your lowly natures
Ye dance round human tombs !
Where gladlier sings the mountain lark
Than o'er the church-yard dim and dark!
Or where, than on the churchyard wall,
From the wild rose-tree brighter fall
Her transitory blooms!

What is it to that lovely sky
If all her worshippers should die!
As happily her splendours play

On the grave where human forms decay,

As o'er the dewy turf of Morn, Where the virgin, like a woodland Fa On wings of joy was borne.

Even now a soft and silvery haze Hill-Village-Tree-is steeping In the loveliness of happier days, Ere rose the voice of weeping! When incense-fires from every hearth To heaven stole beautiful from earth.

Sweet Spire! that crown'st the house of God! To thee my spirit turns,

While through a cloud the softened light On thy yellow dial burns.

Ah, me! my bosom inly bleeds

To see the deep-worn path that leads
Unto that open gate!

In silent blackness it doth tell
How oft thy little sullen bell

Hath o'er the village toll'd its knell,
In beauty desolate.

Oft, wandering by myself at night,
Such spire hath risen in softened light
Before my gladdened eyes,-
And as I looked around to see
The village sleeping quietly
Beneath the quiet skies,-
Methought that mid her stars so bright,
The moon in placid mirth,
Was not in heaven a holier sight
Than God's house on the earth.
Sweet image! transient in my soul !
That very bell hath ceased to toll
When the grave receives its dead-
And the last time it slowly swung,
'Twas by a dying stripling rung
O'er the sexton's hoary head!
All silent now from cot or hall
Comes forth the sable funeral !
The Pastor is not there!

For yon sweet Manse now empty stands,*
Nor in its walls will holier hands

Be e'er held up in prayer.



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A Series of Discourses on the Christian Revelation, viewed in Connexion with the Modern Astronomy. By THOMAS CHALMERS, D. D. 8vo. pp. 275. Third edition. Glasgow, Smith & Son; Edinburgh, William Whyte; 1817.

ONE of the worst features of the

present times is the separation that has taken place between science and religion. During the early part of the history of English literature, we find great talents combined with a sublime piety, and the most enlightened philosophy with a fervent and glowing devotion; and they who explained to us the system of nature, defended the cause, and venerated the authority, of revelation. The piety of Milton, of Boyle, and of Newton, was not less remarkable than the superiority of their other endowments; and it will ever be regarded as a striking circumstance, that those giant minds, who have exalted the glory of English literature above that of all other nations, and whom we are accustomed to consider as an honour to the species itself, were distinguished above all other men for their habitual and solemn veneration of religion.

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Since the age of these distinguished writers the connexion between science and religion seems gradually to have been becoming less intimate. We are unwilling to arrange ourselves with those gloomy individuals who are found in every age to declaim against the peculiar depravity of their own times; but it is impossible not to see, that the profound reverence for sacred things, which distinguished the illustrious characters of a former age, is not now the characteristic of those by whom science is promoted, and knowledge extended. An enlarged acquaintance with the works of nature is no longer the assured token of that deep-toned and solemn piety, which elevated the character, and purified the manners, of the fathers of our philosophy. Science is now seen without religion, and religion without science; and the consequence is, that the sacred system of revelation, however VOL. I.

magnificent and beautiful in itself, is in danger of being considered as fitted only to be the creed of less enlightened minds, and of failing in some measure, from this unfortunate opinion, to produce those important effects upon mankind, for the accomplishment of which it is so pre-eminently adapted.

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The volume before us is calculat ed, we think, in no common degree, to counteract this unhappy declension. It is written with an enthu siasm, and an eloquence, to which we scarcely know where to find any parallel; and there is, at the same time, so constant a reference to the improved philosophy of modern times, that it possesses an air of philo sophical grandeur and truth, which the productions of a more popular and declamatory eloquence can never attain. Were the taste of the author equal to his genius, and his judgment always sufficient to control the fervours of his imagination, the labours of Dr Chalmers could not fail to be infinitely beneficial. But here lies our author's

chief deficiency. His genius is of the kind that is marked by its peculiarities as much as by its superiority; and this circumstance, we think, is the more to be regretted, as there is manifestly no necessary connexion between the excellencies and defects by which his works are characterised. The natural relations of the intellectual powers might have been more correctly maintained in his mind, while all his faculties continued to be exerted with the same constancy and vigour,and the same originality and invention might have been combined with greater dignity, and more uniform elegance.-We have therefore but a short process to institute, in order to admit our readers into a knowledge of the character of our author's mind. In our intercourse with the world, we often meet with persons in whom what we call genius predominates over every other feature; and who, though not superior to their fellows in taste, judgment, or understanding, are yet infinitely superior to them in the capacity of forming striking combinations of ideas, or in the endowments of an excur


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