who thereby incurred, among a large portion of his subjects, the imputation of having too hastily listened to suspicious evidence, and overlooked the great services of a misled but noble-hearted gentleman.' The execution of the Duke de Biron took place on the 31st of July, 1602, and was the last of any great note that occurred within the walls of the Bastile.

The Bastile is now gone; not a stone is left; and a canal now flows far below where the deepest dungeons, the oubliettes, once held their forgotten captives of misery. Its site is only marked by a vulgar and clumsy pillar styled The column of July,' covered with the gilded names of soi-disants martyrs, and surmounted by a statue, in commemoration of the triumph of the mob.

OUR PROGRESS IN LIFE.

What a blessed order of nature it is, that the footsteps of Time are inaudible and noiseless, and that the seasons of life, like those of the year, are so indistinguishably brought on in gentle progression, and so blended the one with the other, that the human being scarcely knows, except from a faint and not unpleasant sensation, that he is growing old. The boy looks on the youth, the youth on the man, the man in his prime on his grey-headed sire, each on the other as in a separate existence-in a separate world; it seems sometimes as if they had no sympathies, no thoughts in common; that each smiled and wept on account of things for which the other cared not, and that such smiles and tears were all foolish, idle, and most vain. But as the hours, days, weeks, months, years, go by, how changes the one into the other, till, without any violence, lo! as if close together, at last, the cradle and the grave. In this, how nature and man agree, pacing on and on, to the completion of a year, of a life.-Midsummer Day's Dream.

GOOD TEMPER,

Good temper is like a sunny day; it sheds a brightness over every thing. It is the sweetener of toil, and the soother of disquietude. Every day brings its burthen. The husband goes forth in the morning to his professional studies; he cannot foresee what trial he may encounter, what failure of hopes, of friendships, or of prospects may meet him, before he returns to his home; but if he can anticipate there the beaming and hopeful smile, and the soothing attention, he feels that his cross, whatever it might be, will be lightened, and that his domestic happiness is still secure. It is the interest, therefore, as well as the duty of a woman, to cultivate good temper, and to have ever ready some word or look of cheerfulness, of encouragement, or at least of sympathy. A really feeling heart will dictate the conduct which will be most acceptable-will teach the delicacy which times a kindness, as well as renders it, and forbears all officious attentions, whilst it ever evinces a readiness to oblige. It need scarcely be said that this temper is of more value than many more brilliant endowments; that it is amongst the first recommendations to a woman in every domestic relation; and that especially in that tie, which, though the nearest on earth, is not one of kindred, it is assuredly the most effectual cement of affection. It is not, indeed, so much a means of attracting or exciting love, as it is of securing it. In fact, it is scarcely known, until familiarity draws aside the veil of social restraint, and the character, with its real faults and virtues, is unfolded in the privacy of home. Mrs Sandford.

WOMAN IN AFFLICTION.

I have very often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of man and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness, and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter

and support of her husband under misfortune, and abiding with unshrinking firmness the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and has been lifted by it in the sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up the shattered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity-binding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one, partly because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence, but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his selfrespect kept alive by finding that, though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch; whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect-t fancy himself alone and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for the want of an inhabitant.-Washington Irving.

THE MOSS ROSE.

FROM KRUMMACHER.

The angel that keeps watch o'er flowers,
And waters them with nightly dew,
One spring day slept beneath the shade
A friendly rosebush threw.

Refresh'd he woke, and grateful spoke-
Thou fairest of my children, say
What gift my love may grant thee shall
Thy scent and shade repay?'
'Then on my rose another grace,'

The rosebush spirit said, be flung! And round the angel of the flowers The modest moss has hung.

And lovelier in that garb than all,

Her sister beauties looks, I ween, The rose that owns the angel's giftThat simple garb of green.

Lina! by thee the flashing gem,

By thee the flaunting robe be scorn'd; Hear Nature speak- Adorn'd the least, Daughter, thou'rt most adorn'd!'

INDUSTRY.

There is no art or science that is too difficult for industry to attain to; it is the gift of tongues, and makes a man understood and valued in all countries, and by all countries and by all nations; it is the philosopher's stone that turns all metals, and even stones, into gold, and suffers not want to break into its dwelling; it is the northwest passage, that brings the merchants as soon to him as he can desire-in a word, it conquers all enemies, and makes fortune itself contribution.-Clarendon.

PERSONS UNLIKELY TO SERVE YOU. There are several classes of persons at whose hands you need not expect kindness. The sordid and narrow-minded think of nobody but their noble selves. The busy have above minding any one who needs his assistance. The not time to think of you. The overgrown rich man is poor and unhappy has neither spirit nor ability. The good-natured fool, however willing, is not capable of serving you.-Burgh.

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No. 25.

CREDULITY AND INCREDULITY.

By Mrs CROWE, Authoress of Susan Hopley,' &c. HORACE WALPOLE quaintly observed, that it is one of the disadvantages of living in our own time that we never know the truth of any thing;' and it is to be apprehended, that amidst all the discoveries that have been made or perfected since his death, for the improvement of our social condition, the remark still holds good. Certain it is, that the difficulty of eliciting the truth with respect to any cotemporary event is so considerable, that it may be said to amount almost to an impossibility; and in contradiction to what might have been reasonably expected, this difficulty appears, in many instances, to be rather increased than diminished by proximity to the scene of action. The natural tendency of mankind to exaggerate the circumstances of a story, is excited by the passions and interests that are fermenting within every circle, and which are, more or less, affected by every event which occurs within its limits. Each narrator adds or changes something, which, in his or her opinion, either increases the wonder and interest of the narrative; or serves to bring it more into accordance with some preconceived opinion or prejudice; or causes the last new report to tally with some former one, perhaps too monstrous and disjointed to be believed; affording them the gratification of exclaiming, 'Well, I really must say, I did not altogether credit the thing when I heard it before; but after this confirmation, upon my word,' &c. &c.

It must also be admitted, that our powers of observation differ so widely that no two persons see an event from precisely the same point of view; neither, perhaps, do any two simultaneously fix their attention on exactly the same part of the drama enacting before their eyes. In short, they take their observations by the aid of instruments of different construction and different power; and the result varies accordingly. One illustration of this may be found in the strange discrepancies so frequently occurring in the evidence of honest witnesses in a court of justice; where, under the stringent influence of an oath, their natural tendency to luxuriate and disport in variations is suppressed, and they have the strongest possible motive to confine themselves to the literal facts of the case in which they are called to give testimony. Distance of place, like distance of time, by wafting the story beyond the immediate influence of passion and prejudice, dispels some of the obstacles that impede the ascertainment of truths; but still so many remain, and so many new ones are interposed, that even of far removed events, it behoves all men to investigate reports calmly, and believe them cautiously; whilst in their

PRICE 1d.

acceptance and interpretation of those which relate to what is near and present, their precautions should be great, in proportion to the chances of being deceived.

One of the sources of this universal tendency to exaggeration, is the pleasure experienced in the excitement of what phrenologists distinguish as the organ of wonder. Events, as they have actually fallen out, are not astounding enough to satisfy the appetite of this faculty-voracious in most instances, inordinate in many; to which we may add, that by magnifying the event, some other passion or sentiment is frequently called into exercise, which lends a zest to the gratification. If the rumour of an epidemic arise in a city, and one is told that the funerals amount to twenty a-week, every candid person will admit that, in conveying the report to another, he would be apt to render it twenty or thirty; whilst the probability is great, that the next teller drops the twenty altogether, and tacks on a few to the other end of the account. Here a slight degree of apprehension, just enough (provided the evil has not reached one's own immediate neighbourhood or class) to excite without pain, and to give a relish to the immunity we are at the moment enjoying, is superadded to the gratification of being astonished ourselves, and of having something to tell that will astonish others. If we hear that the grocer in the next street has lost two children by the measles, we feel a natural desire to augment our own compassion, as well as the compassion of our friend, by adding another to the number. If our acquaintance loses five thousand pounds by a fraudulent banker, we do not hesitate, under the first excitement of the intelligence, to make it seven; or if Jack Harebrain is thrown from his horse and breaks his collar-bone, who could forbear to superadd a broken rib or a few internal bruises to the calamity ? Some men will perhaps hold up their hands against these assertions, and disown their truth; but if they are sincere in their denial, we can only say, that they must either be endowed with a remarkably small love of the marvellous, or else have crucified their natural propensities.

At the period of the riots in Bristol connected with the passing of the Reform Bill, a friend of the writer, who had a house and some property in the immediate neighbourhood of the disturbed city, happened to be with his family in London; and, on the first intelligence of the commotion, he wrote to his butler, desiring him to forward daily despatches descriptive of the state of affairs. The very first letter, however, put an end to the correspondence; for so terrific was honest John's report, that our friend instantly put four horses to his carriage, and started, without a moment's delay, doubtful whether any speed would enable him to arrive in time to rescue his

lost by the suppression of the first, how many irretrievable mischiefs have accrued from the existence of the last! What an aggregate of evil from both sources might be spared, would mankind but allow their credulity and incredulity to change their directions! If they would be slow to credit that which is ill or idle-things which it is desirable should not be true, and the belief of which can only create mischief and sorrow while it prevails, too often leaving traces, when it has passed away, which, however lamented, can never be effaced: and if, on the other hand, they would but lend a more patient ear to that which may haply prove of incalculable benefit to themselves and to their race; if they would listen humbly, investigate calmly, suspending their judgments till time and experiment have decided questions, which to decide without them seems an instance of insanity, far more glaring than that of the wildest speculator or the most extravagant theorist. If they would, in fine, open their ears and their hearts, and give an honest welcome to that which may prove useful and good, remembering that all established theories, systems, and discoveries, were once new, and that nearly all have had their period of struggle and difficulty to contend with-each appearing, in its day, as absurd and monstrous to the understandings of those to whom it was first presented, as do those which are now first presented to ours; and if they would bring themselves to look upon these new-born lights as what they probably are-the earliest rays of invaluable truths, as yet below the horizon of our comprehension; whilst, to things evil and idle, which are probably false, which may be mischievous, and cannot be good, let then turn the cold shoulder;' receiving them with a degree of caution no less exemplary than that recorded of a certain Tuscan resident at the court of Oliver Cromwell, who wrote to his own government, Some say that the Protector is dead, some say that he is not-but, for my part, I believe neither the one nor the other.'

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.

MICHAEL BRUCE.

THE amiable and unfortunate Michael Bruce, the author of Lochleven and other Poems,' with whose name so many tender recollections are associated, was the son of parents in a very humble rank in life. His father, Alexander Bruce, an intelligent and pious person, was a weaver at Kinnesswood, in the parish of Portmoak, Kinross-shire. It is to him his son refers in his poem of ' Lochleven,' when he says :—

'I knew an aged swain whose hoary head
Was bent with years, the village chronicle,
Who much had seen, and from the former times
Much had received. He, hanging o'er the hearth
In winter evenings, to the gaping swains
And children circling round the fire, would tell
Stories of old, and tales of other times.'

His mother's maiden name was also Bruce. Our poet was the fifth son in a family of eight children, and was born on the 27th of March, 1746. His early childhood was little different from that of other children in his rank in life. He was an amiable, attractive, docile, and engaging child, and a great favourite with all the members of his family. The first elements of his education were received from his parents; and before being sent to school had made such progress as to be able to read the Scriptures with fluency. Michael was sent to school when only four years old; and we find him making his first appearance with the Bible for his class-book, instead of the Shorter Catechism, which, at that period, was the first reading-book in all our country schools. His teacher, we are told, rated in no measured terms the stupidity of his parents in thus equipping him; and he was proceeding to demonstrate this to the boy himself, when he was agreeably astonished to hear young Bruce read a few verses with perfect accuracy. Like most others of the humble sons of Scotland, Bruce could not, in his younger years, get much of what is called school education, being

necessitated, from the poverty of his parents, to engage during the summer in the rural occupation of herding. But although, partly from this cause, and still more from ill health, he was irregular in his attendance at school, he did not neglect himself, but embraced every opportunity, by reading, conversation, and thinking, to improve his mind.

When he returned to school, at the beginning of winter, his class-fellows had never to wait for him; he was as well prepared as if he had not been absent. Before a fortnight had elapsed he was uniformly at the top of the class. In the school-room Bruce had nearly as much authority as the teacher: his presence put a stop to all quarrels; the injured never appealed to him in vain for help; and by him were the weak protected against the strong. His gentle yet firm manners were in all probability the cause of this deference. Already he began to display individuality of character, and might have served as the prototype of Beattie's 'Minstrel.' At home as much deference was paid to him as at school: he was present at all family councils; he was consulted in all emergencies; and his whole family looked up to him as one in whose sagacity they might confide. this time he was very delicate, and his appearance indicated a consumptive tendency. It is thus described by one of his biographers: He was slenderly made, with a long neck and narrow chest; his skin was white and shining; his cheeks tinged with red, rather than ruddy; his hair yellowish, and inclined to curl. He was cherished by his friends as one peculiarly valuable; one, alas! in whom the seeds of death had been sown from his infancy, and one whom they were in danger of losing.'

At

Like most boys of genius, Bruce was passionately fond of reading, and had, when yet very young, read all the books that were within his reach; and his father, to encourage this taste, bought or borrowed for him every book that came in his way. Michael, while at school, had many friends. Among these, although one of the most humble, was David Pearson, an apprentice to Bruce's father, and our poet's bedfellow; a lad of strong parts, and of a serious contemplative turn of mind, who, like his friend, improved himself by diligent reading. He had little education, but, like Bruce, had a natural taste for poetry, and was also a poet, although he could not rhyme well.

Another of Bruce's friends was Mr John Birrel. This young gentleman was a few years the junior of Bruce and Pearson, but was on terms of great intimacy with them both. Mr Birrel was, in later years, a contributor to the Edinburgh Magazine,' and various other periodicals. He died in the year 1836. To William Arnot, another of his schoolfellows, our poet was in particular warmly attached. He was a son of the proprietor of Portmoak, and died while yet a youth at school. His death gave a severe shock to Bruce's feelings, and was the first of many, which, during his too brief life, he received, and which threw a tinge of sadness over his gaiety and natural cheerfulness. Some years after this, while revisiting the spot where his youthful friend was interred, he wrote some lines to his memory.

Arnot's father was one of Bruce's earliest patrons, and his sole confidant and adviser: to him he applied in all his difficulties; and we believe that this gentleman was one from whom a noble mind would willingly accept an obligation.

When Michael had reached his fifteenth year he was ready for college, and proceeded to the University of Edinburgh in the year 1762. There is much reason to believe that our poet, from excessive modesty in stating his wants to his parents, was subjected to many privations while attending his classes; and although some of his fellow-students, who were aware of his limited means, often offered to share with him the hospitality of their tables, these invitations were always politely declined, for he could not bear the idea of being fed out of pity. Bruce remained at college four years, and his exertions there were such as might have been expected from his previous career at school. But, alas! the place to which he had so long looked forward with hope, only served as a nur

sery to ripen those seeds of discase which were fatally implanted in his constitution.

When Bruce first commenced to write poetry cannot be exactly ascertained, but it must have been at a very early period of his life. His poetical talents were well known to his fellow-students; and they used frequently to ask him to write verses in praise or in censure of acquaintance. With none of these requests, however, did he ever comply, except on one occasion, when he ridiculed in verse a conceited coxcomb, who boasted that his own style of composition was much superior to that of the best of the British essayists. It was during his first winter's residence in Edinburgh that he composed his poem on The Last Day.' It was written instead of an essay, and read to a literary society of which he was a member. Bruce did not feel over-happy whilst residing among, though not in, the gay society of Edinburgh, and often gave way to fits of sadness and melancholy.

At the termination of his third session at college, he opened a school at Gairney Bridge, near Kinross, for the education of the children of some farmers in the neighbourhood, who agreed to allow him his board and a small salary. It was in these intervals of cessation from the severer studies of the college that much of his poetry was written. Although he always returned to the country much exhausted by application, his health, under the salubrity of his native air, speedily recruited. Besides writing poetry in these intervals, he also read a great deal. He had twenty-eight scholars whom he taught in a miserable little hovel; and it is mentioned as a proof of the gentleness of his nature, that he never used the rod in correcting his pupils. His emoluments were very small-about £11 ayear. While residing at this place he entertained some thoughts of giving to the world a volume of poetry; but although often urged by his relations and college friends to do so, his modesty would not allow him to appear in the character of an author. In the winter of 1765-6 he attended the divinity class of the Burgher section of the Secession. After completing his first session there, he went again to Gairney Bridge to resume his school; but soon quitted it for another near Alloa, at a place called Forest Mill. This new school promised him greater advantages and more remuneration than he had hitherto enjoyed. He wrote, upon the occasion of his leaving this place, a song in imitation of Lochaber no more,' in which he tenderly records his affection for Miss Magdalene Grieve, a young lady of modest appearance and agreeable manners, with a large portion of natural good sense. She was the daughter of the person with whom Bruce lived at Gairney Bridge.

At Forest Mill he wrote his longest poem, 'Lochleven:' it closes with the following very affecting lines:

'Thus sung the youth, amid unfertile wilds
And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground!
Far from his friends he stray'd, recording thus
The dear remembrance of his native fields,
To cheer the tedious night; while slow disease
Prey'd on his pining vitals, and the blasts
Of dark December shook his humble cot.'

We find from a letter to his friend and correspondent Pearson, that while at Forest Mill Bruce was very unhappy; struggling against a growing disease, and much in want of comfort and friendly consolation. Part of the letter is as follows: I lead a melancholy kind of life in this place. I am not fond of company; but it is not good that a man be still alone: and here I can have no company but what is worse than solitude. If I had not a lively imagination, I believe I should fall into a state of stupidity and delirium. I have some evening scholars; the attending on whom, though few, so fatigues me that the rest of the night I am quite dull and low-spirited. Yet I have some lucid intervals, in the time of which I can study pretty well.'

At the end of the year 1766, Dr Anderson, another of Bruce's biographers, says: His constitution-which was ill calculated to encounter the austerities of his native climate, the exertions of daily labour, and the rigid frugality of humble life-began visibly to decline. Towards

the end of the year, his ill health, exaggerated by the indigence of his situation, and the want of those comforts and conveniences which might have fostered a delicate frame to maturity and length of days, terminated in a deep consumption.'

The last days of our poet were now rapidly approaching. The winter of 1766 passed away, and then came spring-the spring in which Bruce died. He lived to see the woods and fields grow green once more-to see the flowers burst into blossom again, in all the freshness of new life. He had now returned to the humble home of his parents; and it was in the contemplation of his early death that he wrote his beautiful Elegy on Spring': 'Now spring returns, but not to me returns

The vernal joy my better years have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,

And all the joys of life with health are flown' In this last illness all his sorrows were forgotten, and his early cheerfulness returned to him. He died with the hope of a Christian, on the 6th July, 1767, at the early age of twenty-one. Under his pillow was found his Bible, in which this passage was marked-' Now my days are passed away as the swift ships.'

Bruce's poems are few in number, and go into very little bulk. The most complete edition of them is that edited by M'Kelvie, and published in Edinburgh in 1837, which contains twenty-four pieces in verse and two in prose. The longest poem in the volume before us is Lochleven ;' and although we do not find in it any striking originality of thought, it is nevertheless an elaborately and very pleasingly written poem. It is in blank verse, and, as may be surmised from its title, is chiefly of a local nature; but, although it bears the title of 'Lochleven,' the loch itself comes in for a very small share of his description: the natural features of the surrounding localities being chiefly dwelt on. It is to be regretted, also, that he has not made the slightest allusion to the unfortunate Queen Mary, although he speaks of the past and present state

Of high Lochleven castle, famous once-
The abode of heroes of the Bruce's line."

In the poem now under consideration, there is much appropriate description and some fine imagery. Perhaps in the whole range of English poetry there are few more beautiful pictures than that briefly presented in the following lines:

'Behold the village rise

In rural pride, mong intermingled trees
Above whose aged tops the joyful swains,
At eventide descending from the hill,
With eye enamour'd mark the many wreaths
Of pillar'd smoke high curling to the clouds !"

Our poet has availed himself of most circumstances that could with propriety be introduced to decorate his verse. As an example of this, we present the following lines: they are natural, striking, and among the most original in the poem :

Behold the man of sorrows hail the light,
New risen from the bed of pain; where late,
Toss'd to and fro upon a couch of thorns,
He waked the long dark night and wished for morn!
Soon as he feels the quickening beam of heaven,
And balmy breath of May, among the fields
And flowers he takes his morning walk his heart
Beats with new life; his eye is bright and blithe;
Health strews her roses o'er his cheek, renew'd
In youth and beauty; his unbidden tongue

Pours native harmony and sings to Heaven.' But beautiful though we consider this poem to be, it is not without its blemishes; the worst of which are a too great redundancy of thought, and in some of the passages an evident carelessness in the composition. Yet amid 50 many excellences it were hypercritical to point out trifling faults.

The Last Day,' another of Bruce's pieces, is also written in blank verse. It is inferior to Lochleven;' but even there, we find much of that gracefulness and warmth of feeling by which all his poems are marked.

6

His Elegy written in Spring' is so well known, and so universally admired, that it would be superfluous in us to