My friend then, gravely opening his port-folio, selected two of his productions, which he gave me permission to publish, particularly as one of them had been most abruptly rejected by an eminent newspaper, and the other by a magazine of considerable reputation.

The intended Magazine article ran as follows:

THE HIGHLANDER.

A sans culotte from Caledonia's wilds,
Rasp'd into form by Nature's roughest files,
Hearing of savoury meats-of moneys made-
Of unsmoked women-and of gaining trade ;-
Resolved, from sooty cot, to seek a town,
And to the low-lands boldly stump it down.
But then, alas! his garb would never do:-
The greasy kilt, bare loins, and tatter'd shoe:
Yet urged to better food and better fame,
He borrow'd breeches and assumed a name;
Then truck'd his kilt, garter'd his motley hose,
New nail'd his heels, and caped the peeping toes.
His freckled fist a swineherd's bludgeon wields,-
His tried companion through the sties and fields,
(Full many a jeering clown had felt its sway)
Now to a cane promoted, helps its master's way.
Full fifty baubees Sandy had in store,
And piteous tales had raised him fifty more:
His knife, his pipe, and eke his baubee bank,
In Basil pouch hung dangling from his flank:
No empty wallet on his shoulder floats:

Hard eggs, soft cheese, tobacco, salt, and oats,
Cramm'd in one end, wagg'd o'er his brawny chest,
And what was once a blanket poised the rest ;
Thus wealthy, victuall'd, proud, content, and gay,

Down Grampian's sterile steeps young Sandy wound his way.
Hail food! hail raiment! hail that happy lot

Which lured such genius from the smoky cot,

To mingle in the ranks of breeches'd men,

And coin a name and family again!

Where famed St. Andrew's turrets tower on high;

Where learned doctors lecture, doze, and die;

Where Knowledge sleeps, and Science seeks repose,

And mouldering halls more mouldering heads disclose,

Where Roman Virgil pipes in Celtic verse,

And Grecian Homer sings to gods in Erse ;

"Twas there that Sandy form'd his worldly creed,

Brush'd gowns, swept book-shelves, learn'd to shave and read:

From craft to craft his willing genius rose;

When cash was scarce he wisely wrought for clothes,

And thread-bare trophies, once the kirksmen's pride,

Mickle by mickle swell'd his wallet's side.

Well turn'd, well wash'd, the rags denied their age,
Whilst Sandy's granite visage aped the sage.
Here, great Lavater! here thy science stands
Cc fess'd, and proved by more than mortal hands.
Tough o'er his features Nature's art we see,
Her deepest secrets are disclosed through thee.

The green-tinged eye, curl'd lip, and lowering brows,
Which malice harrows, and which treachery ploughs,
In deep sunk furrows on his front we find,
Tilling the crops that thrive in Sandy's mind.
No soft sensations can that face impart;
No gratitude springs glowing from the heart;
As deadly night-shade creeping on the ground,
He tries to poison what he cannot wound.
Yet Sandy has a most consistent mind,
Too low to rise, too coarse to be refined,
Too rough to polish, and too loose to bind:
Yet if

On looking over the residue, I found I could not with propriety continue the publication of this satire: were I to proceed five or six lines further, ill-natured people might possibly find a pretence for designation, and I should be very sorry to be considered as capable of becoming an instrument in so improper a procedure: I therefore returned the copy to my port-folio, and subsequently to the author, mentioning my reasons, and advising him to burn the rest. His reply to me was laconic- My Dear B***, qui caput ille facit.

The other trifle is a mere jeu d'esprit, and cannot be disagreeable to any body, unless it may be taken amiss by some West-Indian proprietor, whose probable touchiness at the introduction of the word slavery, I do not feel called on to compassionate.

EPIGRAM.

Sir Sidney Smith and Miss Rumbold.

Says Sidney" I'll put all white slavery down;
All Europe I'll summon to arms;"

But fair Rumbold replied-" I'll reverse my renown,
For all men shall be slaves to my charms."

If thus, lovely champion, that tongue and those eyes
Can set all mankind by the ears;

Go-fire off your glances, explode a few sighs,
And make captive the Dey of Algiers!
Thus you 'll rival Sir Sidney in glory and gains;

He may conquer the tyrant--you'll lead him in chains.

I cannot conclude these memoranda without adding a few fragments from some unpublished and nearly unknown works, the production of Miss T-n, the amiable young lady to whom I have before introduced the reader, (see pages 39. 74, 75.) and who commenced versifying at the early age of fifteen. Her compositions are numerous, and comprise a variety of subjects and of styles, from the fugitive lyric to the pretending epic; but with a natural and becoming modesty, (though in her

case, in my opinion, unnecessarily retained) she refuses to submit them to the ordeal of the public.

THE BARD.

Extracted from an unpublished Poem, called "BOADICEA."

Amid those aged sons of song

One seem'd to tower the rest among:
For though the heavy hand of time

Had somewhat marr'd his youthful prime;
Though the sunny glow had faded

On the locks his brow that shaded;
Stern Time, not ev'n thy icy sway
Might quench the heaven-enkindled lay
Which waken'd to achievements high
Those heroes of antiquity.

Howe'er it were, from that bright band
Sadly apart he seem'd to stand,
And lowly on his harp he leant
With eye of gloom and eye-brow bent;
But still, despite his sterner mood,
By all with reverence he was view'd,
Such charm of dignity hath age
When on the brow experience sage

Hath stamp'd the worth of years that sleep,
And when the mind hath known to reap
Havests of scientific lore,

And well secured the precious store;→
When all the stormy dreams of youth
Fade in the beacon-light of truth;
When fiery feelings are repress'd,
The spirit calm'd, the heart at rest!
Then in the form of age we find
Somewhat surpassing earthly kind.
Now forth his harp that minstrel drew,
And o'er the chords his fingers threw,
The while beneath that lighter sway
Murmur'd the scarcely-bidden lay,
In soft half-warbled cadence stealing
O'er the melting soul of feeling:
But when he caught the transport high
Which mark'd the kindling melody,
His upturn'd eye and heaving breast
The mighty frenzy quick confess'd;
The sympathetic strings beneath
A wild inspiring chorus breathe,
And borne the lofty halls along,

Floats high the patriot minstrel's song:

The mildew of time steeps the laurel-bound wreath,
And the war-sword ingloriously rusts in its sheath,
Which burst on the foe as the bolt from on high,
And sprinkled the blood of revenge to the sky.

The arm is unbraced and the nerves are unstrung
Of him who in combat that dark weapon swung;
For the souls of the heroes of loftier days,
Kindled high in their glory, have sunk in the blaze:

And the laurels of Britain, droop'd, wither'd, and shrunk,
And her standard of freedom all hopelessly sunk,
And the sons of the isles, scatter'd thin on the hill,
Stood forsaken and drooping, but dauntlessly still.

Ye sons of the brave! is the bold spirit fled
Which to combat and conquest your forefathers led?
Oh no! it but sleeps in the souls it should warm!
The more fiercely to burn in the day of the storm.

But too long it hath slept: for the hearts of the brave
Are a country's best bulwarks to guard and to save:
Oh then be the lion aroused in each breast,
Triumphant to conquer, or nobly to rest.

Be it yours to divulge the dark volume of fate;
Be it yours to revenge, ere revenge be too late:
Oh let not the spirit of freedom repose
Till it visit the wrongs of our land on its foes.

"Tis your country that calls; shall that cry be in vain?
All bleeding she lies in the conqueror's chain:
Chiefs! but one struggle more, and her freedom is won:
Let us triumph or die, as our fathers have done.

Like the lightning of heaven be your arms on the heath, Loud, loud ring your shields with the thunder of death: As the waves of your ocean rush down to the strife, And each stroke be for Britain,-for freedom and life!

The bard has ceased: the lofty lay

In long vibrations dies away,
And melts upon the air around
Till silence blends away the sound.

The bard upon each warrior gazed,

To mark what thoughts his strain had raised.

The eye that late flash'd high with mirth

In alter'd cheer now sought the earth;

The cheek that bright with joy had blush'd,

Far other feeling now had flush'd.

It might have seem'd throughout the hall,
(So motionless, so mute, were all,)

As though the spirit of the storm
Had swept along each stately form.

A moment-and what change was wrought

In every look and every thought!

Roused by the breath of life, they seem

To start at once from their death-like dream;

A sudden impulse, wild and strong,

Agitates the moving throng

And like the billows of the deep,

When darkening tempests o'er it sweep,

In every freeborn heart, that strain

Concordant echoes roused again!

THEATRICAL RECOLLECTIONS.

The author's early visits to Crow Street Theatre-Interruptions of the University men-College pranks-Old Mr. Sheridan in "Cato" and in " Alexander the Great"-Curious scene introduced, by mistake, in the latter tragedy-Mr. Digges in the Ghost of Hamlet's father-Chorus of Cocks-The author's preference of comedy to tragedy-Remarks on Mr. Kean and the London moralists—Liston in “Paul Pry”-Old Sparkes-The Spanish débutante—Irish Johnstone-Modern comedy-The French stage.

FROM my youth I was attached to theatrical representations, and have still a clear recollection of many of the eminent performers of my early days. My grandmother, with whom I resided for many years, had silver tickets of admission to Crow Street Theatre, whither I was very frequently sent.

The play-houses in Dublin were then lighted with tallow candles, stuck into tin circles hanging from the middle of the stage, which were every now and then snuffed by some performer; and two soldiers, with fixed bayonets, always stood like statues on each side of the stage, close to the boxes, to keep the audience in order. The galleries were very noisy and very droll. The ladies and gentlemen in the boxes always went dressed out nearly as for court; the strictest etiquette and decorum were preserved in that circle; whilst the pit, as being full of critics and wise men, was particularly respected, except when the young gentlemen of the University occasionally forced themselves in, to revenge some insult, real or imagined, to a member of their body; on which occasions, all the ladies, well-dressed men, and peaceable people generally, decamped forthwith, and the young gentlemen as generally proceeded to beat or turn out the rest of the audience, and to break every thing that came within their reach. These exploits were by no means uncommon; and the number and rank of the young culprits were so great, that (coupled with the impossibility of selecting the guilty,) the college would have been nearly depopulated, and many of the great families in Ireland enraged beyond measure, had the students been expelled or even rusticated.

I had the honour of being frequently present, and (as far as in mêlée,) giving a helping hand to our encounters both in the