bed, and continues tumbling over a succession of petty cascades or rapids nearly the whole way to Mianee-ke-Gad,h. A bove the debouche of the Kedar Gunga, the bed widens into a small shingly space, in which the river rapidly rolls, obviously changing its course as the floods direct it. Just at the gorge of this space a bridge has been thrown across, which is formed of two parts, the interior ends of the beams resting on a large rock in the centre; and just above the bridge, in a bay formed by a reach of the river in this shingly space, fifteen feet above the stream, is situated the small temple, or mût, dedicated to the goddess Gunga, or Bhagiruttee." p. 467. "The temple is situated precisely on the sacred stone on which Bhagirutte used to worship Mahadeo, and is a small build ing of a square shape for about twelve feet high, and rounding in, in the usual form of pagodas, to the top. It is quite plain, painted white, with red mouldings, and surmounted with the usual melon-shaped ornaments of these buildings. From the eastern face of the square, which is turned nearly to the sacred source, there is a small projection covered with a stone roof, in which is the entrance facing the east, and just opposite to this there is a small pagoda-shaped temple to Bhyramjee. The whole is surrounded by a wall built of unhewn stone and lime, and the space this contains is paved with flat stones. In this space, too, there is a comfortable but small house for the residence of the Brahmins who come to officiate. Without the inclosure there are two or three sheds constructed of wood, called dhurm sallahs, built for the accommodation of pilgrims who resort here; and there are many caves around formed by overhanging stones which yield a shelter to those who cannot find accommodation in the sheds. time has worn. Thus on all sides is the prospect closed, except in front to the eastward, where, from behind a mass of bare spires, four huge, lofty, snowy peaks arise; these are the peaks of Roodroo-Himala. There could be no finer finishing, no grander close to such a scene. "We approach it through a labyrinth of enormous shapeless masses of granite, which during ages have fallen from the cliffs above that frown over the very temple, and in all probability will some day themselves descend in ruins and crash it. Around the inclosure, and among these masses, for some distance up the mountain, a few fine old pine trees throw a dark shade, and form a magnificent foreground; while the river runs impetuously in its shingly bed, and the stifled but fearful sound of the stones which it rolls along with it, crushing together, mixes with the roar of its waters." pp. 468, 469. "We were now in the centre of the stu pendous Himala, the loftiest and perhaps most rugged range of mountains in the world. We were at the acknowledged source of that noble river, equally an ob ject of veneration and a source of fertility, plenty, and opulence to Hindostan; and we had now reached the holiest shrine of Hindoo worship which these holy hills contain. These are surely striking consi derations, combining with the solemn grandeur of the place, to move the feelings strongly." p. 469. "This mountain, which is considered to be the loftiest and greatest of the snowy range in this quarter, and probably yields to none in the whole Himalaya, obtains the name of Roodroo Himala, and is held to be the throne or residence of Mahadeo himself. It is also indiscriminately called Pauch Purbut, from its five peaks; and Soomeroo Purbut, which is not to be confounded with the mountain so called near Bunderpouch; and sometimes the general appellation of Kylas is given, which literally signifies any snowy hill, but is applied to this mountain by way of preeminence. It has five paincipal peaks, called Roodroo Himiala, Burrumpooree, Bissenpooree, Oodgurree Kanta, and Soorga Rounee. These form a sort of semicircular hollow of very considerable extent, filled with eternal snow, from the gradual dissolution of the lower parts of which the principal part of the stream is generated: probably there may be smaller hollows beyond the point to the right above Gungotree, which also supply a portion." "The scene in which this holy place is situated is worthy of the mysterious sanctity attributed to it, and the reverence with which it is regarded. We have not here the confined gloominess of Bhyram Gattee: the actual dread which cannot but be inspired by the precipices, and torrents, and perils of the place, here gives way to a sensation of awe, imposing but not embarrassing, that might be compared to the dark and dangerous pass to the centre of the ruins of a former world; for, most truly, there is little here that recals the recollection of that which we seem to have quitted. The bare and peaked cliffs which shoot to the skies, yield not in ruggedness or elevation to any we have seen; their ruins lie in wild chaotic masses at their feet, and scantier wood imperfectly relieves their nakedness; even the dark pine more concerns merely his return to the rarely roots itself in the deep chasms which lower regions of India. pp. 470, 471. The rest of Mr Fraser's narrative THE BYSTANDER. No. VI. IN love or in the gout? I have not been you I've had a serious illness. I have been from the pure stream of Helicon. Sad, silent, and alone, I counted the weary moments as they passed," interrupted by no sound save the periodical grunting of Mrs M'Naughton, who, to be sure, sat up with me all night, that is to say, bolt upright Three weeks confined to bed, two to the in an old-fashioned easy chair; the sofa, And five to water-gruel : And a most uncommon effect these restrictions have had; for behold! on this, the first day of my sortie from my chamber, I have burst forth al improvvisto into a strain of poesy, as sublime in sentiment, and not less elevated in diction, than some of the blank verse of the present day; which (I may remark pur parenthèse) looks as if good decent prose had become ashamed of its irregular pace, and being suddenly seized, like other worthy bourgeois, with the desire of marching in ranks, had, all at once, quitted its lounging and careless step, and left off flinging its arms and legs about in the old easy way, and then, without even thinking it necessary to dress itself in poetic uniform, had ranged itself in measured lines, mincing its steps, and waddling on, with as self-confident an air as if Pope had drilled it. It does not, by any means, cut so good a figure as our bons citoyens do in a similar situation; the air poëtique is still more wanting in the one, than the air militaire is in the other. And now, having concluded this opening digression, I must account for my non-appearance last month. Reader, hast thou ever had a fever? Thou hast then my apology is made. Art thou an old bachelor? then wilt thou know and pity my sufferings. Art thou a married man? then learn to be thankful for the blessings thou enjoyest. Art thou none of all these? Come, then, listen to the accumulated horrors of a bachelor's sick-room; and let them teach thee to quit thy solitary state before" the evil days come, and the years draw nigh, in which thou shalt say thou hast no pleasure in them." Night thoughts may be vastly pleasant to a poet, who lies measuring feet, or stringing rhymes together; but they are far otherwise to a poor sick solitary, whose mixtures are not Sapphic and Adonian, nor his draughts well stuffed back and sides of which induced her mind to take its accustomed repose, notwithstanding the perpendicular position of her body. Still some minutes from one! I anxiously gaze on the watch, marking the slow progress of the index. And what is to happen at that hour? Why, I am to swallow some stuff that Mrs M'Naughton declares would "pushen a horse;" but even this is an incident that breaks the tedium of life. "Mrs M'Naughton? Janet? deaf old fool? won't you get up and give me my medicine?"-" Lordsake! I never heard sic a noise; can ye no let a body sleep in their bed!-Ou, Sir, I beg your pardon, I forgot whar I wus; I thocht it was Betty deaving me about something: it'l be the medycin ye're wanten?" It is brought; I take a mouthful, but as quickly cause it to regurgitate. "Woman! what are you thinking of? This is laudanum you have given me; I should soon have slept my last long sleep had I swallowed that."- "Eh! sirs, is't the lowdenum? did ever ony body see the like o' that! I canna say but Dr has muckle need o' a quarter o' Mr M'Kean; sic vritin! it's out o' the poor o' nature to read it." Meditating on this narrow escape from death, I again lay my head on the warm and clammy pillow, which no kind hand has shaken for me; and, in a few minutes, the nasal tones of my almost murdress come at measured intervals upon my car. When one lies awake in bed, if he be neither a poet nor a lover, he can do nothing but make moral reflections, and repeat wise saws. "Man," said I, is and here a thousand similes obtruded themselves. I remember reading an old epitaph in some churchyard, that gives the sense and substance of them all: Man is a vapour, "Man," continued I, after having repeated the above elegant distich, "man is the only animal who knows the right, and chooses the wrong; all others implicitly follow the dictates of instinct; he, in many cases, acts contrary to the suggestions of reason. Sometimes he is led astray by passion; sometimes indolence detains him in the wrong path; sometimes (here conscience pulled the check string) procrastination deters him from taking the right one. More than six months have elapsed since I obtruded myself on the notice of the public, with the avowed intention of warning them against the dangers attendant on this last mentioned error, and I have begun by giving an example of the fault I meant to reprobate. I have done with my opportunities as we do with the gifts of for tune, amused myself with the means, and neglected the ends for which they were bestowed. Oh! I could tell them, from bitter experience, that Mr Day's house was not a more bungled piece of workmanship, than is the life of him who lives without plan. I could call them to the bed-side of the old bachelor, and bid them behold what is the end thereof. The end of all this is indeed death; the death of feeling, the death of interest. He who sees growing around him the heirs of his name, his virtues, and perhaps even of his foibles and peculiarities, lives until he draws his last breath; but the solitary individual, unconnected by the tender tie of parent with any of the new inhabitants of the world, is dead long ere he expires; or, at least, wanders alone, a shrivelled relique of the last generation." Whilst I amuse myself with such reflections, old Time hobbles on, seeming to have left off entirely the use of his wings. At length the expiring candle sinks into the socket and after a few ineffectual struggles to preserve its waning life, it dies; fit emblem of the being it has lighted a little way on his passage to the tomb. The dawn of a new morning sends a feeble light through the shaded window. Man has another day to swell the past, ing; and many hours must yet elapse ere it is time to take the meagre breakfast Dr—allows me. "An hour," says some wise man, may be tedious, but it cannot be long;" very sapient this; and very little to the purpose. Although four hours consist but of two hundred and forty minutes, yet to him who spends those four hours in tracing maps and landscapes in the wavy figures of moreen curtains, an employment which the increasing light renders less and less practicable, each minute seems five. At last nine o'clock comes, and with it ends Mrs M'Naughton's slumbers, who takes usury for the time lent during the night. The long wished-for breakfast, some indescribable slop, is at length brought; but ah! like other earthly pleasures, I find it deceitful; what was anticipated with anxiety, is now rejected with dislike. An immeasurable gulf lies between this and dinner-time: fortunately a few confused and broken slumbers occupy part of the time. I awake, and find myself sole tenant of the apartment. No sound is heard save the ticking of the clock, which seems increased to an unnatural loudness. Hark! the stillness is broken by distant sound of mirth and laughter, proceeding from the servants' hall, The report, like that of a gun in a lone valley, startles the inhabitants of the upper regions. Forth issues Mrs M'Naughton from an adjoining apartment, and perching at the head of the stairs, exerts her stentorian voice. "What an a noise is that ye're makin, ye senseless haverells? Is that a way to gang on, an' your maister lyin' deein' here? for it's no my opinion he's ever to get muckle better."-" Mrs maid wishes to speak with you, Mrs M'Naughton.”. "Aweel, let her come to the stair-fit; I canna be leaving my maister every ring that comes to the door."-" Mrs -," says a pert English tongue, "desires to know particularly how Mr Mis?"-"Gi'e my compliments to your mistress, my woman, and tell her he's no ony better the day, but rather waur, I think."-Comfortable bulle tin for an invalid to overhear! Dinner-time comes. I feel rather better to-day; and, for the first time, Butan August morning isalong morn. my appetite returns with keenness and * See Edgeworth's Memoirs. vigour: but Dr --still rigorously prohibits the use of animal food. What savour is that which assails my enraptured sense? It is a smoking hot beef-steak, which Mrs M'Naughton is bringing into the room.-"Now, Sir, just eat a bit o' that-it'l do ye muckle good."-"Don't come near me, woman, lest the temptation be stronger than I am able to resist.""Hoot na-tak' a wee bit."-" Begone!" said I, as she lifted the cover, and cut off a tempting morsel. Anthony's situation was a joke to mine; but I was victorious, and the enemy was forced to retreat, which she did in no very gentle mood, saying, "Weel, tak' your ain way, and dee, an' then we'll see wha has the warst o't." St After five tedious weeks, I am at length able to remove to the drawingroom. With what joy did I this morning cross the threshold of my bed-room door! I entered the back drawing-room; the sun shone brightly without, but every thing within looked dull and cheerless. The room was in the most perfect order—not a stray book to be seen lying on the table; and my clumsy, but useful, writing-desk was, in the absence of its master, most irreverently placed upon the ground. I had felt such joy at my escape from a sick-room, that I was in the humour to chide the furniture for not congratulating me, or showing some demonstrations of joy at my entrance. No; every thing remained solemnly still, and silence reigned around. Presently Kenneth entered with a parcel of letters, notes, reviews, and magazines. The first were on business, the second tradesmen's bills; so I threw both aside until a more convenient season. I looked at the books, turned over a few pages, but was in no humour to be pleased with any thing therein contained. Here, I found Hercules at the distaff-there, folly and impertinence at their proper work; here, dignified, moral, and philosophical drawingsthere, bards emulating the style of Warren's Poet Laureat. At length I came to the Edinburgh Magazine, and espied the kind auxiety which my friend the Editor expresses on my account. I resolved instantly to satisfy him; and, hoping that the sight of George Street would inspire me, I desired that my desk might be carried into the front room. Of the inspiring effects of a long, empty street, the reader may judge for himself. I suppose I must now conclude, for not an object can I perceive from which I may obtain a single idea or suggestion. No dandies-for they are all shooting grouse; no misses-for they are either dipping their precious persons in the briny wave, or yawning in the midst of woods and wilds, and counting how many weeks have to pass ere January comes again. What can my old school-fellow Tom Mitchell be looking for so anxiously? This is the third time I have seen him advance to the front of the steps leading up to his door, and, after having looked this way and that, retire into the house with evident disappointment. I remember Tom well; he and I were great friends during the time we were under the despotic sway of Mr NAt fifteen we separated; I went to Oxford, while he remained in Edinburgh. From that time I heard no more of him, until he was about six-and-twenty, when we met accidentally at the house of a mutual friend in Perthshire. He was then a tall, thin, pensive, young man, oppressed, I was told, with the two evils of "poortith cauld and restless love." Fully ten years after, I remember having read his marriage in the newspapers; but whether it were with the heroine of his Perthshire visions, I am ignorant. About a year since, he purchased the house opposite to mine, and has now, I am told, by patient industry, acquired a comfortable fortune. "I'm shure," says Mrs M'Naughton, who has just brought me some soup, "it's a pleeshur to see Mr Mitchell wi' his hairns, he's sae fond o' them a'. They're gawn awa a fine ja'nt the day to the Hielands:-they should hae been awa' lang ago, but Maister John, the auldest ane, is 'prentice to Cammel the vriter, an' he couldna' let him awa' ony shooner."A hired landau has just driven up to the door, and there come Miss and Papa to reconnoitre. Miss seems, by her gestures, to be arguing the propriety of having the top let down, which measure Papa seems to oppose, but not with an air altogether inexorable. Miss goes into the house, but speedily returns, reinforced by Mamma, two little girls, and a little boy. Papa is now assailed on all sides, Mamma lays her hand on his arm, Miss continues her oratory, and the little girls pull the skirts of his coat, while the boy exerts his eloquence on the coachman.-Ah! the assailants have gained the victory; Papa, who, I suspect, was playing the lady, refusing in order to be entreated, is at length overcome, and the landau is opened. Each one now appears intent upon getting his own particular property, or that which he thinks most necessary to take with him, accommodated. Papa is lining the coach with great-coats, boatcloaks, and duffle-mantles; Mamma is stuffing the pockets with innumerable paper parcels; Miss is endeavouring to persuade her port-folio to stand upright at the back of the seat, and little Master seems determined to procure a comfortable settlement for his whip and whistle. Mrs Mitchell and the children seat themselves; but the father stil! anxiously looks in the direction of Hanover Street. Ah! there comes the cause of the delay; Mr John, with breathless haste, turns the corner; a few seconds more, and he is seated on the barouche-box. The father then seats himself beside his wife, the door is shut, the carriage drives off; and a dead silence succeeds the last sound of the retreating wheels. Happy man! Yet how different were our prospects when we entered into life! I was heir to an ample fortune; he, an orphan, depended on an uncle, who had a large family of his own to provide for. Which of us is now the happier? Alas! I dare not abide the comparison. He is the husband of an amiable wife, and the father of five beautiful and healthy children; and what am I? A solitary wanderer; waiting, sometimes impatiently, until the time of my departure shall come. When we set out on the journey of life, we may feel that we have no need of a companion. The sun shines brightly; gay prospects and smiling fields are before us; and as far as the eye can reach, all appears brilliant and cheering; while we exchange lively salutations with the numerous travellers who pass us, or cross our path. By and by the road becomes less frequented; some of those who have accompanied us part of the way turn into another track, and we see them no more; others stop short in the midst of their career. As we approach what appeared at a distance a verdant and gently sloping hill, we discover it to be a rugged and barren mountain. I know what it is to tread this dreary path alone,-to wind my weary way through the sombre and flowerless region which lies between the summit and the brink of the declivity. I have almost reached the brink, and must soon descend into the dark valley of the shadow of death, without a friend to support my tottering and feeble steps. And when the last dread hour shall arrive, that hour which brings terror to the bravest and best, who, Oh! who will support my trembling frame? What gentle arm will raise my drooping head, to aid, if possible, the shortening respiration? Who will wipe from my forehead the cold dew, sure presage of the approaching night? And when my bewildered thoughts know not where to turn, and darkness comes over my soul, who will gently whisper the last and the best consolation? Who will tenderly remind me of my sure and well-grounded hope of soon finding myself in that happy land where there is fulness of joy and pleasure for evermore? No one. My breath will steal away unnoticed; and a stranger shall close these eyes. Yet to suffer this last, this most bitter pang, I trust I am resigned; but let him who is yet in the first stage of his journey remember, that resignation is not happiness. George Street, Sept. 2. REMARKS ON THE ABBOT. THIS book certainly sets out with a considerable air of originality.The splendid dresses, the glittering arms, fierce conflicts, and bold achievements, of the days of Chivalry, have been rendered familiar to us by this writer, as well as by his prototype, who sung "Arms and the men," in the ever-living Lay, and the last adventures of the ill-fated Falcon Knight. We are not entitled to assume that our admired novelist is another and the same, though, meeting, as we do, the same spirit walking through the pages of Ivanhoe, we may be forgiven a suspicion so honourable to its * 3 vols. 12mo. Constable and Co. Edinburgh, 1820. |