-five scudi; that is, about twenty-five shillings. I saw at once it was enormous, and thought of the caution; and, remarking that it was a little soiled, said I ought to have it for three. He took three, and off I went with my print, Within an hour I passed a Stamperia, where I saw at the window a clean impression of the very print, and a printed list of the prices, and, would you believe it, Eusebius, it was under one scudo; and, for a damaged copy, I had been asked by this white-haired piece of antiquity, and iniquitous antiquity, five, and had actually given three! Oh, Eusebius, you would not have been contented with blowing him up, you would have taken fire throughout, and gunpowdered the whole edifice, regardless of the literati and dilettanti, all the while gravely discussing the probabilities of the tombs of the Horatii and Curatii; but, as you were not there, those discussions are still going on, and still will go on. But what did I do? I quietly walked back to the grand library, and as quietly told the old gentleman that he was a thief, a rascal, and that I would expose him to all the English. The last words did the business; he looked dreadfully alarmed, and looked behind him to see who might be within hearing; and, making significant nods, and putting one hand to my mouth, to prevent my doing mischief, in great haste put the other hand into his pocket and handed me back all my money. This was pretty well, for I came off with "flying colours," that is, with the colour of my money, which was sure to fly upon some other occasion; for the Italians were too much for me. And so it happened,; for in my love of the antique I forgot my prudence; and, being desirous of having some plaster casts, was recommended to an honest tradesman, who was to take them for me from some sculpture at the Vatican, the subjects of which much pleased me. They were a pastoral figure, and a frieze, the search of Ceres. I made my bargain, and like a fool paid my money, and paid for the packing and shipping. But the unplastered shepherd is still piping; and all I can hope is that Ceres has sent the plaster-cast maker to Hades instead of going there herself, and that, having some interest with Proserpine, he will be flogged daily, for my

money has been cast upon the worthless. I bequeath the debt a legacy to the Pope.

I have written enough, though I have matter more, and abundant, but there is a time for all things. Whatever effect this account may have upon your young friend, I am sure you, who know me, will be satisfied that I understate things. You know, I have no talent at exaggeration. Probably your friend will read Eustace, and, if he be very young, believe him. Perhaps he will read Rogers's "Italy," and tell you that it is not mine, and you will add that I have not Rogers's "Pleasures of Memory." Vive valeque.

SCOTTISH POETS.

(Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, 1832.)

POETRY, which though not dead, has long been sleeping in Scotland, was restored to waking life by THOMSON. His genius was national; and so, too, was the subject of his first and greatest song. By saying that his genius was national, we mean that its temperament was enthusiastic and passionate; and that, though highly imaginative, the sources of its power lay in the heart. The Castle of Indolence is distinguished by purer taste, and finer fancy; but with all its exquisite beauties, that poem is but the vision of a dream. The Seasons are glorious realities; and the charm of the strain that sings the "rolling year" is its truth. But what mean we by saying that the Seasons are a national subject ?—do we assert that they are solely Scottish? That would be too bold, even for us; but we scruple not to assert, that Thomson has made them so, as far as might be without insult, injury, or injustice, to the rest of the globe. His suns rise and set in Scottish heavens; his "deep-fermenting tempests, are brewed in grim evening" Scottish skies; Scottish is his thunder of cloud and cataract; his "vapours, and snows, and storms," are Scottish; and, strange as the assertion would have sounded in the ears of Samuel Johnson, Scottish are his woods, their sugh, and their roar; nor less their stillness, more awful amidst the vast multitude of steady stems, than when all the sullen pine-tops are swinging to the hurriA dread love of his native land was in his heart when he cried in the solitude

cane.

"Hail, kindred glooms! congenial horrors, hail!"

The genius of HOME was national-and so, too, was the subject of his first and greatest song-Douglas. He had

studied the old ballads. Their simplicities were sweet to him as wallflowers on ruins. On the story of Gill Morice, who was an earl's son, he founded, 'tis said, his tragedy, which surely no Scottish eyes ever witnessed without tears. Are not these most Scottish lines?—

"Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom
Accords with my soul's sadness!"

And these even more intensely so,

"Red came the river down, and loud and oft
The angry spirit of the waters shrieked!"

The Scottish tragedian in an evil hour crossed the Tweed, riding on horseback all the way to London. His genius got Anglified, took a consumption, and perished in the prime of life. But on seeing the Siddons in Lady Randolph, and hearing her low, deep, wild, wobegone voice exclaim, "My beautiful! my brave!" "the aged harper's soul awoke," and his dim eyes were again lighted up for a moment with the fires of genius-say rather for a moment bedewed with the tears of sensibility, reawakened from decay and dotage.

The genius of BEATTIE was national, and so was the subject of his greatest son-The Minstrel. For what is its design? He tells us, to trace the progress of a poetical genius born in a rude age, from the first dawning of reason and fancy, till that period at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a minstrel; that is, as an intinerant poet and musician,—a character which, according to the notions of our forefathers, was not only respectable, but sacred.

"There lived in gothic days, as legends tell,

A shepherd swain, a man of low degree;
Whose sires perchance in fairyland might dwell,
Sicilian groves and vales of Arcady;

But he, I ween, was of the North Countrie;
A nation famed for song and beauty's charms;
Zealous yet modest; innocent though free;
Patient of toil, serene amid alarms;
Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms.

"The shepherd swain, of whom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock:
The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never swayed:
An honest heart was almost all his stock;
His drink the living waters from the rock;

The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock;

And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,

Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went!"

Did patriotism ever inspire genius with sentiment more Scottish than that? Did imagination ever create scenery more Scottish? Manners, morals, life? Never.

not the following stanzas?

"Lo! where the stripling rapt in wonder roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine;
And sees, on high, amidst the encircling groves
From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine:
While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,
And echo swells the chorus to the skies!"

What!

Beattie pours there like a man who had been at the Linn of Dee. He wore a wig, it is true; but at times, when the fit was on him, he wrote like the unshorn Apollo.

The genius of GRAHAME was national, and so too was the subject of his first and best poem-the Sabbath.

"How still the morning of the hallowed day!"

is a line that could have been uttered only by a holy Scottish heart. For we alone know what is indeed Sabbath silence an earnest of everlasting rest. To our hearts, the very birds of Scotland sing holily on that day. A sacred smile is on the dewy flowers. The lilies look whiter in their loveliness; the blush-rose reddens in the sun with a diviner dye; and with a more celestial scent the hoary hawthorn sweetens the wilderness. Sorely disturbed of yore, over the glens and hills of Scotland, was the day of peace!

"O, the great goodness of the saints of old !”

the Covenanters.

Listen to the Sabbath-bard.