the forest. What think you of this cheese? Double Gloucester-and in condition to a mite. Nor does the butter and bread (would-be gentility simpers bread and butter) look unworthy of butter's brother. This is a gutty bottle of "Barclay's Particular." Can you draw a cork with your silk handkerchief? So-'tis by sleight of hand. We question if there be a livelier hour in the four-andtwenty than-Two. The stomach of a man of a well-regulated mind is then prompt without being importunate; and we cannot give a more convincing proof of that in our own case than by carrying on this journal of ours in the vicinity of that Lunch. The fried eggs are beginning to look rather stiffish, and the ham crunkled at the turned up edges; but it is probable we shall not pay our respects to them at this juncture; and the truth is, we are waiting for a sallad. There it comes-borne in breast high by as pretty and amiable a young woman as one may see on the longest day of the year, and our only fear is that her smile may sweeten the vinegar. Wait a few moments-my child-till we have helped ourselves to lambthose pretty fingers plucked the sal lad-let them place it on our plate feel--the one in the middle if you please -love-like a green rosette-bless your sweet eyes-now some watercresses wet from the spring-you need not wait-dearest-but in a few minutes look in to see what the old man is about-good bye-Beauty. Loch Awe! she is, in good truth, the loveliest of all thy Naiads. Despatch is the soul of business. Our faults are too numerous to be mentioned, and were they to be all jotted down, and summed up, fearful would be the amount of the items. But indolence would not be found in the catalogue. Our occupations may be sometimes thought trivial, but we are never idle; human eye never saw us paring our nails. Finished our article on the Greek Anthology Monday afternoon at seven-dined-drank tea-played the fiddle-paid our farewell visitand were off in the mail at nine for Glasgow. Found ourselves on board a steamer at the Broomielaw, a little after three on Tuesday morninghaving had little better than half an hour in the coach-office for refresh times with two fine lads, his sons, one ment, which we found prepared according to the spirit of our instructions in a confidential letter to old Joe. In twelve hours we made Inverary, and disembarked from the Clyde. That delightful river may lose its name at any point people choose to say, but not the less is it the same river, and in Loch Fyne we acknowledge but a continuation of the Clyde. We have sailed several times round the world, and cannot charge our memory with lovelier scenery than one glides through all along the Kyles of Bute. We laid in a few poetical images during our transit which we hope to turn to account in our Great Poem, and something more substantial than images, but made no regular meal. You will find it an admirable way of staving off hunger, when travelling by land or voyaging by water, or even sitting at home, every five minutes or so to take a wine-biscuit, about once every two hours to add a bit of ham, and once every four, the leg, or wing, or breast of a cold fowl, without incurring the slightest risk of spoiling your appetite for dinner. You thus prevent that uneasy sense of emptiness which is apt to grow into a gnawing at the stomach, especially with literary people like us of sedentary habits, when kept long in the open air, and exposed to any unusual exercise. At four we mounted a shelty, and took a survey of some of the finest woods about the Castle; at six we found ourselves sitting on the summit of Dunnequech. The ascent is rough and steep and long, nor should we have essayed and effected it without a stronger inducement than mere love of the picturesque. There lay the very selfsame stones in the same position in which we had left them; we knew them in a moment, though weatherstained and sprinkled with mossstars. We raised the lid-as of a coffin-say rather of a cellar-and there he lay, unchanged by twenty years' immurement, a-MAGNUM OF GLENLIVET. We were affected even to tears. Cautiously did we lift him up from his tomb, and tenderly did we press him to our heart. Was it fancy? But we thought he returned the pressure! Sealed was he with our own seal, and we knew that his sleep had been inviolate. The ful ness of time was come, and we drew his cork. The air was balm. Oh! what an aroma! not so sweet "Sabæan odours from the spicy shores of Araby the blest." Imagine a bouquet composed of one of each kind of all the most fragrant flowers that ever grew in Paradise, and you may have some faint idea of that perfume. We felt as if about to faint. But summoning up all our strength and resolution, we raised him from our breast to our lips, and pantingly inhaled the divine inspiration. The taste trembled from temple to toes. 'Twas like the infusion of a new life. The spirit of the Highlands became mingled with our inner being, though we were Lowland born, and, to our delighted astonishment, we began to speak Gaelic like a native. Call it not intoxication-away with the vulgar word-we grew into an eagle; and we soared. The sky seemed our home, our companions the clouds, and we wished it had been meridian, and not the decline of day, that without winking we might have outstared the sun. Homer, Milton, Shakspeare, seemed poor poets. An Epic poem and several tragedies composed themselves in our mind, charmed us with their stupendous grandeur, and for ever disappeared. It was near nine when we returned to the Inn, which we found in a state of general consternation; for shelty had preceded us, and it was feared we had been flung, and might have been dragged in the stirrups. They said we "looked raised," and they were right; we were raised to the highest heaven of invention, and conceived a gigantic plan of draining the sea. As a preliminary step, we discerned the necessity and the means of destroying the power of the moon. For we saw intuitively, as if we had been in a state of somnambulism produced by animal manipulative magnetism, that we must begin with putting an end to tides, before one of our eight million Irishmen should be suffered to flourish a spade. We became masters of the mystery of evaporation. The globe all dry, we saw at once the new Order of Things-and were ourselves elected "sole monarch of the universal earth." The landlord for a while thought we talked wildly, but he and all the house soon became converts to our opinion. They were dragged captive in triumph at our chariot-wheels. Our eloquence was irresistible "Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage;" we were shewn to bed by a great number of people bearing torches; and we awoke at cock-crow, alas! in the disenchanted composure of common humanity, and thought, with a slight sensation of shame, of the summit of Dunnequech. From three to five this day have we not been stirring our stumps? We know not which of the three sisters is the most engaging-but now that they have cleared decks, let us open this parcel of books, (the postgig from Inverary to Oban is a great convenience to the inmates of Larach-a-ban,) and see if it contains any thing worth perusal. Two thin volumes of verses published at Boston, America with a letter -let us see from the author's brother-our amiable and enlightened friend Henry M'Lellan, now at Liverpool, it would seem, about to embark for his native land; and pleasant be his voyage, and happy his return. We have been very fortunate in our American friendships, and for their sakes love the New World. Aye-there is feeling and fancy here he writes like a Scotsman,—and does not his name tell the land of his ancestors? We can get by heart any little poem that touches it, at two readings; and laying the open pamphlet-it is no more-on its face on the table-we shall recite to Mary, Anne, and Elizabeth. Fair creatures, listen to "The ChurchBell." Hark! the tolling Sabbath bell Merchant, musing o'er his gains, Win thy thoughts from Earth away, To his holy place of prayer. The difference is indescribableand, as far as the mere words go, slight- between poetry and nopoetry but people who are noconvince them that their clippings poets never know that-nor can you ple and natural lines we have now are merely poor verses. These simrecited are very touching, and trite ing directly to feelings that in peras the subject is, please, by appealpetual flow are welling in every human heart. Trite-trivial -commonplace-what senseless, soulless Birth, marriage, death, are the comuse is often made of these words! monest occurrences in the lot of man. You read of them in all the Who ever wearied of the Lord's newspapers-but also in Shakspeare. Prayer? Many touches are sprinkled up and down these poems, descriptive, we perceive, of the features of American scenery, that bespeak no unskilful hand; and many mild meditations "The harvest of a quiet eye, There is, we think, an affecting tone of cheerfulness and solemnity in the following strain; we are heedless of any slight verbal defects in the expression of sentiments so consolatory and ennobling; nor can we read it without affectionate respect for the character of the writer, who must be a good man. We deemed it the coming of hostile feet, Or a watch-word cautiously uttered. Above, frowned the gloom of a winter's eve, And around, the thick snow was falling; And the winds in the dreary branches did grieve Like spirits to spirits calling. As we looked on the spotless snowy sheet, O'er the grave of our brother sweeping, It seemed to us all an emblem meet Of him, beneath it sleeping. As we gazed, we forgot our present pain; And we left the dust of our brother to lie In its narrow habitation; With the trust that his spirit had flown on high, And taken its glorious station. The empty concerns of human Life, Its vanity and its glory, Shall no more vex his ear with strife Nor cheat with its specious story. Many American men of genius have delighted to sing the praises of the Pilgrim Fathers; nor can we imagine a better subject for a national poem. Our brethren will surely not suffer it to be written on this side of the Atlantic. Could our voice reach him, we should recommend it to Bryant. There is much beauty in Isaac M'Lellan's "Song sung at the Anniversary Celebration of the Charitable Mechanic Association, Boston, October 7, 1830." Long the Indian's flitting oar Glanced around this lonely shore, And the brimming rivers bore Only his small bark. On the hill, and in the wood, Long the red-man's cabin stood; All was lifeless solitude, Desolate and dark. But the pious Pilgrim came : Science kindled her pure flame; And the Indian fled in shame; And the Desert smiled. Then Invention shaped the tree; Launched the ship upon the sea; Reared these dwellings of the Free; Brightened all the Wild! At the Evening's mellow close Mustered here the savage foes; -When the Morning sun arose Cities filled the land! Bowed the old Woods in the Waste; Rose the dome, divinely chaste; When Mechanic Skill and Taste Waved their golden wand. At the border of the flood, Piety knelt to her God; Bless us-Proctor-my good fellow-we have forgot to tell you that eight of the hungriest men you perhaps ever saw, are to dine with us at sunset! Why, you receive the intelligence with all the serenity of a martyr. You must kill a cow. Mrs Proctor-pray, ma'am, by the hands of what high-priest may have been traced on the wall of this lobby or trans these enigmatical Egyptian hieroglyphics? Ho! ho! Salmo Ferox. Twenty-two pounds and a half, you say; these other semblances are gentry of the same kidney; and the original must have had gizzards like the Irish Gulloroos. Taken by Mr Lascelles! We are sorry he is not here now-for we have seen all the greatest philosophers, orators, poets, and pugilists of the age, but should have more real satisfaction in shaking hands with the greatest of all living anglers. These enormous fish, you say, Proctor, are found in all parts of the deeper quarters of the loch-rarely rise at a fly--and are taken only by such tackling as you have now in your handeight large double hooks on wiretwist, sufficient for a shark-baited with a trout the size of a herring— the trolling-line of twine, sixty or eighty yards long? What devils! and M. Lascelles has killed a greater number of them than any man in Britain? Aye-one of his finest specimens stuffed and in the Manchester museum? You please us by telling us that he has fished all the best streams and lakes of England and Ireland, and says that not one of them all can hold up its head with Loch Awe. That the smaller troutfishing is his great delight, and the grey trout trolling merely made an accessory to it in passing from one part of the loch to another, is of itself enough to confirm us in the conviction that he is an illustrious artiste. Those flies are of his dressing? They are exquisite. And his whole arrangement of feathers, downs, silks, &c. &c. beyond all praise-eh-splendid? And he brought down a beautiful boat of his own from Liverpool with every thing complete about her? and his sons— you say-are fine fishermen? Why you make us sad, Mr Proctor. We are dwindling-dwindled into the most absolute and abject insignificance of any creeping thing that crawls on the face of the earth, or on the heads of its inhabitants. We are no angler-not we; and as for sons -we are too plainly an aged bachelor-Proctor-barren as that block. But shove off-only don't laugh-and we shall try a cast or two along the Hayfield shores. deep as he can-steady, boys, steady and seems disposed to pay a visit to Rabbit Island. There is a mystery in this we do not very clearly comprehend-the uniformity of our friend's conduct becomes puzzling— he is an unaccountable character. He surely cannot be an eel. Yet for a trout he manifests an unnatural love of mud on a fine day. Row shoreward-Proctor-do as we bid youshe draws but little water-run her up bang on that green brae-then hand us the crutch-for we must finish this affair on terra firma. Loch Awe is certainly a beautiful sheet of water. The islands are disposed so picturesque-we want no assistance but the crutch-here we are with elbow-room, and on stable footing -and we shall wind up-retiring from the water-edge, as people do at a levee, with their faces towards the King. Do you see them yellowing, you Tory? What bellies! Why we knew by the dull dead weight that there were three-for they kept all pulling against one another, nor were we long in discovering the complicated motion of triplets. Pounders each weight to an ounce-same familywallop-all bright as stars. Never could we endure angling from a boat. What loss of time in getting the whappers wiled into the landing net. What loss of peace of mind in letting them off, when their snouts, like those of Chinese pigs, were within a few yards of the gunwale, and when, with a last convulsive effort, they whaumled themselves over with their splashing tails, and disappeared for ever. Now for five flies. Wind on our back-no tree within an acre-no shrub higher than the bracken-no reed, rush, or waterlily in all the bay-what hinders that we should, what the Cockneys call whip with a dozen? We have set the loch a-feed. Epicure and glutton alike are rushing to destruction. Trouts of the most abstemious habits cannot withstand the temptation of such exquisite evening fare; and we are much mistaken if here be not an old dotard, a lean and slippery pantaloon, who had long given up attempting vainly to catch flies, and found it is much as he could do to overtake the slower sort of worms. Him we shall not return to his na same Mr Lascelles says that Chevallier of Temple Bar is the only man that understands the proper shape and proportion of a rod? True. This is one of Chevallier's Tip-toppers. Thank you-we always use our own flies, though we admire those of our friends and we have found this imp with the green body, half black heckle, and brown mallard wings, in all waters and at all seasons very bloody. We generally make a few circles in the air-so-ere we drop the devils. You seem rather surprised-why the old buck can handle his tool pretty tidily for one of the antique school;-and hang it -we wish this admirable Crichton, this miraculous Lascelles, were here-in his own boat the Liverpoolian; were he to give us five-why we'd play him the game of twenty for a greasy chin, and a gallon of Glenlivet. Lie on your oars-for we know the water. The bottom of this shallow bay-for 'tis nowhere ten feet-in places sludgy, and in places firm almost as the greensward-for we have waded it-of yore-many a time up to our chin-till we had to take to our fins-there! Mr Yellowlees was in right earnest, and we have him as fast as an otter. There he goes snoring and snuving along as |