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Or like those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow,
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh! any thing that touches thee.
Nay, sandals for those airy feet-

Thus to be press'd by thee were sweet!* “But, alas, my Sappho, the call of Hipparchus must be obeyed. You know not the obligations I owe to that excellent sovereign; and I should be ungrateful to him, and unworthy of you, were I to forget them. I will depart but for a short time, and then return with fresh ardor to bask in the sunshine of your smiles."

"No Anacreon-among the brighter damsels of Athens you will soon forget the unfortunate Sappho. Miserable woman that I am! The God of Love wounds my heart only to sport in the pang that

The women of Greece not only wore this zone, but condemned themselves to fasting, and made use of certain drugs and powders, for the same purpose. To these expedients they were compelled, in consequence of their inelegant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow compass, which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity in the bosom. See Dioscorides, lib. v.

M. * The sopbist Philostratus, in one of his love-letters, has borrowed this thought; ω άδετοι αοδες. ω καλλος ελευθερος. ω τρισευδαιμων εγω και μακάριος αν πατησετε με. “Oh lovely feet! oh excellent beauty! ob! thrice happy and blessed should I be, if you would but tread on me!” In Shakspeare Romeo desires to be a glove:

Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand,

'That I might kiss that cheek! And, in his Passionate Pilgrim, we meet with an idea semewhat like that of the thirteenth line:

He, spying her, bounc'd in, where as he stood,

“O Jove!" quoth she, “ why was not I a flood?” In Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, that whimsical farrago of "all such reading as was never read,” there is a very old translation of this ode, before 1632. · Englished by Mr. B. Holiday in his Technog. act. 1. scene 7.


he occasions. Go, unkind Anacreon, and in the splendour of the Athenian court forget the sighs of Sappho!"

“Oh! how cruel are your words, lovely maiden. I can never lose the remembrance of your charms. I solemnly vow I will return as soon as I can quit Hipparchus, for I prefer the bowers of love to the courts of Kings."

With these words he strung his lyre and bade her adieu.


Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn
The stream of Amalthea's horn!
Nor should I ask to call the throne
Of the Tartessian prince my own;
To totter through his train of years,
The victim of decliniog fears.
One little hour of joy to me
Is worth a dull eternity!

(To be continued.)

Art. II.-The Ayrshire Legatees; or, the Correspondence of the

Pringle Family.

(Continued from vol. xii. p. 58.) Andrew Pringle, Esq. to the Rev. Charles Snodgrass.

Windsor Castle Inn. MY DEAR FRIEND,— I have all my life been strangely susceptible of pleasing impressions from public spectacles where great crowds are assembled. This, perhaps you will say, is but another way of confessing, that, like the common vulgar, I am fond of sights and shows. It may be so, but it is not from the pageants that I derive my enjoyment. A multitude, in fact, is to me as it were a strain of music, which, with an inestimable and magical influence, calls up from the unknown abyss of the feelings, new combinations of fancy, which, though vague and obscure, as those nebulæ of light that astronomers have supposed to be the rudiments of unformed stars, afterwards become distinct and brilliant acquisitions. In a crowd, I am like the somnambulist in the highest degree of the luminous crisis, when it is said a new world is unfolded to his contemplation, wherein all things have an intimate affinity with the state of man, and yet bear no resemblance to the

objects that address themselves to his corporeal faculties. This delightful experience, as it may be called, I have enjoyed this evening to an exquisite degree, at the funeral of the king; but, although the whole succession of incidents is indelibly imprinted on my recollection, I am still so much affected by the emotion that they excited, as to be incapable of conveying to you any intelligible description of what I saw It was indeed a scene witnessed through the medium of the feelings, and the effect partakes of the nature of a dream. I was within the walls of an ancient castle,

“So old as if they had for ever stood,

So strong as if they would for ever stand,” and it was almost midnight. The towers, like the vast spectres of departed ages, raised their embattled heads to the skies, monumental witnesses of the strength and antiquity of a great monarchy. A prodigious multitude filled the courts of that venerable edifice, surrounding on all sides a dark embossed structure, the sarcopłagus, as it seemed to me at the moment, of the heroism of chivalrv.

“ A change came o'er the spirit of my dream,” and I beheld the scene suddenly illuminated, and the blaze of torches, the glimmering of arms, and warriors and horses, while a mosaic of human faces, covered like a pavement the courts. A deep low under sound pealed from a distance; in the same moment, a trumpet answered with a single mournful note from the stateliest and darkest portion of the fabric, and it was whispered in every ear, “it is coming." Then an awful cadence of solemn music, that affected the heart like silence, was heard at intervals, and a numerous retinue of grave and venerable men,

" The fathers of their time, Those mighty master spirits, that withstood The fall of monarchies, and high upheld

Their country's standard, glorious in the storm,” passed slowly before me, bearing the emblems and trophies of a king. They were as a series of great historical events, and I bebeld behind them, following and followed, an awful and indistinct image, like the vision of Job. It moved on, and I could not discern the form thereof; but there were honours, and heraldries, and

sorrow, and silence; and I heard the stir of a profound homage performing within the breasts of all the witnesses. But I must not indulge myself farther on this subject. I cannot hope to excite in you the emotions with which I was so profoundly affected. In the visible objects of the funeral of George the Third, there was but little magnificence; all its sublimity was derived from the trains of thought and currents of feeling, which the sight of so many illustrious characters, surrounded by circumstances associated with the greatness and antiquity of the kingdom, was necessarily calculated to call forth. In this respect, however, it was perhaps the sublimest spectacle ever witnessed in this island; and I am sure that I cannot live' so long as ever again to behold another, that will equally interest me to the same depth and extent. Yours,

ANDREW PRINGLE. We should ill perform the part of faithful historians, did we omit to record the sentiments expressed by the company on this occasion. Mrs. Glibbans, whose knowledge of the points of orthodoxy had not their equal in the three adjacent parishes, roundly declared, that Mr. Andrew Pringle's letter was nothing but a peasemeal of clishmaclavers; that there was no sense in it; and that it was just like the writer, a canary idiot, a touch here and a touch there, without any thing in the shape of cordiality or satisfaction. Miss Isabella Todd answered this objection with that sweetness of manner and virgin diffidence which so well becomes a youthful female member of the establishment, controverting the dogmas of a stoop of the relief persuasion, by saying, that she thought Mr. Andrew had shown a fine sensibility. “What is sensibility without judgment,” cried her adversary, “ but a thrashing in the water, and a raising of bellsi-could na the fallow, without a' his parleyvoos, have said that such and such was the case, and that the lord giveth and the lord taketh away—but his clouds, and his spectres, and his visions of Job-0! an he could but think like Job!-0! an he would but think like the patient man!-and was obliged to claut his flesh with a bit of a broken crock or porrenger, we might have some hope of a repentance unto life. But Andrew Pringle, he's a gone dick; I never had comfort or expectation of the freethinker, since I heard that he was infected with the blue and yellow calamity of the Edinburgh Review ir

the which, I am credibly told, it is set forth, that women have not souls, but only a gut, and a gaw, and a gizzard, like a pigeon-dove, or a raven-crow, or any other outcast and abominated quadruped.”

Here Miss Mally Glencairn interposed her effectual mediation, and said, “ It is very true that Andrew deals in the diplomatics of obscurity; but it is well known that he has a nerve for genius, and that, in his own way, he kens the loan from the crown of the causeway, as well as the duck does the midden from the adle dib.” To this proverb, which we never heard before, our correspondent, Mr. M.Gruel, subjoins an erudite note, in which he states, that middens were of great magnitude, and often of no less antiquity in the west of Scotland; insomuch, that the Trongate of Glasgow owes all its magnitude and grandeur to them-it being within the recollection of persons yet living, that the aforesaid spacious and magnificent street, was at one time an open road, or highway, leading to the Trone, or market-cross, with thatched houses on each side, such as may still be seen in that pure immaculate royal borough of Rutherglen; and that before each house stood a luxuriant midden, by the removal of which, in the progress of modern degeneracy, the stately architecture of Argyle-Street was formed. But not to insist at too great length on such topics of antiquarian lore, we shall now insert the Doctor's account of the funeral, and which, patly enough, follows our digression concerning the middens and magnificence of Glasgow, as it contains an authentic anecdote of a manufacturer from that city, drinking champaign at the king's dirgie. The Rev. Z. Pringle, D. D. to Mr. Micklewham, Schoolmaster and Session Clerk of Garnock.

London. DEAR SIR.-I have received your letter, and it is a great pleasure to me to hear that my people were all so much concerned at our distress in the Leith smack; but what gave me the most contentment, was the repentance of Tam Glen. I hope, poor fellow, he will prove a good husband; but I have my doubts; for the wife has really but a small share of common sense, and no married man can do well unless his wife will let. I am, however, not overly pleased with Mr. Craig on the occasion, for he should have

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