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HE HAS A ROYAL BIOGRAPHER.

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see in the dark grey morning of the Historic day, it happens: King Alfred has recorded the history of the poor poet of Whitby, and the memory of his labour; and his inspiration and his songs are ineffaceably written in the hieroglyphics and memorials of the times.*

Little more is known of Cedmon than is related above; but those who desire to see all that can be said of him, may refer to Dr. Young's "History of Whitby"; to Sharon Turner's " AngloSaxons"; Disraeli's "Amenities of Literature"; and Bede's "Ecclesiastical History."

CHAPTER XV.

ROBERT NICOLL, THE KINE-HERDER.

"Scotland's second Burns."

HE name of ROBERT NICOLL cannot well be a strange one to most of the readers of these pages, but it has never yet met with the honour it deserves. "Scotland's second Burns," as Ebenezer Elliott has called him, and who has added to this, that "Burns, at his age, had done nothing like him." Sentences like these surround his name with a large amount of interest and importance; and if the writings of the wonderful boy (for he died when only twenty-three years of age) harmonize with this exalted character of them, they should be presented to the public from time to time, until his works, instead of being found in libraries here and there, at wide and distant removes from each other, shall be seen in every small cottage library, on the book-shelf of every young man, and in the catalogue of every Mechanics' Institute and Society for mental improvement. Robert Nicoll said, as every true poet may say, "I have written my heart in my poems, and rude, unfinished, and hasty as they are, it can be read there." His poetry abounds with noble and generous sentiments, and such a Poem his whole life seems to have been. Hence from his life, as well as from his words, there goes forth a salutary influence on every mind, especially of his order, breathing, as both do, the salutary lessons of self-reliance and self-denial, the love of

A SCOTTISH HOME.

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truth, of nature and of man, firmness, and temperance, and faith.

Robert Nicoll was born on the 7th of January, 1814, in the little village of Tulliebeltane, near Auchtergaven, a small spot at the foot of the Grampian Hills, in Perthshire. His early years were cradled in poverty, for although his father was a farmer in comfortable circumstances, having become security to the amount of five or six hundred pounds, for a connection by marriage, who had failed and absconded, Mr. Nicoll was plunged into entire ruin. The whole of his property was given up to satisfy the creditors of this person. He was obliged, with his family, to leave his farm, and became a day labourer in those very fields he had rented; but the poems of Nicoll are the best testimony to the character of his early home. That must have been a place of domestic blessedness, and must have been a loving and lovely family, the inspiration of which continued so long intense and pure. It was one of those Homes, painted for immortality in Burns' "Cottar's Saturday Night "—a home of the old world. Religion, Honesty, and Labour were the lessons of self-enduring virtue which were perpetually given from the life; and every member was invoked to a noble course by the memory of the example of those from whom they had descended. This recollection of a worthy birthplace and birthright is a noble incentive to a noble life.

There is an anecdote mentioned of the mother of Nicoll, which finely illustrates her character. When the intelligence reached her that her son was at Leeds, sick, dying, and languishing to see her, she had no means of paying the expenses of the long and weary journey. She reached Leeds however; and when a friend afterwards inquired by what means she had been enabled to meet the expenses of the journey, she nobly replied, "Indeed, sir, I shore for the siller." Her wages as a reaper, her harvest fee, were the only means by which she could honestly fulfil the earnest request of her dying son. It may be easily conceived how powerful an influence a mother like this would

exert over a sensitive mind and heart. It was mainly through this mother that Robert received the first elements and intimations of education; and it seems ever to have been the object of this noble-minded woman to rear her children, so that they might again take their place in that sphere of respectability from whence, through misfortune alone, the family had been driven. The father of Mrs. Nicoll, "Elder John," as he is called in his grandson's poems, seems to have been likewise a noble specimen of a man. A year or two since he survived at the venerable age of eighty-seven, "the Patriarch of Auchtergavan," remarkable for the possession of his bodily faculties and wonderful mental powers, as well as physical activity. He is said to have been the last wearer of the broad blue lowland bonnet. His grandson says:—

MY GRANDFATHER.

Hale be thy honest trusty heart,

And hale thy beld and snawy pow,
The hand of eld ne'er furrowed o'er
A baulder or a manlier brow.
The laddie wha was ance thy pet,
Has been in places far awa;
But he thy marrow hasna met
Amang the great nor yet the sma'.

Ance proud eneuch was I to sit

Beside thee in the muirland kirk,

A ruling elder—ane o' weight,

Nae wonder though your oe did smirk :
And braw eneuch was I to find

My head the preacher's hand upon,
While by the kirkyard stile he cracked
Of holy things wi' Elder John!

And syne as hame alang the muir

I prattling by your side did rin,
Ye mind how ye rebuked that thochts-
And ca'd them vanity and sin.

But pennies frae your auld breek pouch
Wi' dauds o' council ye would gie,
The last war gude-but aye the first
I liket best, I winna lee!

MY GRANDFATHER.

Thy daily fireside worship dwalls
Within this inmost soul of mine:
Thy earnest prayer-sae prophet-like-
For a' on earth I wadna' tyne.
And you and granny sang the psalms
In holy rapt sincerity;

My granny!-Dinna greet, auld man—
She's looking down on you and me.

Can I forget how lang and weel
The carritches ye made me read?
Or yet the apples-rosy anes-

I gat to gar me mend my speed?
Can I forget affection's words,

That frae your lips like pearls ran ;
Can I forget the heart that prayed
To see me aye an honest man?

And mind ye how we gat us beuks,
And read wi' meikle care and skill,
Until ye thocht his head wad wag
The pu'pit's holy place intil?
For mony an idle whim of mine

Wad my auld father journeys gang;
His auld heart danced when I did right
And sair it grieved when I did wrang.

But mair than a'-frae beuks sae auld
Frae mony treasured earnest page,
Thou traced for me the march of Truth,

The path of right from age to age:
A peasant, auld, and puir, and deaf,
Bequeathed this lagacy to me,
I was his bairn-he filled my soul
With love for liberty!

Be blessings on thy reverend head,
I dinna need for thee to pray;

The path is narrow, but nae een
E'er saw thee from it stray.

God bears His ancient servants up,

He's borne thee since thy life began:
I'm noble by descent: thy grave

Will hold an honest man.

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These circumstances, connected with the ancestry of Nicoll, guide the mind to a view of his moral education and

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