the Gaelic superstitions, the Gaelic verses, disdainfully neglected during many ages, began to attract the attention of the learned from the moment at which the peculiarities of the Gaelic race began to disappear. So strong was this impulse that, where the Highlands were concerned, men of sense gave ready credence to stories without evidence, and men of taste gave rapturous applause to compositions without merit. Few people seemed to be aware that, at no remote period, a Macdonald or a Macgregor in his tartan was to a citizen of Edinburgh or Glasgow what an Indian hunter in his war paint is to an inhabitant of Philadelphia or Boston. Artists and actors represented Bruce and Douglas in striped petticoats. They might as well have represented Washington brandishing a tomahawk, and girt with a string of scalps. At length this fashion reached a point beyond which it was not easy to proceed. The last British King who held a court in Holyrood thought that he could not give a more striking proof of his respect for the usages which had prevailed in Scotland before the Union, than by disguising himself in what, before the Union, was considered by nine Scotchmen out of ten as the dress of a thief.

Thus it has chanced that the old Gaelic institutions and manners have never been exhibited in the simple light of truth. Up to the middle of the last century, they were seen through one false medium: they have since been seen through another. Once they loomed dimly through an obscuring and distorting haze of prejudice; and no sooner had that fog dispersed than they appeared bright with all the richest tints of poetry. The time when a perfectly fair picture could have been painted has now passed away. The original has long disappeared; no authentic effigy exists; and all that is possible is to produce an imperfect likeness by the help of two portraits, of which one is a coarse caricature and the other a masterpiece of flattery.

EVENINGS WITH THE EDITOR.

EVENING THE THIRTY-NINTH.

COULD any of our friends have stolen a peep into the editorial sanctum on a certain evening towards the close of March, they might have witnessed a scene which would have surprised and interested them not a little. That it was meant for a literary conference was evident at a glance. But instead of the familiar faces to which our readers have become accustomed, there might have been seen a group of juvenile figures, ranging from six to twelve years of age. From the restless and excited air of some, and the almost solemn aspect of others, it could be inferred that they had been summoned to a task from which, though a delightful and attractive one, they half shrunk with dread. These feelings, however, were of brief duration; for under the benignant and encouraging guidance of the Editor, and Mrs. M., the little critics, with the elasticity of spirits common to the young, soon lost their transient depression, and entered with delight upon the exercise of their functions. A brief record of their proceedings may be found interesting to the younger portion of our readers.

Tea having been disposed of, and the arrangements made for the business of the evening, the Editor pleasantly prepared his literary guests for the duties which they had to perform. He opened the subject somewhat in this fashion :

"A number of little books, suited especially for children, having from time to time been sent to us for review, I have invited you, my dear friends, to come together, and help me to pass a judgment upon them, for the benefit of those who read our Magazine, and who naturally look to it for guidance as to the works which are worthy of their perusal, as well as those which are undeserving of purchase. While it is in accordance with the laws of our country that a noble, guilty of wrong-doing, should be tried by his peers or equals; while a citizen is judged by a jury of his fellowcountrymen; and while poets claim with reason that their productions should be criticized by men of poetic tastes; so, I have thought, it is only fair and right, that works written for the young, and sometimes by the young, should be judged by those for whom they are designed. An exercise of this kind will serve to improve and sharpen your judgment, and enable you, in passing through life, to avoid many hurtful and pernicious works. If you prove yourselves apt at the art of criticism, our good friends, the publishers, may

afford us other opportunities of sitting in judgment upon their books. I hope you are now prepared to discuss the merits of the little publications which I intrusted to you.'

"We are, sir," responded a chorus of cheerful voices. "And here is Agnes," said Mrs. M., "fluttering with impatience to introduce her little heroine to the company."

"Indeed; and who may she be?" asked the Editor, with a bland and welcoming smile.

Thus appealed to, a sweet child, of about seven years of age, produced a bright crimson-bound book, bearing on its side the inscription of " HENRIETTA'S HISTORY." *

"Well, my darling, what do you think of this pretty little volume? What does it contain "

"Oh, it is quite a curiosity: it is the history of the daily life, the joys and sorrows, of a child named Henrietta; but the wonderful thing about it is, that it was written by herself, though she was only seven years of age. I am sure I could not write such a lovely book."

"Not exactly so," said Master Ernest; "it was written by Aunt Eliza, in a beautifully bound blank book which Henrietta's mamma had given to her on her birth-day, though Henrietta told her aunt what to put down. But I cannot help thinking that it is too good to be the production of one no older than Agnes."

"But all children, you must remember," replied the Editor, 66 are not alike clever. Perhaps Henrietta, like Miss Mitford, when she was a child, was an infant phenomenon.' There have been many little folks who have done far more wonderful things than write a book. For instance, Mozart, the great musician, composed several fine pieces of music when he was only five years of age, which were written down by his father at his dictation, and at eight he conducted concerts. Ferguson, the astronomer, made a map of the stars while, as a boy, he was engaged in watching sheep on the moors of Scotland. Henry Kirke White composed some creditable poetry while he was quite a child. Benjamin West, when between six and seven years old, struck with the appearance of his baby-sister, whom he was set to watch in the cradle, took some red and black ink, and sketched a likeness, which was at once recognized by his delighted mother. And, not to multiply similar instances, I would remind you of the well-known ingenuity of Sir Isaac Newton, who, while quite young, constructed both a miniature windmill and a water-clock, which called forth

* London: Hamilton, Adams, & Co.

the wonder and admiration of his friends. These cases you must admit, my dears, are sufficient to prove that it is by no means an incredible thing that Henrietta' should have been her own autobiographer. But what is this tiny history

all about, Agnes?'

6

"Oh, such a great number of pretty and funny things that I know not how to describe it. There is all about a new baby, and a sick mamma, and the curious old nurse, and a visit to the sea-side, and such like matters, which are all told in such a simple, natural, and charming way, that I am never weary of reading it again and again. Every little girl should read this book, for I am sure they would all like it." "You make me anxious to know more about it, Agnes," said the Editor; "could you not read some nice part to us?" "Oh, Agnes, let it be the story of Puck,' exclaimed Ernest, laughing.

I

"So it shall be," replied the delighted child, and finding the passage referred to, she read as follows:-" Last night, when I went up to bed, I found papa in mamma's room. went in to kiss good night,' and as soon as I opened the door, papa said, "Oh, here is Hennie, I wonder what she would say about it.' Mamma said, 'Let us ask her.' So then papa took me on his knee, and said they were consulting what baby's name was to be, and he asked me what I should think best. I told him I thought Baby was a very good name, for there was no other baby. Then papa and mamma both laughed, and mamma said, But, Hennie, he is not to be a baby all his life! we hope he will grow into a boy, and then into a man.' And papa said, 'Now what would you think, Hennie, if you were to see your brother as tall as I am, in a coat and trousers, and then hear me say to him, 'Baby, come here!' This made us all laugh; but I did not think of his ever growing so very big as all that, and I asked papa if he thought he could ever be so old as he was. "Papa asked me how old I thought he was. I had never thought about it before; but I guessed a hundred, and that made papa and mamma laugh a great deal more, and I see Aunt Eliza laughing too while she writes it; but I don't know why, for I suppose he is very old, though he did not tell me how old; but in a minute he said he was afraid we were getting too noisy for mamma, and that I had better go to bed, and think about the best name for baby.

"I have thought about it a great deal, and I think Puck would be a very good name, because he was such a funny fairy, and did so much good to good people; but then I do not think that is a pretty name."

The latter part of the sentence was rendered almost inaudible, from the hearty explosion of laughter which burst from the whole company, on listening to the artless suggestion of little Henrietta.

"Capital, capital!" exclaimed the Editor; "if the other portions of the work are only half as amusing as the specimen we have been listening to, it cannot fail to be highly popular with all young folks."

"Now, Arthur," observed Mrs. M., "you seem to fear lest Henrietta should have more than a due share of our regard: what pretty rival have you got there?"

"Oh, indeed, ma'am, I'm not at all jealous, for Henrietta is quite a favourite of mine. The book I hold consists of 'POETRY FOR CHILDREN, BY HIERONYMUS VAN ALPHEN, translated into English verse, by T. J. Millard, of Amsterdam.'"'*

"Well now, that is curious," said John, with a humorous smile; "I have read of Dutch canals, and Dutch tulips, and Dutch painted tiles, like those by means of which Philip Doddridge was taught Scripture history by his mother; but I never heard of Dutch poetry before."

"Fie, John!" exclaimed Florence, rather sharply; "as if there could be any nation that does not possess poets and poetry. A people who have excelled so greatly in painting and architecture as the Dutch, could not well be destitute of the spirit of song."

"Well, dears," said Mrs. M., "perhaps Arthur will tell us what he thinks of this poetical importation from Holland.'

"It may be the effect of education and habit," answered Arthur; "but I do not think these poems equal to what we are accustomed to recite. They are not so smooth, so musical, or so sweet as thousands of pieces written in our own country, by those who love to use their talents for the benefit of the young. They will not, generally speaking, bear a moment's comparison with the beautiful hymns of Dr. Watts, Jane Taylor, Mary Howitt, Wordsworth, Partridge, and others. They were written for the amusement of the author's own children; and while some are on very trivial subjects, many are intended to encourage them to be truthful, diligent, and pious, amidst the every-day employments and recreations of youthful life. Some of the pieces are without rhyme, and read very rugged and a great deal

* London: Partridge & Co.