Enter MATTIE with the ledger, R.

BAIL. Look to mysel ! let me look at the ledger first (putting on his spectacles, and opening it eagerly). L-MN-0Os–Osbal, as I'm a Bailie, the balance maun be enormous, þut I havena the heart to run it up now (returning the ledger to MATTIE) How muckle is Mac Vittie in wi' hin, Saunders ?

WY. I canna justly say, Bailie ; but some hundreds.

BAIL. Hundreds ! only hundreds ! Damn their supple snouts! And would they press a fa'ing man for the sake o' hundreds,--they that hae made thousands by him ? Your maisters, Saunders Wylie, hae taken mony a gude fat job frae between my teeth ; but I'll snap them this turn-I'll snap them this turn!

WY. I wish you could, Bailie-I wish you could. Ah! I made a sair change when I left you to serve twa sic in-, fernal

BAIL. Whisht! Saunders, whisht! while you eat their bread, dinna abuse the damn'd scoundrels ahint their backs.

WY. Ye've a kind heart, Mr. Jarvie, and an honest ane too.

BAIL. My conscience! so had my worthy faither the Deacon, Saunders :---rest and bless him !

WY. Wad ye be pleased to consult on this business wi? our partners, Sir ?

BAIL. No; I'll see them baith damn'd first. My conscience !--that is, a man that meddles wi' pitch is sure to be defiled. I'd sooner haud a parley wi’ Auld Clootie !-Na, na; Nicol Jarvie has a way o' his ain to manage this matter. Gang your ways, Mattie, wi' that huge memorial o' misfortunes, and bring my walking gear, an' the lantern. (exit MATTIE,R.) As for you, Saunders, speed ye hame again. an' no a word that ye hae seen me! (exit WYLIE, L.)- Osbaldistone and Co. stop! My conscience! Id sooner hae dreamed o’the downfa' o' the Bank of Lunnon !—Why it's enough to gar the very hair o' my wig rise, an stand on end ! But the distress cannot be permanent. At ony rate l'se prove mysel a friend, an' if the house regains its credit, I shall recover my loss,—and if no, why I hae done as I would be done by, like my worthy faither, the Deacon, gucle man !-blessing on his memory, say I, that taught me gude-will towards my fellow-creatures! Enter MATTIE, R., decked out for walking-her apron pinned up, &c., and

aring the BAILIL'S tartan cloak, hat, lantern, &c.

Mat. I've brought your gear, Sir; but, gude safe us ! whar wad ye be ganging to, at such a time o night? (she helps him on with his dress.)

BAIL. Ye'll sune ken that, Mattie, for ye maun e'en tramp alang wi’ me. I wadna like to be breaking my shins in the dark just now; for, truth to speak, I had never mair occasion to stand firm on my legs, baith at hame and abroad. Now gie us the beaver, lassie.

MAT. Weel! to think o putting on claithes when ye suld be taking 'em aff, an' scampering abroad, when yesuld be ganging to your bed !

BAIL. Time and tide wait for nae man, Mattie.
MAT. But whar are ye ganging to, Bailie?
BAIL. To mony places that I'd as lief bide away frae.

Mat. Now wrap this ’kerchief about your thrapple. (ties a handkerchief round his neck).

BAIL. Ye're a kind-hearted lassie, Mattie.
MAT. There-leave a wee bit room for your mou.'

BAIL. (aside) I wonder what she's gaun to dae wi' my mou.' (stroking his chin).

MAT. (giving him a flask) Ye maun needs hae a drap o' the cordial your faither, the Deacon, was sae fond o';-he aye liked to sip the cordial.

BAIL. Rest and bless him ! sae he did ; and sae do I too, Mattie. (drinks). You're a gude-tempered saul, Mattie, and a bonnie lass too. Ye're come o' gude kith and kin, Mattie—the Laird o' Limmerfield's cousin-only seven times removed. (Mattie is moving away the bottle) Stay—you may bring the bottle wi’ you, Mattie, and tuck yoursel under my arm—there's nae disgrace in a Bailie walking hand in arm wi' ane o' gentle bluid-Sae, come your ways, Mattie. Osbaldistone and Co. Stop! My conscience ! [Exeunt, L.


BYRON. ¡No person admired the great intellect of the mighty Corsican more than Byron, and when the Emperor so tamely yelded to his conquerors, and preferred to fret away his heart in St. Helena's lonely isle, rather than to fall gloriously at the head of his brave legions, the poet expressed the contempt he felt for his abject spirit in words of unsurpassable scorn. And very

fine is the contrast drawn between Washington and Bonapartė. It is a magnificent thome for declamation ; and should be spoken in a grand passionate style.)

'Tis done—but yesterday a King !

And arm'd with Kings to strivem

And now thou art a nameless thing;

So abject-yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones,

And can he thus survive ?
Since he, miscall’d the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind

Who bow'd so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,

Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestion’d-power to save,
Thine only gift hath been the grave,

To those that worshipp'd thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition's less than littleness !

Thanks for that lesson—it will teach

To after warriors more,
Than high Philosophy can preach,

And vainly preach'd before.
That spell upon the minds of men:
Breaks never to unite again,

That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay

The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife-
The earthquake voice of Victory,

To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,

Wherewith renown was rife-
All quell'd !-Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!
The Desolator desolate !

The Victor overthrown! The arbiter of other's fate

A suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope,
That with such change can calmly cope ?

Or dread of death alone ?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!


He who of old would rend the oak,

Dream'd not of the rebound, Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke

Alone-how look'd he round ?
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found;
He fell, the forest prowler's prey :
But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman, when his burning heart,

Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger-dared depart,

In savage grandeur, home-
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,

Yet left him such a doom !
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.
The Spaniard when the lust of sway

Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,

An empire for a cell:
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,

His dotage trifled well:
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But thou—from thy reluctant hand

The thunderbolt is wrung-
Too late thou leav'st the high command

To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart

To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean!

And earth hath spilt her blood for him,

Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,

And thank'd him for a throne! Fair Freedom! may we hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear

In humoblest guise have shown.

Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure inankind !

Thine evil de eds are writ in gore,

Nor written thus in vain--
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,

Or deepen every stain :
It thou hadst died as honor dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,

To shiaine the world again--
But who would soar the solar height,
Po set in such a starless night?

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust

Is vile as vulgar clay ;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just

To all that pass away.
But yet inethought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,

To dazzle and dismay ;
Nor deein'd Contempt could thus make mirth
Of these the Conquerors of the earth.

And she proud Austria's mournful flower.

Thy still imperial bride ;
How bears her breast the torturing hou's ?

Still clings she to thy side ?
Must she, too, bend,-inust she too, share,
Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless Homicide ?
It still she loves thee hoard that gem;
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem !

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,

And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile

It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering mood upon the sand,

That Earth is now as free !
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage,

What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy sou'd rage?

But one-" The world was mine!"

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