Loch Leven, the subject of Mr. Bruce's poem, is a beautiful fresh water Lake near twelve miles in circumference, on the side next Kinross bounded by a plain occupied by open groves, on the other side by mountains. About the centre of the lake are two islands, one of which, called St. Serf's isle, has not less than forty acres of excellent pasturage, and was formerly the seat of the ancient priory of Loch Leven dedicated to St. Servanus. On the other, which contains not above an acre of ground, stand the picturesque ruins of the castle of the Douglas's. Here was confined the beautiful but unfortunate Mary, queen of Scots, a circumstance which, from the association of idea, throws an air of interesting melancholy around, and adds much to the effect of the scene. From this place however, she at length escaped through the assistance of George Douglas, a youth of eighteen, who had been deeply smitten with the charms of Mary, and who contrived, on Sunday night the second of May 1568, as his brother sat down to supper, to secure the keys of the castle. Having liberated his beloved prisoner he locked the gate behind her, threw the keys into the lake, and having previously secured a boat, whilst the oars of all the other boats were thrown adrift, reached the shore in safety. Mr. Gilpin in his Scotch Tour has thus elegantly allegorized this remarkable event: "But neither the walls of Loch Leven castle, nor the lake which surrounded it, were barriers against love. Mary had those bewitching charms, which always raised her friends.

She

wore a cestus; and might be said to number amongst her constant attendants, the God of Love himself. His ready wit restored her berty. Time and place were obedient to his will. His contrivance Faid the pl... His address secured the keys; and his activity provided the bark, to which he led her; with his own hand carrying the torch, to gude her footsteps through the

darkness of the might.........Confusion ran through the castle. Hasty lights were seen passing and repassing at every window; and traversing the island in all directions. The laughing God, the meanwhile, riding at the poop, with one hand held the helm; and with the other waved his torch in triumph round his head. The boat soon made the shore, and landed the lovely queen in a port of security; where Loyalty and Friendship waited to receive her." *

At the west end of this noble sheet of water stands a very elegant house formerly belonging to the family of Bruce, but now in the possession of a Mr. Graham; it commands a delightful view of the lake, and is well screened by exten sive pine plantations; it was built by the celebrated Architect, Sir

* Scotch Tour, vol. i. p. 96...........ht has been a doubt with some whether Mary really possessed the fine features 80 generally attributed to her by historians; her portraits are numerous, of her countenance, some of them by and vary much in the representation no means impressing us with a favourable idea of her charms: the two

following anecdotes however, and they may be depended upon, clearly ascertain her extreme beauty, and afford a striking instance of the fascination which usually waited upon her person.

When Mary, in the full bloom of youth, was walking in a procession through Paris, a woman forced her way through the crowd and touched her. Her excuse for this rudeness ed her to feel if so angelic a creature was extreme curiosity, which promptwere formed of flesh and bloed.

GRAINGER.

Chatelard, grandson to the cclebrated Eavard, a man of literature, and an elegant poet, who had long adored the beautiful Mary in secret, permitted his love so far to overpower his prudence as to tempt him to hide himself in the queen's bed-chamber. He was discovered and forgiven. The same insult again repeated, proved fatal. He was delivered up to the law, tried and executed.

Vic De Marie Par Brantome.

William Bruce, in 1685, and is generally esteemed a noble specimen of his skill in that depart

ment.

A spot abounding in so much lovely scenery, and rendered still more attractive by the associations of childhood and early youth, would necessarily impress on the susceptible heart of our young poet the most lively and endearing sensations, and when far distant from his humble shed and tender parents, when suffering under sickness and sorrow, it was a consolation of no vulgar kind to recollect the pleasures of his native vale, to paint in glowing colours its delicious landscapes, and ere the fairy colours faded from his view to give them

local habitation and a name in

strains which should perpetuate his memory and his genius.

His poem on Loch Leven displays a fertile imagination, and is rendered interesting to every reader by the vein of pathetic sentiment which pervades the whole. As an appropriate specimen of the elegant versification and superior merits of this production, I shall quote his description of the two islands of the lake. The first delineates that on which the Priory had anciently stood, and then adverts to the present ruins of the famous castle of the Bruces. It is my wish that these lines may recommend to further notice the poetry of this amiable but unfortunate youth.

Here Superstition for her cloister'd

That whistle mournful thro' the empty halls,

And piece-meal crumble down the towers to dust.

Equal in age, and sharers of its fate, A row of moss-grown trees around it stands;

Scarce here and there, upon their

blasted tops,

A shrivell'd leaf distinguishes the

IMMROTALITY.

[I have lately been delighted with some of the works of Zollikofer a German divine. His pulpit-discourses yield not in eloquence to those of Massillon. He every where discovers a pious and prolific mind. Indeed in rhetorical reasoning I know not who should stand before him. From his discourse on the immortality of man the following extract is takenwhich (as his Sermons are not generally known here) shall be occasioncally succeeded by others from the same pen.]

"To the man who knows nothing of futurity, who has no hope of immortality, all nature is a sealed book, and he is the greatest of all mysteries to himself. The design of his existence is incomprehensible to him; and of the other purposes for which the other creatures that surround him were formed, and which so far exceed mankind in number, magnitude, and beauty, he knows still less. Every thing he sees and hears is to him an auigma, to the solution whereof he can find no key. Represent to yourself a philosopher, who knows nothing of the gospel, and from whom futurity is concealed, profoundly contemplating the heaven and the earth and himself, and that you hear him discourse on these important objects in his comfortless solitude what a doubtful, what a desultory, and dismal language he holds! Methinks I hear him exclaim, in a doleful voice, Why is the heaven so beautifully adorned, and to what end is this magnificence which nature so profusely displays wherever I turn my view? What is the purpose of this great, this immense and ingenious structure? How gloomy, how painful to me is this prospect, so charming in itself, since 1,perhaps now for the last time, enjoy it, and at all events shall shortly be deprived of all sentiment forever! Were I shut up in some dark and dismal dungeon, had the day never shone upon my dwelling, my misery had then been tolerable: but here like some malefactor,

:

I sit imprisoned in a gorgeous palace, and can find nothing delightful, nothing agreeable in it, as expecting every moment the summons to death! And what mean the faculties I feel within me? How am I benefited by the capacities I possess, but which I cannot employ ? I behold many beauties, much magnificence, many astonishing effects before me, I am curious to investigate and understand them. But they are all incomprehensible to me: it is too high for me, I cannot attain unto it. My abilities fail me, and the light itself is darkness to me. It is true, nature is beautiful; she is pleasant and charming; she invites my senses to abundance of pleasure and joy. But why, then, am I so restiess and uneasy Why cannot all those goods and beauties satisfy my mind? Whence proceeds the want I feel amidst this abun dance, and the sentiment of which so often disturbs my liveliest pleasure, and always renders it incomplete? Why is my inquisitiveness never to be satisfied? Wherefore can I never cease from wishing! Whence comes the disgust that so quickly succeeds to enjoyment, and deprives all I earnestly longed after, in a moment, of its worth? Has the Creator, then, called me out of nothing for my punishment? Has he given me such capacities, such desires, for the augmentation of my misery? To what purpose such great preparatives for the few and uncertain hours of life?-Thus does the hopeless mortal entangle himself in reflection. He finds himself in the most delightful garden; but it is all a labyrinth to him, to him it loses every charm from his want of a clue to guide him through it.

"Before the christian, on the other hand, who expects immortality and an everlasting life to come, all these difficulties vanish away. He sees that it is a wise and bountiful God, who has placed him on the globe of the earth. He discovers the principal scope of things, and sets his mind at rest. The hope of futurity gives every

thing, beautiful and great, he sees in the world, a heightened colour and a new display. The view of the boundless creation, that utterly perplexed and confounded yonder unhappy being, inspires the christian with admiration, and leads him to adore the Most High in serenity and satisfaction. In a sacred transport he exclaims, with the Psalmist:"Lord, how glorious are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all; the earth is full of thy riches!" Here I perceive eternal work: here I find materials for incessant discovery; here I see sources of knowledge and joy, whence rational beings may draw for ever, without any fear of their failing. How gloomy to me would be the contemplation of beautiful nature, how sad the sentiment of my powers, how troublesome my curiosity, how fertile in vexation my infinite desires, if I had to dread, in a few moments, the utter extinction of knowledge and enjoyment! But thou hast ordained me, O God, to life, to a life that shall know no end. At present my capacities are too great to exhibit themselves in all their strength. The body of death surrounds me, and fixes narrow limits to the workings of my mind. But soon shall I be freed from these bonds. My soul will soar aloft, and mount into the realms of light. She will rise at the resurrection of the just, united to a glorions, a spiritual, an incorruptible body. Then, O God, then shall I first behold thy works in all their grandeur, in all their pomp and beauty; then shall I be for ever employed in the investigation of them, and never be weary of admiring thy wisdom and power; then will all my desires be satisfied, and all my wishes accomplished. This is not the place of my final destination. It is but preparatory to a far better and more glorious state. Ilere it is my business, by generous occupations, to begin to qualify myself for the purer delights that await me in that world, and even what I call troublesome and imperfect in

VOL. I...NO. 11.

my present condition must, if I but properly apply it, promote my future perfection. Thus does the christian unravel the design of his being and the tendency of his powers; and thus does he dissipate the darkness that surrounds him on earth, by the light of the gospel, which discloses to his view the fairest prospects in eternity.

"Knowledge and virtue are, indeed, in and for themselves, and without regard to futurity, the strongest supports and the richest sources of our happiness. How, without knowledge, should we satisfy the curiosity of our minds? How, without virtue, should we tranquilize our hearts? How should we tame our turbulent passions, how should we controul them when they contend with each other, and bring to a rational equilibrium, if we were destitute of knowledge and virtue? Let us now compare the mortal without hope with the christian that expects eternity, and see which of them has the greatest means and the greatest encouragements to build his happiness on this foundation, and to render his life pleasant by knowledge and virtue. We will here allow them both to speak their natural sentiments, and thence it will plainly appear which of them has the advantage of the other. It is true, knowledge is ornamental to the mind; thus speaks the man whose hopes are confined to this life. I experience, that what thinks within me is capable of mounting above visible objects, and of piercing into the combination of things. I feel a great pleasure when I increase my perceptions, and can discover the traces of the wise author of nature. But how foolish and unprofitable is this my employment! Wisdom cannot be acquired without much toil. Truth never appears to her votaries till after many successful researches; one may fall into a hundred errors sooner than discover one truth. We must dedicate both day and night to the study of the latent operations of nature, ere we can acquire but a slight

knowledge of her secrets. Meantime, the mind grows weary: its powers diminish; the body is weakened by strenuous exertions of it, and I become daily less capable of relishing the pleasures of sense. And what is, at length, the result of all my pains? After a few moments are past I shall be no more, and my laboriously acquired knowledge will likewise be no more. That which thinks in me, and often fondly soars above the clouds, will in a few days be lost to existence. The great discoveries I am striving to make, will vanish into thin air, and my lofty imaginations, and my exalted conceptions, will be enveloped in the shades of everlasting night. Such is the language of the man who has no views beyond the grave. His endeavours after knowledge must necessarily appear ridiculous to himself; and he has little or nothing to encourage him in the prosecution of it.

No less feeble are his motives to virtue, and his purpose to follow her precepts will as easily fail. He withers like a flower that springs up in a parched soil, or on a stony ground. Though great the native beauty of virtue, yet is it not sufficient to render the man who looks upon death as the period of his being constant in the love and the practice of it. Self-interest and the hope of advantage are the principal springs of human actions. Few men, however, are so enlightened as to perceive the combination of virtue with self-love and with real advantage. It costs a man labour and toil before he can arrive at a certain aptitude in goodness. He has many obstacles to surmount, and many difficulties to encounter, if he would fulfil his duties with exactitude, and conduct himself in all circumstances like a true christian. Riches and honours and days of ease, are not always the companions of integrity. How often, on the contrary, is it attended by poverty and scorn! Nay, is it any thing uncommon for the brightest virtue to be attacked with animosity and persecuted with vengeance?

And yet it is impossible, without virtue, to acquire tranquility of mind. Vice, on the other hand, is often arrayed in charms: she holds out, to her followers, power and authority, opulence and respect; she promises them abundance of pleasure. And yet vice renders us unhappy, and, so long as we are slaves to it, it is impossible for us to be calm and contented. Therefore, if a man would flee from vice; if he would love virtue; if he would thus live contented and happy: he must have certain impelling motives to do so. But do you imagine that any one, who has no punishment to fear in futurity, and no reward to expect, is in a capacity to vanquish all temptations to evil, and devote himself to the service of insulted virtue with her mean appearance? Certainly not. Her beauty might probably attract him; he might even determine to follow her precepts: but how long would his resolution last? The first violent temptation would put it to flight. Were he frankly to explain himself, it is thus he would speak: What will it profit me if I earnestly strive to be virtuous? What avails this unremitted attention to all my thoughts, my desires, and actions? These violent conflicts with my propensities and passions? How difficult it is to conquer one's self! And what benefit, what fruit, have I at last to expect from the victory? My probity will be taken for affectation, my piety will be imputed to melancholy; and I shall sit solitary in the dust, while others, of laxer principles, are lolling in the scats of honour! What have I toprovide for but my body and my temporal affairs? Why should I quarrel with the amusements and delights that so many others enjoy? Shall I embitter my life by the restrictions of temperance, and for the sake of an imaginary intellectual pleasure, deny myself the more sure and substantial pleasures of sense? I have nothing to fear or to hope after death! So speaks the hopeless mortal: thus will his purposes to follow virtue be enfeebled.