profoundly impressed, charmed, and even frightened by it, and listened with deep admiration, and sometimes with mortal fear, to the rich and nervous tones of the eloquent reader. She was too simple to appreciate, but there was a charming teachableness about the little girl. Harry also took the post of elocutionist, and his selections were not so fine, but fully more popular than his brother's. He gave a fine old English ballad in a fine rolling style of his own; he knew Pickwick by heart with a marvellous accuracy which would have delighted an examiner if only shown in the case of some loose heathen poet of not half the genius or wit; and had many a racy story of his Oxford scrapes, which attracted towards him a delighted personal interest. We shall perhaps point out the state of matters best, if we give the reader another dialogue between the young ladies. The girls had finished their books and music for the morning. A passage in Schlegel had been reserved for Charles, and a song had been discovered which would just suit Harry's deep bass. Douglas had gone over to Tarbet to have a morning's study with the Delameres. It had been arranged that, after lunch, the brothers were to accompany him back to the cottage for dinner. They were to enjoy a pleasant afternoon. A ramble or an expedition of some sort was on the tapis. Little Charlie was in his mother's dressing room; he was going to accompany the party. The girls were pacing up and down the garden waiting for the rest of the party. "These gentlemen are rather after their time, I think," said Agnes Dunbar. She looked at her watch. "A quarter after two, and we dine at six. Every five minutes' loss helps to spoil our afternoon." They are smoking their cigars and drinking pale ale," replied Marion, sententiously. "All gentlemen smoke cigars and drink pale ale after lunch," she added, with an air of deep wisdom and experience. The argument was undeniable. Agnes was heard only to utter, in a low voice, a time-honoured remark about a practice being more honoured in the breach than in the observance. "Perhaps Harry doesn't know his lesson, and his big brother won't let him come out and play," added the beauty. "It is very cross of him, and I will pay him out for it." Both the girls laughed. "You are rather too hard upon Charles," said Miss Dunbar. "It is very good of him, when he is so much the cleverer, to take so much pains with Harry, who, according to his own confession, is a bit of a dunce." "He is his own brother." "Yes; but he does so with your brother as well, with Douglas. And Mr. Delamere is so very learned, compared with them." "It is very kind of him, Agnes, just as it is so very kind of you to take such care of stupid little me. But do you think Charles is so much the cleverer? I am sure he read the French story out into English beautifully, and he draws, love, nearly as well as you do." "Charles is much the cleverer," said Agnes dogmatically. "Which of the two do you think you like the best?—which, Marion?" "Charles, unhesitatingly. He is evidently a most superior man." "Yes, dear," remonstrated Marion; "but I heard Douglas one day say, Defend him from superior beings." Here Marion coloured highly, as she suddenly recollected on what occasion it was that Douglas had made the remark. It was when she was lauding Agnes to him in comparison with Louisa Codrington. The conscious look was unnoticed, for Agnes had a great deal too much of genuine humility ever to imagine herself a superior being. Perhaps the young lady was conscious of little heart twitches, which proved clearly enough that she belonged to ordinary humanity. And then Marion continuing "I rather think," she said, "that, upon the whole, I prefer Harry. Charles may be the best for college or parliament, but oh! Harry is so very jolly!" and she clapped her hands with innocent enthusiasm. "He is so obliging and merry and kind, and runs about for me, and does everything for me at a word or look. So different from Charles. Only yesterday, the great man informed me complimentarily that I had made a false note in my music, and a false accent in my French essay. "It is true, Marion, I was by at the time, and you did." "But it was rude." "It was kind, because it was true. If you notice Mr. Delamere, you will find that he never flatters." "Flattery is rather pleasant." "And decidedly wrong," added Agnes, decisively. "But here comes our knight errant," as in the distance the gentlemen were seen advancing. As Marion had guessed, they were mildly puffing their cigars. They went out in the Loch this afternoon. Mrs. Cameron, with sundry adhortations, committed Charley to them, and implored them to take care. Then they got into the boat. Marion and Agnes, under the care and skilful guidance of Harry, had become excellent oarswomen. They liked the fun amazingly, and did their work very nicely. Douglas and Harry each took an oar, Charles indolently steered. The light boat shot like an arrow towards a promontory on the other side of the Loch. There they landed, and set about completing a sketch. The gentlemen chivalrously held the pencils. They gaily talked. Every word and gesture was freedom and kindliness. Now all this intimacy, proximity, careless and unrestrained, inevitably tends towards something. I do not exactly say what the point is to which all this indicates. Somebody has said that order is Heaven's first law. I don't believe it. Such a remark is very great nonsense. Order is scarcely Heaven's first law. The poet who said so was a business-like, practical, precise sort of poet. Depend upon it, love is Heaven's first law; and these young people, for the very lives of them, will not be able to prevent fulfilling it. They came back to dinner. The dinner was frankly acknowledged, when the ladies had withdrawn, to be excellent. So was the wine. The ethereal claret of the evening was acknowledged fitly to succeed the spiritualised influences of the afternoon. Even old Cameron seemed to shake off the gloom that of late had sat so heavily upon him. He liked the Delameres, and his face was full of beaming affec tion towards his son. Then they went up to the drawing. Never did Marion look so bewitchingly, sing so exquisitely, and sit, move, and speak with so much grace. The dark bands of Agnes's massy hair hung over the flush of innocent pleasure that began to mantle her pale cheek. Douglas could not very well flirt with his sister, and he could not help flirting with somebody; and as he flirted, just a little, with Agnes, Agnes, the sensible and clever, could not help flirting just a little with him. As for Charles, the conviction gradually dawned upon his mind, that a crisis was come at last, that he too must quaff the cup of delirium and delicious poison, that the divinity that shapes mens' end had found out the lady of his fate upon these barren mountains and this northern shore, and that in his own person he must add one more chapter to the story of the universe, the old and everlasting tale of love. (To be continued.) OUR POETICAL FRIEND, MR. FERGUSON. SINCE our last publication, we have had the happiness of an interview with the remarkable man, for whose re-appearance in this extremely "respectable periodical," it is perhaps proper to apologise to the more fastidious and refined class of readers. Receiving an intimation that, while unable himself to wait upon us from "circumstances over which he had no control," he was yet anxious to see us on business, we naturally lost no time in looking him up at his apartments. In tenderness to Mr. Ferguson, a person of retiring manners, undesirous of the honours of hero-worship, whom "pilgrims of his genius," flocking to have the glory of idiotically gazing at him would much more afflict than gratify, we decline to specify their locality. In the interest of the pilgrims themselves, whom Mr. Ferguson, as a disciple of the school of "muscular Christianity," might be quite capable of kicking as rapidly as they deserve down the four flights of exceedingly steep stairs by which we ascended to the shrine, the concealment seems no less judicious. A certain eccentricity is to be looked for in the aspect of men of genius, and of persons who presume themselves to be such. For some piquancy of appearance in our friend, some cheering individuality and dash of the unconventional, such as delights us in Professor Blackie, we were accordingly not unprepared. The reality, however, a little surpassed our anticipations. The "circumstances over which Mr. Ferguson had no control," were at once alarmingly obvious. Is is unhappily not quite easy to indicate them with the delicacy which a taste exquisitely refined might desiderate in an utterly respectable periodical. With a conscientious desire to adapt ourselves to the taste of nice readers, let us employ a most delicate periphrasis. The Highland costume, though admittedly picturesque, is in any complete form expensive. Gentlemen of limited means, however, ambitious of its brilliant effects, by the simple and obvious expedient of pawning their pantaloons, to procure spirits, may improvise at any moment really a tolerably successful approximation to it. The reader, we hope, apprehends us. Without the slightest approach to the coarse and offensive; while, in fact, systematically suggesting associations of an exclusively romantic and heroic character, we have succeeded, we trust, in indicating sufficiently an eccentricity in the toilet of our friend which might have been apt on his appearance in public to subject him to the impertinent interference of the police. As respects his aspect otherwise, we need say only, that it wonderfully harmonised throughout with the feature so tenderly suggested. The "unity which art demands," was in no important particular infringed upon in the appearance of our friend Mr. Ferguson. Generally it may, perhaps, without offence, be said of this "revealer of the beautiful,' as of many another we have known, that he was content in his proper person to be no very mighty revelation of it. He was exceedingly drunk, of course, and laboured under a most painful defect of speech, which, in case of his being presented to the parish of Kilmacolm, cannot fail, we should fear, to injure his chances of success. "Sic itur ad astra!" we murmured to ourselves inaudibly, as we gazed with surprise, and perhaps a little consternation, on this type of the poet and literateur. "An unclean animal indeed! (probably of vast genius)-decidedly a most eccentric person! Professor Blackie was nothing to this!" Of Mrs. Ferguson, a charming creature, with a suspiciously black eye-[we confess we were wicked enough to think of Mr. Ferguson's knuckles in connexion with it-why speak in this place, our readers being presently to be introduced to her in the tender lyrics of her spouse, emulous of Mr. Gerald Massey? With Babe Ferguson again, and the three other interesting infants, whom we had innocently mourned over, as defunct (their parent having despatched them some time ago in pathetic MS. odes apiece), and found here so particularly lively in their clamorous demands for victual, that we devoutly wished they were-wherefore afflict the reader? Wherefore at all, it may be asked, indeed, impertinently intrude upon the public these details of private life and views of Mr. Ferguson and his interior? For this deep philosophical reason, that the very smallest detail in the life of a man of genius is of interest as tending to throw light on obscure points in his works. Doubtless, if we could only know (as alas! we now for ever cannot!) how Shakspeare scratched his head, as there is reason to suppose he did occasionally; how often! with what emphasis, peculiarly Shakspearian! several dark passages in Hamlet would be in a way to become clear to us. Similarly, it is not to be doubted that the knowledge communicated to the reader of the easy morning attire, in which it is Mr. Ferguson's whim to receive visitors, &c., &c., must greatly assist him to an appreciation of niceties in that gentleman's poetic efforts to which he might otherwise have remained insensible. Even the slightest trait of a man is physiognomical, significant; and, for the "seeing eye," radiates light over the whole man and his activity. In the fact that we found Mr. Ferguson sitting dead drunk, minus his pantaloons, and almost, we might say, in puris, the truly philosophical critic will not fail to find his account. Neither is it in reason to be doubted that the little peculiarity which we were careful to note in one of Mrs. Ferguson's eyes, will furnish an importaut elucidation of that large section of Mr. Ferguson's pieces which concerns itself with the "Poetry of Wedded Love." In concluding our last paper, as readers may remember or forget, we quoted a short specimen of Mr. Ferguson's "in my earlier manner, having prepared myself for composition by about fifteen glasses of aqua. [Mr. Ferguson's "Theory of Poetic Art," and the necessary connexion in his own experience of the "vision and the faculty divine," with a preliminary drench of spirits, may perhaps linger in the recollection of some readers.] Though Mr. Ferguson, of course, thought it fine, we could not quite agree with him, finding it merely fantastical and affected. Somewhat more to our mind, as simpler and truer in feeling, if perhaps the least thing too expressly pointed and antithetical in the turn of expression is the following, also "in my earlier manner:" LOVE'S EGOTISM. Could I but think that in thy breast Is one uneasy thought of me, So sadly cheated of my rest Could I but know that thou dost weep How happy would I go to sleep! How lightly wake to-morrow! I would not thou should'st breathe one sigh; I would not have thee shed one tear; And yet I'd have thee sad when-I Unto thy soul am near. This has at least the merit of being quite quiet and unpretending. As beyond this there seems to be not much in it, no further remark is called for. The author's critical observations beginning, "This delicious morceau," &c., are, as usual, extremely delightful, and delicately tickle the midriff attuned to a sense of the humorous. On the whole our readers, we fancy, will agree with us, that this is but weak thin piping, and be desirous of meeting Mr. Ferguson in some more "advanced" stage of his inspiration. Coming upon a piece in blank verse, extending over several hundreds of lines, we take a passage at random. It purports to be in "one of my later styles," the preparatory absorption of aqua, as stated, being such as to exceed belief. It appears to be of a somewhat "spasmodic" character, and has reference probably to the unhappy attachment to the lady of quality which kept Mr. Ferguson for some months, as we saw, in a most passionate and despairing frame of mind. This is how he "soothes his soul with song:" Ah, me! most wretched! O unhappy heart, |