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reign of Charles X., whose unfortunate ordon- English bookseller who confined his trade exclunance of the 27th July, 1830, by which he would sively to foreign books; now, there are at least have further circumscribed the liberty of the press, fifty German, French, and Italian booksellers in produced the last revolution. From that time the London alone. In Edinburgh, there are three of censorship was abolished ; but a sort of substitute " the trade” who make the sale of foreign works for it remains, in the very stringent laws against a prominent feature in their business. During the libel. In the year 1830, there were in France last ten years, an average of £8000 has been an620 printers, residing in 283 towns, and 1124 nually paid for duties on foreign works imported booksellers and stationers ; all of whom are obliged into Great Britain.* The value of such books imto be brevetés, that is, licensed, and sworn to abide ported in 1843 was £ 132,019. by certain prescribed rules. A Paris paper states that their press had produced within the last year as many as 6377 works in the dead and living The Power of the Soul over the Body, considered languages, 1338 prints and engravings, 100 musi

in relation to Health and Morals. By GEORGE cal works, 51 maps and charts; whilst the copies

Moore, M. D., &c. of newspapers struck off amounted in number to The first apparent purpose of Dr. Moore is to 34,750,000.

prove that the soul is immaterial and has an existIn Italy there is no regular intercourse whatever ence separate from the body, with an action apart among booksellers. It is only with the greatest from the brain, and depending as a medium rather trouble and expense that a work published in any upon the nervous system. With this object he part of Italy can be procured in a remote town not goes over a large extent of ground, physiological, belonging to the same government. The counter- metaphysical, and physical-in the sense of the feiting of books is so prevalent, that one printed disease or ill effects induced by disordered action at Milan is counterfeited at Florence, and vice or disordered emotions. During this long survey,

The censorship also presses heavily on all he brings together a great number of curious facts kinds of publications, much more so than in Ger- relative to the operations of the mind in health, in many. The customs duty on foreign works is so disease, and in the abnormal states of insanity, enormous, that it is cheaper to pirate popular mesmerism, and somnambulism; but without inbooks than to import them. In the kingdoin of ducing conviction in his main object; since, the Two Sicilies, each octavo volume has to pay 3 thought, or rather mental volition, is impossible to carlini, or 18. entrance duty; a quarto volume o matter, then is the mind of brutes immaterial. arlini; and a volume in folio 10 or 3s. 4d. We are not sure that Dr. Moore might deny this

In Holland, the chief seat of the book-trade is conclusion ; but if it be admitted, no religious Amsterdam, which boasts of 80 booksellers, who results can be deduced from immateriality. Somehave adopted the German system in dealing with thing of the same logical defect may be visible in their provincial brethren, of whom there are 101. the practical conclusions aimed at. We all know In 1828 there were published in Holland 770 new the power of the mind; how the health and the books. In Belgium, Brussels is almost the only functions of the body are controlled by it; how town where works of any note are published. one passion or emotion is subdued by another They consist principally of republications of more powerful. The difficulties lie in the discovFrench and English works, which are much in ery and application of the proper stimuli, so as to demand, on account of their neatness and cheap- act not at random but by rule, and safely as well

There are several extensive printing estab-as regularly ; for intense emotion may not only lishments at Brussels, and also a joint company of injure health but destroy life, as some of Dr. publishers, whose open and avowed aim is the Moore's instances show. Proper nutriment and counterfeiting of good French and English works, proper exercise are the true principles for a healthy published often at the same time as the original human being, if we could but apply them; though, edition, or very soon after. By the constitution perhaps, the mens sana in corpore sano requires a of 25th February, 1831, Belgium enjoys an exten- good basis to proceed upon. If, however, Dr. sive freedom of the press. In the year 1838, Moore's conclusions are not altogether convincing, there appeared in Belgium 84 periodicals, of which his book is curious, and attractive from the num40 were published at Brussels.* In other conti- ber of curious facts he has collected together. nental countries, the trade carried on in books is almost nominal. Before we glance at the book-trade at home

PLAYING CHESS BY TELEGRAPH.-A novel and which we shall do in a concluding article-we amusing game of chess was yesterday played by must notice the increasing demand for foreign the electric telegraph of the South Western Railbooks which has recently taken place in Great way, between Mr. Staunton at one end of the Britain. From the continental peace, which, hap- railway, and Mr. Walker, the well-known writer pily, has not been disturbed since 1815, the im- on chess, at the other. The players, though thus portation into this country of foreign works has separated nearly one hundred miles apart, played, steadily augmented. Free commercial intercourse through the rapid and accurate communication once established with our continental brethren, in- afforded by the telegraph, with the greatest ease tellectual and literary intercommunion followed ; and facility. After an unusually long contest, in and to render this the more effectual, the French, which both gentlemen well maintained their estabGerman, and Italian languages have been of late lished repute, the game was declared to be a extensively studierl. Books in those languages drawn one, each party being left with one rook (especially in the two former) have therefore been and three pawns on the board. eagerly read, and a demand for them increases daily. Five-and-twenty years ago, there was no

* This duty was, on books printea previous to 1801,

il. per cwt. ; on those printed after, ‘51. By the new * See the Quarterly Journal of the Statistical Society, tariff of 1843, the latter item is reduced to 2. 108. per vol, iii.

ness.

cwt.

From Fraser's Magazine. RHYMES OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.

1.

THE HAUNTED TARN ON THE MOOR.

There lies a lonely mountain tarn

On Albyn's wildest ground,
Scarce known but to the heather bee

On homeward errand bound,
Or to the wearied shepherd boy

Who seeks his charge around.
It is a solitary moor,

Girt by a giant band
Schihallion throned, like Jove on high,

With his thunders in his hand ;
While a hundred lesser mighty ones

In glory 'neath him stand.
From either side, below the tarn,

Two vales together blend ;
Loch Tummel and Loch Rannoch stretch

Their arms from end to end ;
Down to their margins from the steep

The yellow birches bend.
Hamlets and wooded knolls are there,

And fields of plumy grain,
And troops of happy villagers

Work busy in the plain ;
But tillage on this mountain moor

Were all bestowed in vain.
No plough has torn its clotted moss,

No foliage waves in sight,
Save one dark clump of ragged pines

On a small barren height-
A fearful place it were to pass

On a gusty winter night!
A tale is told of battle fought

Twixt clans a feud that bare :
The Robertsons, by Stewarts chased

From Rannoch's forest lair,
Turned by the lonely tarn at bay,

And took them unaware.
Then had the Robertsons revenge,

Their foes were rash and few;
The waters gurgled red with blood

Their mossy basin through, Nor was a Stewart left to tell

What hand his clansmen slew. Down in the vale beside her fire,

The wife of one there slain Sang to the babe was at her breast

That could not sleep for pain ; When, hush! a sound is at her door

Of neither wind nor rain, Nor sound of foot, though shape of man,

Pale, shadowy, blood-defiled,
Withouten latch or turn of binge

Stood by her and her child,
Then glided back with hand outstretch'd

Towards the gloomy wild.
She sprang and call'd her sister dear,

A maiden fresh and young,
"I pray thee tend my little child,

I shall be back ere long;
I fear me lest the Robertsons
Have done my husband wrong."
LIVING AGE.

26

She kissed the babe whose downy limbs

Lay folded in her breast,
She gave it to her sister's charge

From its maternal nest;
Then, with her plaid about her clasp'd,

Unto the moorland press’d.
The shadowy wraith beside her stood

Soon as she closed the door,
And, as she pass'd by kirk and wood,

Still flitted on before,
Guiding her steps across the burn,

Up, up, unto the moor.
The moon was hid in weeds of white,

The night was damp and cold,
The wanderer stumbled in the moss,

Bewildered on the wold,
Till suddenly the clouds were rent,

The tarn before her roll'd.
The heather with strange burdens swellid

On every tuft a corse,
On every stunted juniper,

On every faded gorse ;
The woman sank, and on her lids

Her weak hands press’d with force.
Again she was constrain'd to gaze,-

Lo! on each dead man's brow, A tongue of flame burn'd steadily,

Though there was breeze enow To shake the pines that overhead

Waved black, funereal bough. And, dancing on the sullen loch,

A ghostly troop there went,
Whose airy figures floated high

On the thin element;
And grimly at each other's forms

Their mock claymores they bent.
One brush'd so near, she turn'd her gaze,

She stood transfix'd to stone;
It was the face of him she sought,

Close pressing on her own,
And fell upon her straining ear

One deep and awful moan.
She started back with madden'd shriek-

Shriek echoed by the dead;
She gave a hurried pray'r to heaven,

Then o'er the moorland fled ;
Until she reach'd the village kirk,

She dared not turn her head.
Not long her thread of life endured,

Not long her infant hung
Upon that bosom terror-dried,

That mouth no more that sung: She died, and ever since the tarn

Is shunnid by old and young. For still the gusty breezes raise

The phantom's anguish'd cry, Still on the water's brim they fit

When winter storms are high ;
Still flames, nor wind nor wave can quench;

Are ever burning nigh.
Nay, if you doubt it, wend your way,

In twilight's deepening blue,
And watch beneath those spectral pines

One stormy midnight through ;
And, if your courage fail you not,

You shall behold them too!

LY.

VOL, V.

II.

CULLODEN.

Dabbled with the heather blossoms, red as life

drops of the slain ?

Did ye hide your hunted children from the venThere was tempest on the waters, there was

geance of the foe, darkness on the earth,

Did ye rally back the flying for one last despairWhen a single Danish schooner struggled up the

ing blow? Moray Firth;

No! the Saxon holds dominion, and the humbled Far and grim the Ross-shire mountains loom'd

clans obey, Unfriendly on its track,

And their bones must rot in exile who disdain Shriek’d the wind along their gorges like a suf usurpers' sway.

ferer on the rack, And the utmost deeps were shaken by the stun “He is sunk in wine's oblivion, for whom Highning thunder-peal,

land blood was shed, 'T was a sturdy hand, I trow ye, that was needed Him the kerng most wreiched sheltered with a at the wheel !

price upon his head ;

Beaten down like hounds by whipping, crouch we Though the billows flew about them till the mast

from our master's sight; was hid in spray,

And I tread my native mountains like a robber in Though the timbers strain'd beneath them, still

the night; they bore upon their way,

Spite of tempest, spite of danger, hostile man and Till they reached a fisher village, where the ves

hostile sea, sel they could moor;

Gory field of sad Culloden, I have come to look on Every head was on its pillow when they landed on

thee!'' the shore, And a man of noble presence bade the crew, So he plucked a tuft of heather that was blooming * Wait here for me ;

at his foot, I will come back in the morning, when the sun That was nourished by dead kinsmen and their has left the sea."

bones were at its root ; He was yet in manly vigor, though his lips were

With a sigh he took the blossom, striding quickly ashen white;

to the strand, On his brow were early furrows, in his eyes a

Where the Danish crew awaited 'mong a curious clouded light;

fisher band; Firm his step withal, and hasty, through the Brief his parley, swift his sailing with the tide,

and ne'er again blinding mist so sure, "That he found himself by dawning on a wide and Saw the Moray Firth that stranger or the schooner

of the Dane. barren muir, Only marked by dykes and heather, bare alike of

house and wood, But he knew the purple ridges—'t was Culloden where he stood!

As swarming bees upon the wing, IIe had known it well aforetime, not as now, so

The people crowded o'er the hill ; drcar and quiet;

And now the bell had ceased to ring, "Then astir with battle's horror, drunken with The village kirk had ceased to fill.

destruction's riot ; Now so peaceful and unconscious, that the or. The mountain burn that washed the graves phan'd and exiled

Murmured a hymn while running by ; Was unmann'd to see its calmness, weeping And with the solemn chime of waves weakly as a child :

A hundred voices clomb the sky. And a thought arose of madness, and his hand

The sunbeams through the open door was ou his sword, But he crush'd the coward impulse, and he spoke And, messengers of gladness, bore

Came streaming in across the place, the bitter word:

Heaven's radiance to each humble face. “ I am here, O sons of Scotland, ye who perish'd for your king;

On upturned foreheads, sage and good, In the misty wreaths before me I can see your

They lingered with seraphic smile, tartans swing;

When in the darkened doorway stood: I can hear your slogan, comrades, who 10 Saxon A stranger man, and paused awhile.

never knelt,Oh, that I had died among ye with the fortunes His raiment had a foreign air, of the Celt!

His brow was burnt by foreign skies ;

And there was fierceness in his stare "There he rode, our princely warrior, and his That suited ill devotion's eyes.

features wore the same Pallid shape of deep foreboding as the First one He looked around with changing cheek, of his name,

Then hurried to the nearest pew, Ay, as gloomy was his sunset, though no Scot his As

one whose heart, too full to speak, life betray'd,

Those time-worn stairs and benches knew Better plunge in bloody glory, than go down in shame and shade.

The preacher eyed him as he went,

Remembrance on his features shone ; *** Stormy hills, did ye protect him, that o'erlook His pleading waxed more eloquent, Culloden's plain,

A warmer pity fired his tone.

III.

THE BALLAD OF EVAN DHU.

“Why will ye die who know full well

With inexpressive sweetness smil'd Your sentence just, our warning true ?

Her eyes, that knew not friend from friend, The Lord our God is terrible,

While, harmless as a gentle child, And yet the Lord hath bled for you!

Her daily steps would church-ward tend. " Whate'er your weakness, e'er your guilt, Ah, Evan Dhu! beside thee sat His fountains wash the blackest crime;

This idol of thy boy romance; Ah! not in vain his blood was spilt !

Ah, Evan Dhu! return'd 100 late Turn, sinners, in th’ Accepted Time !"

To wilder'd brain and vacant glance !
The stranger stirred, as ill at ease,

She knew him not, but chanted low
And shunned the preacher's earnest gaze; An ancient lay of love and sorrow,
When, strong as wind that shakes the irees, And aye its sad returning flow
Up swelled the stately Paraphrase :

Was “Smile to-day, grief comes to-morrow." “ As long as life its term extends

But many years were yet for him, Hope's blest dominion never ends ;

A penitent, heart-broken man, For, while the lamp holds on to burn,

To drain a cup that o'er the brim The greatest sinner may return."

With bitter juice of memory ranFrom lisping child and tuneful girl

Long years for him to tend the maid, The glorious measure rolled on high ;

Whose restless eyes still turn'd away, Ah, Evan Dhu, the battle's whirl

Who spoke his name but to upbraid Ne'er sent such dimness to thine eye!

With tender plaints the Far-away. Oft on the lawless Spanish main,

Dire was his penance, by her side, When pirate colors shamed thy mast,

To mark the wreck, to feel the shame, The voice of that reproving strain

She never knew him, though she died Al midnight o'er thy slumbers passed !

Calling on his beloved name.

IV.

Oft heaving on the southern swell,

A thousand watery leagues from land, Thy village kirk's familiar bell

Rang through the stillness, close at hand.
Hope's blest dominion !” for those years,
Thy reckless youth, thy hardened prime !
The stricken wretch arose in tears,

And fled as from pursuing crime.
The hymn sank down, the singers' eyes

Each other sought in wondering dread,
Until an old man spake, with sighs,

“My son is living who was dead!
“ Yes, 't is the son whom I have wept

As false to God, and lost to me ;
But he whose hand the wanderer kept,

Will set the slave of Satan free.'

With tears upon his visage old,

The trembling father sought his son, Who, flung upon the heathy mould,

Einbraced his mother's burial-stone.

THE OLD HOUSE OF URRARD.
Dost fear the grim brown twilight?

Dost care to walk alone
When the firs upon the hill-top

With human voices moan?
When the river in his channel

Doth twist through craggy linn,
Like one who cannot sleep o' nights

For evil thoughts within ?
When the hooting owls are silent

The ghostly sounds to hark
In the ancient house of Urrard,

When the night is still and dark ?
There are graves about old Urrard,

Huge mounds by rock and tree,
And they who lie beneath them

Died fighting by Dundee.
Far down along the valley,

And up along the hill,
The fight of Killiecrankie

Has left a story still;
But thickest show the traces,

And thickest throng the sprites,
In the woods about old Urrard

On the gloomy winter nights.
In the garden of old Urrard,

Among the bosky yews,
Uprears a turfy hillock,

Refresh'd by faithful dews ;
Here died the Highland captain,

By charméd silver ball,
And all the might of victory

Dropp'd nerveless in his fall;
Last hope of exiled Stuart,

Last heir of chivalrie-
In the garden of old Urrard

He fell, the great Dundee !
In the ancient house of Urrard

There's many a hiding den

A woman sat beside the tomb ;

Her youth was fled, her eyes were dim; For she had lived away her bloom

In agonizing thoughis of him. Ah, Evan Dhu! beloved of yore,

Thy wooing met no coy denial ; But pleasure gilt a foreign shore,

And she was left to faith and trial ! Thou, all unworthy of her love,

Debased thy heart to low desires ; She was a star that watched above

The marshes' false, uncertain fires. Long watched, long waited, till, at last,

Her soul was from its anchor driven ; And reason was by love o'ercast,

And every link of memory riven.

The very walls are hollow

Here came the gay fawn, bounding To succor flying men ;

Its dappled dam to greet; For not e'en lady's chamber

Heard they my rude roar sounding, Barr'd out the fierce affray,

Methinks their hoof were fleet. And couch and silken hanging

Here rose the lark at morning, Were stain'd with blood that day:

The blythe thrush warbled here ; From yonder secret passage

Saw they my black throat yawning, Hack'd sword, and skull, and bone,

They'd tumble in with fear! Were brought to light in Urrard,

Hither came Youth and Beauty, When years had pass'd and gone.

Light steps and laughter gay;

Methinks her face were sooty, If thou sleep alone in Urrard,

Who gaz'd too near to-day. Perchance in midnight gloom

But lo ! with axe on shoulder, Thou'lt hear behind the wainscot

The skilful artisanOf that old haunted room

Surely, there is none bolder A feshless hand that knocketh,

Than that strange creature, manA wail that cries on thee,

He came, and hew'd the forestAnd rattling limbs that struggle

He dug beneath the soil To break out and be free.

His toil was of the sorest, It is a thought of horror,

Yet he reck'd not of his toil. I would not sleep alone

Daily and nightly-deeper In the haunted rooms of Urrard,

Beneath the earth he div'dWhere evil deeds were done.

Woe! to the ling'ring sleeper! Up in the dusty garrets,

Woe! to the newly-wiv'd. That stretch along the roof,

Why bor'st thou, thou that borest? Stand chests of ancient garments,

Delver, why delv'st thou so? of gold and silken woof.

Aboye ye grew the forestWhen men are lock'd in slumber

Seek' ye fresh groves below ? The rustling sounds are heard

They had hewn wood in the meadow, Of dainty ladies' dresses,

They found more wood below; Of laugh and whisper'd word,

For beneath that pit's dark shadow,
Of waving wind of feathers,

Thick trunk on trunk did grow.
And steps of dancing feet,

'T was cual, they said-rich treasure ! In the garrets of old Urrard,

And, faith, right glad were they.
Where the winds of winter beat.

They found great store—"No measure

Can mete it out,” they say: By the ancient house of Urrard

Coal! 'tis the diamond's brother! Its warder mountain sits ;

Strange speech, I ween, yet true; Whene'er those sounds arouse him

Of one substance and one mother,
His cloudy brow he knits ;

Diverse enough their hue!
For he the feast remembers,

This coal I feed on nightly-
Remembers too the fray,

Coal, I devour by day
And to him flee ihe spectres

Heap, heap on the more brightly At breaking of the day.

I burn, the more I'll say.
There under inossy lichen

And lo! in other places
They couch with hare and fox,

They delv'd beneath the sod,
Near the ancient house of Urrard,

And cheeried grew their faces, 'Mong Ben-y-Vrachy's rocks.

And with lighter step they trod. “ Ho! ho ! black iron, they shouted,

“Great luck is ours to-day!” From Hood's Magazine.

They laughed.

6. What dullard doubted

There was treasure in this clay? MOLOCH, OR THE SONG OF THE FURNACE.

Erewhile, men said, earth riches

Wave with the golden corn;

Our darksome pits and ditches The Fire that saith not,' It is enough.'

Prov. xxx. 16.

The cravens laugh'd to scorn. Heap on the coal! my masters !

Say, will they laugh, when, clashing

Farmer with artisan,
Stint not the food I love ;

In banded conflict dashing
I need no banquet-tasters,
Its wholesomeness to prove.

Black iron against red grain

Shall fill the world with anguish,
Heap on! with hand unsparing,

Tumult, and wild dismay,
And scuttle and shovel light:

Till the grim ore shall vanquish
I'll sing ye songs worth hearing !

Grain's bonded knavery?".
Deem ye me dumb to-night ?
Mine is a mirthful story,

Then took they brick, and daily

Made me more tall and strong-
Though haply sad to you-
Say, would ye wot of glory?

(Ye must ply my fire more gaily,

An ye would hear my song:)
Then list-my tale is true!

Then took they fire, and taught me
Whilom, this spot was meadow,

On all that burns to feed :
Where now I roar at night;

I ate up all they brought me,
O'er the greensward, sun and shadow

Nor knew I ought of need.
Danc'd in succession bright.

Days, nights, weeks, months, yea longer,

E. A. H. 0.

BY EDWARD JOHN SELWYN.

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