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My thoughts are wandering 'mang yon braes,
An' aye the lass I think I see,

Wha trippet ower yon craggy rocks,


Ae joyfu' simmer day wi' me.

There's nane can tell what's yet to come,
But round my heart I will entwine,

The hope, that time will bring the day,
Whan I can ca' yon lassie mine.


New Publications-Narrative of a Residence in Algiers.

Extracts from New Publications.


By Signor Penanti, an Italian.

The author taking his passage in a Sicilian brig, bound for Palermo, with the anxious intention of revisiting his native land, is unfortunately encountered by an Algerine Corsair, and taken prisoner, with the rest of the passengers on board. He thus relates this sad event:

"Before we had recovered from our stupor, we were led off under the Grand Scrivano and Guardian Basha, who conducted us over a considerable part of the city, accompanied by a great number of spectators. It being Friday the Moorish Sabbath, hundreds of the infidels, in coming from the mosques, were soon attracted in every direction to enjoy this new spectacle of degraded Christianity. Arrived at the palace of the Pacha, inhabited at present by the Dey, the first objects that struck our eyes were six bleeding heads ranged along before the entrance. They were the heads of some turbulent Agas; our fears naturally represented them as having been severed from the bodies of Christians, and purposely placed there to terrify the new inmates of this fatal region. Being ordered to arrange ourselves before the Dey's window to feast the despot's eyes, he soon approached, looked at us with a mingled smile of exultation and contempt, then making a sign with his hand, we were ordered to depart. In passing through the dark and filthy court-yard, we were surrounded by a multitude of slaves, bearing about them all the signs of abandoned sufferers. They were ragged, lank, and haggard, with the head drooping, eyes sunk and distorted; cheeks imprinted by the furrows of protracted wretchedness, which seemed to have withered the soul, and by destroying the finer impulses of their nature, left no trace of pity for the sufferings of others."

Turn we from this horrid picture before we come to greater horrors, the least among which is that of Christians devouring with frightful avidity, a scanty piece of black bread, thrown to them on the ground like dogs. Signor Penanti escapes the dreadful fate of perpetual slavery; the Dey casts his eyes on him, and determines to appropriate him to himself, having heard of his talents, of which he desires to avail him

Fearon's Sketches of America.

self as his Secretary. The guardian Basha informs him of the intended honour, but Penanti naturally wishes to decline a post of so much danger under an arbitrary despot.

6 By what accident, has the Dey condescended to cast his eyes on me?' The Busha answered, it was always customary for the Pacha to have a slave for his Secretary; one of these infidel dogs having betrayed his trust, the Dey had his head struck off. Another came, but the rogue used to carry news to the European consuls, and he was condemned to die under the bastinado. A Jew was next taken into the service of his highness, but as he only thought of making money, the treasures were used, and himself burnt. A Moor and Arab were successively tried without effect, and after being removed, had their heads taken off to prevent telling tales. The Dey having once more determined to try a Christian, you are the happy man upon whom he has fixed his choice!"

An anecdote of the jealousy of a Moor must conclude our notice of this entertaining work:

"A Bey wishing to have his mistress painted, sent for an artist who had just arrived, and ordered him to go to work with all possible dispatch and bring him the picture when finished." Your Highness has only to let me see the lady whose portrait I am to have the honour of painting." "What!" interrupted the enraged Mahometan," do you suppose, I will let you see my wife?"" How then," rejoined the painter, "can I represent her?"-" Retire!" exclaimed the Bey with eyes flashing fury," If I cannot have her portrait without exposing her to your eyes, I would rather a thousands times forego that pleasure. It was in vain the astonished painter endeavoured to reason; he was forced to make good his retreat, congratulating himself on having escaped bein thrown out of the window."

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Extract from


"On the 20th of September, I walked to Bunker's Hill; it is about two miles from the centre of Boston. The young gentleman who accompanied me is a native of the town, and yet did not know the road to this spot-sacred to patriotism and liberty. The monument placed here in commemoration of the victory is brick and wood, without an inscription;-except what is supplied by the boyish tricks of visitors, who disfigure it with their names. "J. Fessenden 1817.”

Translations from Burger.

is cut out in every direction; so anxious are obscure blockheads for posthumous fame. At the bottom of this hill are now lying two most unexpected and far-famed monuments of national glory-the frigates Guerriere and Java, named after two taken from the British. What would a Franklin, a Patrick Henry, or a Washington have felt, could they have foreseen these things! In the afternoon of this day, young Mr. Adams came from Quincy to conduct me to his grandfather's (the late president) at that place. We sailed out of the har bour by way of Hingham; this route increases the distance 13 miles. The inner and outer harbours are both handsome; they are more extended, but have not that compact and varied beauty which so peculiarly belongs to those of New York. We passed Forts Warren and Independence, near which the inhabitants in 1814,, were stationed in shoals of boats, viewing the contest between the Chesapeake and Shannon. So confident were they of the succes of their countrymen, that dinners were absolutely prepared in Boston for both the victors and the vanquished; but in this they were sorely disappointed by the event.



1.-The Alehouse Dog.

A traveller once on business bound,
Pursued his quiet path,

When from an alehouse door, a hound,
Yelling to aid his collar's sound,
Displayed his teeth in wrath :
But honest Darby passing on,
Without uplifting stick or stone,
Moved only at a smarter pace,

And Pugnose ceased his boisterous chase.
It chanced a beau, dressed a-la-mode,
Came dashing up the self-same road:
Confound your soul, you surly bitch,
A stone within your brains I'll hitch,—
He fiercely cried-while Pugnose yelling,
His back and beard with vengeance swelling,
.Gave battle to his dashing foé,

Who stones began and turfs to throw,

And sternly grasped at all around him,

And curs'd the dog-to death he'd wound him.
The puppy snarled at every stone,

And keeping up the war with might,
Hurled bold defiance in his spite,
And sought now coat, now stick to bite,

Till favoured by his foe's sad plight,

Translations from Burger.

He fairly bit him to the bone,
And yelled so loud, that neighbours all,
Children and mothers great and small,
To doors and windows ran;

And school-boys, glorying in the fun,
Huzza'd and cheer'd bold Pugnose on,
To prove himself a man.

But now the beau began to find
His toil and wrath were vain
And, slow retiring from the din,
Which Pugnose gloried to have won,
He paced his road again:

While boys and dogs, and all about;
Sent forth a glorious triumph shout;
And still prolonged the joyous route,
Till, o'er the village sward of green,
The humbled beau no more was seen.

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