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length grew tired of its gambols, and with a sharp fragment of rock struck it between the eyes. It sunk with a sudden plunge, and did not rise for ten minutes after, when it appeared a full mile astern. This narrative was but the first of I know not how many, of a similar cast, which presented to my imagination the Bhodrymore whale and hun-fish in every possible point of view. The latter, a voracious formidable animal of the shark species, frequently makes great havoc among the tackle with which cod and haddock are caught. Like the shark, it throws itself on its back when in the act of seizing its prey. The fishermen frequently see it lying motionless, its white belly glittering through the water, a few fathoms from the boat's side, employed in stripping off every fish from their hooks as the line is drawn over it. This formidable animal is from six to ten feet in length, and formed like the common shark.

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which the occupations of the fisherman mingle with the sublime scenes of the Moray Frith. But this description I will not attempt. Your readers must have already anticipated it. If not, let them picture to themselves the shores of a seaport town crowded with human figures, and its harbour with boats and vessels of trade. Let them imagine the bustle of the workshop combining with the confusion of the crowded fair! You, Mr. Editor, who have seen Holbein's "Dance of Death," would perhaps not question the soundness of the imagination that would body forth so busy a scene as the dance of commerce. Sailors, fishermen, curers, mechanics, all engaged, lead up the ball amid heaps of fish that glitter to the sun, tiers of casks and pyramids of salt. Hark to the music! It is a wild combination of irregular sounds,-the hammering of mechanics, the rolling of casks, the rattling of carts, and the confused hum of a thousand voices.

HAIDEE.1

One of the boatmen's stories, though somewhat in the Munchausen style, I shall take the liberty of relating. Two Cromarty men, many years ago, were employed on a fine calm day in angling for coal-fish and rock-cod, with rods and hand-lines. Their little skiff rode to a large oblong stone, which served for an anchor, nearly opposite a rocky spire termed the Chapel, three miles south of Shandwick. Suddenly the stone was raised from the bottom with a jerk, and the boat began to move. "What can this mean," exclaimed the elder of the men, pulling in his rod, "we have surely broken loose, but who could have thought that there ran such a current here!" The other, a young daring fellow, John Clark by name, remarked in reply, that the apparent course of the skiff was directly contrary to that of the current. The motion, which was at first gentle, increased to a frightful velocity; Love was born with them, in them, so intense the rope ahead was straightened until the very stem cracked; and the sea rose upon either bows into a furrow that nearly overtopped the gunwale. "Old man," said the young fellow, "didst thou ever see the like o' that!" "Guid save us, boy," said the other, "cut, cut the swing." "Na, na, bide a wee first, I manna skaith the rape: didst thou ever see the like o' that!" In a few minutes, according to the story, they were dragged in this manner nearly two miles, when the motion ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the skiff rode to the swing as before.

Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness,
Which mixed all feelings-friend, child, lover, brother,
All that the best can mingle and express
When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another,
And love too much, and yet cannot love less;
But almost sanctify the sweet excess

By the immortal wish and power to bless.

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart,
Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart;
Why did they not then die?-they had lived too long

The scenes exhibited on the shores of

Cromarty, during the busy season of the fishing, afford nearly as much scope for description, though of a different character, as those in

Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong;
The world was not for them, nor the world's art
For beings passionate as Sappho's song;

It was their very spirit-not a sense.

title page.

The first two cantos of Don Juan appeared in 1819; neither author's nor publisher's name was given on the But the authorship was at once divined and proclaimed by the critics. The work was roundly abused for its immorality, but all acknowledged its marvellous power, and the brilliant gems of poetry which thickly studded the production throughout they were the stars which gave their light to good and bad impartially. Byron complained often, and with reason, that his personality was always identified with the heroes of his imagination. Of the purpose of Dor Juan, he said, it was "to remove the cloak which the manners and maxims of society throw over their secret

sins, and show them to the world as they really are." the above, that may be safely read by those whose Notwithstanding, it is only selected portions, such as judgment has not obtained complete control of passion.

They should have lived together deep in woods, Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes

HAIDEE.

Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care:
How lonely every freeborn creature broods!
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair;
The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow
Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below.

Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep,
Haidee and Juan their siesta took,
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep,
For ever and anon a something shook
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep:
And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook
A wordless music, and her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind
Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream,
The mystical usurper of the mind-
O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem

Good to the soul which we no more can bind;
Strange state of being! (for 'tis still to be)
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.

She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore,
Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir
She could not from the spot, and the loud roar
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her;
And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour,

Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were
Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high-
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.
Anon-she was released, and then she stray'd
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet,
And stumbled almost every step she made;
And something rolled before her in a sheet,
Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid :

Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasped,
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd.

The dream changed; in a cave she stood, its walls
Were hung with marble icicles; the work
Of ages on its water-fretted halls,

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lark;

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, Which froze to marble as it fell-she thought.

And wet, and cold, and lifeless, at her feet,
Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow,
Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!)
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat

Of his quenched heart; and the sea dirges low
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song,
And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.

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A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes

Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; And her head droop'd as when the lily lies

O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes;

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store,
But she defied all means they could employ,
Like one life could not hold-nor death destroy!

Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though chill—
With nothing livid, still her lips were red;
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still;
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead;
Corruption came not, in each mind to kill

All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul-
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.

The ruling passion, such as marble shows

When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; O'er the Laocoon's all-eternal throes, And ever-dying Gladiator's air,

Their like life forms all their fame, energy Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.

She woke at length-but not as sleepers wake-
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new,
A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view
Struck not her memory, though a heavy achie

Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true, Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the furies made a pause.

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;
She saw them watch her, without asking why,
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat;
Not speechless, though she spoke not: not a sigh
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat
Were tried in vain by those who served-she gave
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;
Her father watch'd-she turn'd her eyes away-
She recognized no being, and no spot,

However dear or cherish'd in their day;
They changed from room to room, but all forgot,
Gentle, but without memory she lay:

At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning.

And then a slave bethought her of a harp;
The harper came and tuned his instrument;
At the first notes-irregular and sharp-

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent;
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart resent; And he began a long low island song,

Of ancient days-ere tyranny grew strong.

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall

In time to his old tune; he changed the theme, And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so, being in a gushing stream The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

Short solace!-vain relief!-thought came too quick,
And whirled her brain to madness: she arose
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met as on her foes;
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close:
Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave,
Even when they smote her-in the hope to save.
Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense;

Nothing could make her meet her father's face,
Though on all other things with looks intense

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence

Avail'd for either; neither change of place,
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her
Senses to sleep-the power seem'd gone for ever.
Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show

A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd;
And they who watch'd her nearest could not know
The very instant, till the change that cast

Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow,
Glazed o'er her eyes-the beautiful, the black-
Oh! to possess such lustre-and then lack!
She died-but not alone; she held within

A second principle of life-which might
Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin;
But closed its little being without light,
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight;
In vain the dews of heaven descend above
The bleeding flower, and blasted fruit of love.

Thus lived-thus died she; never more on her

Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth; her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful-such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell.

That isle is now all desolate and bare,

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away, None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fairNo stone is there to show-no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow seas, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.

LORD BYRON.

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THE DEAN OF SANTIAGO.

an adept in that wonderful science, and if you will receive me for your pupil, there is nothing I should think of sufficient worth to repay your friendship." "Good sir," replied Don Julian, "I should be extremely loath to offend you; but permit me to say, that in spite of the knowledge of causes and effects which I have acquired, all that my experience teaches me of the heart of man is not only vague and indistinct, but for the most part unfavourable. I only guess, I cannot read their thoughts, nor pry into the recesses of their minds. As for yourself, I am sure you are a rising man and likely to obtain the first dignities of the church. But whether, when you find yourself in places of high honour and patronage, you will remember the humble personage of whom you now ask a hazardous and important service, it is impossible for me to ascertain." "Nay, nay," exclaimed the dean, "but I know myself, if you do not, Don Julian. Generosity and friendship (since you force me to speak in my own praise) have been the delight of my soul even from childhood. Doubt not, my dear friend (for by that name I wish you would allow me to call you), doubt not, from this moment, to command my services. Whatever interest I may possess, it will be my highest gratification to see it redound in favour of you and yours.' My hearty thanks for all, worthy sir," said Don Julian. “But let us now proceed to business: the sun is set, and, if you please, we will retire to my private study."

dignity of manner, led his good-natured host to the recess of an oriel window looking upon the river. "Allow me, dear Don Julian," he said, "to open my heart to you; for even your It was but a short hour before noon when hospitality must fail to make me completely the Dean of Santiago alighted from his mule happy till I have obtained the boon which I at the door of Don Julian, the celebrated came to ask. I know that no man ever pos magician of Toledo. The house, according to sessed greater power than you over the invisold tradition, stood on the brink of the per-ible agents of the universe. I die to become pendicular rock which, now crowned with the Alcazar, rises to a fearful height over the Tagus. A maid of Moorish blood led the dean to a retired apartment, where Don Julian was reading. The natural politeness of a Castilian had rather been improved than impaired by the studies of the Toledan sage, who exhibited nothing either in his dress or person that might induce a suspicion of his dealing with the mysterious powers of darkness. "I heartily greet your reverence," said Don Julian to the dean, "and feel highly honoured by this visit. Whatever be the object of it, let me beg you will defer stating it till I have made you quite at home in this house. I hear my housekeeper making ready the noonday meal. That maid, sir, will show you the room which has been prepared for you; and when you have brushed off the dust of the journey, you shall find a canonical capon steaming hot upon the board." The dinner, which soon followed, was just what a pampered Spanish canon would wish it abundant, nutritive, and delicate. "No, no," said Don Julian, when the soup and a bumper of Tinto had recruited the dean's spirits, and he saw him making an attempt to break the object of his visit, "no business, please your reverence, while at dinner. Let us enjoy our meal at present; and when we have discussed the Olla, the capon, and a bottle of Yepes, it will be time enough to turn to the cares of life." The ecclesiastic's full face had never beamed with more glee at the collation on Christmas-eve, when, by the indulgence of the church, the fast is broken at sunset, instead of continuing through the night, than it did now under the influence of Don Julian's good humour and heart-cheering wine. Still it was evident that some vehement and ungovernable wish had taken possession of his mind, break-locking the door, he began to descend by a ing out now and then in some hurried motion, winding staircase. The dean followed with a some gulping up of a full glass of wine without certain degree of trepidation, which the length stopping to relish the flavour, and fifty other of the stairs greatly tended to increase; for, to symptoms of absence and impatience, which all appearance, they reached below the bed of at such a distance from the cathedral could the Tagus. At this depth a comfortable neat not be attributed to the afternoon bell. The room was found, the walls completely covered time came at length of rising from table, and with shelves, where Don Julian kept his works in spite of Don Julian's pressing request to on magic; globes, planispheres, and strange have another bottle, the dean, with a certain | drawings, occupied the top of the bookcases.

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Lights being called for, Don Julian led the way to the lower part of the house; and dismissing the Moorish maid near a small door, of which he held the key in his hand, desired her to get two partridges for supper, but not to dress them till he should order it: then un

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