belong to the circumstance of his birth-how the fishers feared to meet him alone, and how he did not mingle with other boys, but strayed away by himself, climbing the loftiest and most dangerous rocks, "to watch the sunset on the sea," and how he became the best and boldest boatman on the lake.

"But most his mood was pensiveness
When he would dreaming lie,
As if beneath the bubbling wave

Strange visions met his eye,
And whoso next he looked upon,

They said was soon to die.

Thus half we clung to him in love,
And half we shrank in dread,
Until he grew to be my friend

And hers, that maiden dead,
And words of angel sympathy

To him she pitying said."

The natural consequence followed-he loved Mary of the Oakenshaws-was necessarily rejected, and leaving her without upbraiding or complaint, went to sea.

Again he returned, and met the lovers as they were preparing to cross the loch. He warned them against the attempt, foretelling that it would end in disaster; but his warning was disregarded, and then he sprung into the boat beside them, that he might share Mary's fate. It was a lovely evening as they returned from their excur sion, so lovely that

"E'en Willie Bhane in that repose

Forgot his fatal gift."

The catastrophe is thus told :

"Then one by one we sank in thought,
And each began to muse;

Our hearts absorbed the gentle calm
As flowers the summer dews,
When Mary's voice spontaneously
Its magic did infuse.

So sweet she sang, so soft she sang,
She wiled our hearts away;
Forgetful of the helm and oar
We drifted from the ray

Of moonlight to the darkest shades
And shallows of the bay.

So sweet she sang, so sad she sang,
Our tears she did unlock;
When, all unsteered, the helpless boat
Drove rudely on a rock,
And by an eddying tide engulfed
Heeled over in the shock.

The music still was in our ears

Of that entrancing burst,

When we were struggling for our lives
In chillest waves immersed,

And madly grasping at the clothes
Of her who sank the first.

"Twas but a second-swimmers strong,
We both the deep could brave,
And near us lay the sheltering land,
But she was in the wave,

And Willie Bhane sank hopelessly

With her he died to save!"

The other poem, of which we extract a part, "The Vow of Ian Lom," relates to a very remarkable character. Ian Lom Macdonald was born, says Mrs. Ogilvy—

"In the reign of James VI. of Scotland, and lived, it was alleged, till that of Queen Anne, a spectator and eloquent denouncer of the union of the two kingdoms. His poetical genius was of a high order, entirely devoted to the Jacobite cause, which he advanced as much, if not more, by his songs as others did by their claymores. He accompanied Montrose in most of his marches, and commemorated his victories. Charles II. created him Gaelic Poet-Laureate, a distinction of which he was justly proud, and which, beginning in his person, died in his death, never having been conferred on a successor. Ian Lom's last fight was the fatal victory of Killiecrankie, where he had gone with

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Dundee, whose hapless fall in the very heat of success he laments with even more than his accustomed fervour. The story of the poem is strictly true. The two young Macdonalds of Keppoch, chieftains of the tribe to which Ian Lom belonged, were murdered by a family of the same name, a father and six sons, who were tacksmen on the lands of Keppoch, and had some private quarrel with the youths. The uncle of these unhappy brothers was present, but neither interfered to prevent the deed, nor took any subsequent steps to bring the criminals to justice. But the devoted and intrepid Scannachie was bound to his chieftains by closer ties than those of relationship. Indignant at the kinsman's apathy, he went from house to house, and from castle to castle, calling for vengeance on the assassins. After many fruitless attempts, he at last obtained from government a commission to take the murderers, dead or alive, and from Sir James Macdonald of Sleat, a body of men sufficient to execute the commission. The seven guilty men defended themselves with unparalleled bravery, barricading their house, and fighting till they fell dead beside their own hearthstone. Ian Lom has preserved the dirk with which they had slain their chieftains, and its edge was now turned against themselves."

r

THE VOW OF IAN LOM.

'Through the beeches by the river,
In whose shades a man might lurk,
Who is he that wildly searcheth,
Brandishing a dripping dirk ?
On the night air, gore bedabbled,
Streams the mantle at his back,-
Ian Lom, the Blood Avenger,

Hurrying on the murderer's track!
Whither fled those caitiff brothers,
When the assassin's work was o'er ?
To the fastness of the mountain--
To the caverns on the shore?
Doth the kinsman's wrath pursue them,
In whose sight the deed befel?
Or at peace, upon their homestead,
Are the guilty left to dwell?

Now with screaming of the pibroch-
Now with coronach and cry,
Clansmen bear the sons of Keppoch
In their father's grave to lie.
Wherefore silent is the minstrel ?

Chants he not their young renown,
Who went forth in manhood's glory
Where the red hand struck them down?

Ere the rites are fully ended

Ere the mourners hie them home,
In the midst, with head uncovered,
Hear me vow!' quoth Ian Lom;
Till my chieftains be avenged
Song shall be foresworn by me,
Woman's heart and woman's beauty,
Minstrel's praise and minstrel's fee!'

On his brows he thrust his bonnet,
Turned and strode along the vale,
And the clansmen of Macdonald
Answered with a thrilling wail.
Deep it swelled from manly bosom,
Silvery sad from woman's tongue;
On the fresh-heaped grave of Keppoch
Like a cloud of grief it hung.

Oh! the minstrel's words were mighty,
And the minstrel's soul was strong,
With a more than mortal passion
Writhing to avenge the wrong.
Journeying swift to hall and castle,
Fearlessly he told his tale,
Crying, 'Vengeance for the orphans
Is the glory of the Gael!'

*

Journeying swift by firth and ferry,
Early starting, resting late,
Soon he reached the knight Macdonald
On the distant shores of Sleat.
Loud the minstrel's voice resounded
Through the rugged halls of Knock,
And he shook the chief with passion,
As the earthquake shakes the rock.

'Faithful vassal, truthful minstrel,

By the fell or by the flood,
I will find those sons of Dougal-
Shedders of the guiltless blood !
Forth he sent, that western chieftain,
Clansmen armed in strong array,
Ian Lom, the Blood Avenger,

Went to guide them on their way. Hunted home into their dwelling, Strongly barred with stone and wood, Pale of face, but firm of purpose,

By the door those traitors stood. Seven were they, sons and father, Stalwart men to wield the brand,— "Twas a strife of desperation

At the meeting hand to hand. Broken down their vain defences, One by one they fell and died, And the sire upon his hearthstone Sank at last his sons beside. Through thy woody paths, Glengarry, Marched the victors of that fray,

In the waters of thy fountain

Seven heads were laved that day.

Sternly parting from the corses,

Left to blacken on the ground,

Ian Lom returned rejoicing,

For the vengeance he had found.

Girt through life by war and tempest,
He was great in his degree,
For he sang, Montrose, thy glory,
And he wailed thy fall, Dundee !
Kings arose and kings descended
Unlamented to the tomb,

Ere the coronach was pealing

For the death of Ian Lom.

Nor with life his greatness perished,

Left undying in his song

Words familiar by the fireside

When the winter nights were long; Words familiar, ever chanted

To the bride when she was wed, To the babe when it was christened, To the corse when it was dead; By the shepherd in the shealing, By the lady in her home; Wheresoever men were gathered Went the songs of Ian Lom. And his voice again was breathing From the grave a trust and power, When the Stuart sailed for Scotland In a dark and evil hour.

Mightier was the verse of Ian

Hearts to nerve, to kindle eyes,' Than the claymore of the valiant, Than the counsel of the wise. Still he singeth unforgotten

In the echoes of his home; Every burn and every mountain Tells thy glory, Ian Lom!"

Miscellaneous.

"I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne.

To

gaol. The prison was in such a state, that he might have found little difficulty in escaping; but he considered himself as in the hands of authority, such as it was, and the same principle of duty which led him to take arms, made him equally ready to endure the consequences. After lying there a few days, he applied to the sheriff for leave to go out and work by day, promising that he would return regularly at night. His character for simple integrity was so well known, that permission was given without hesitation, and for eight months Jackson went out every day to labour, and as duly came back to prison at night. In the month of May the sheriff prepared to conduct him to Springfield, where he was to be tried for high treason. Jackson said this would be a needless trouble and expense. His word was once more taken, and he set off alone, to present himself for trial and certain condemnation. On the way he was overtaken in the woods by Mr. Edwards, a member of the council of Massachusetts, which at that time was the supreme executive of the state. This gentleman asked him whither he was going? To Springfield, sir,' was his answer, to be tried for my life.' this casual interview Jackson owed his escape, when, having been found guilty and condemned to death, application was made to the council for mercy, The evidence and the sentence were stated, and the president put the question whether a pardon should be granted. It was opposed by the first speaker: the case, he said, was perfectly clear; the act was unquestionably high treason, and the proof complete; and if mercy was shown in this case, he saw no cause why it should not be granted in every other. Few governments have understood how just and politic it is to be merciful; this hard-hearted opinion accorded with the temper of the times, and was acquiesced in by one member after another, till it came to Mr. Edwards's turn to speak. Instead of delivering his opinion, he simply related the whole story of Jackson's singular demeanour, and what had passed between them in the woods. For the honour of Massachusetts and of human nature, not a man was found to weaken its effect by one of those dry legal remarks, which, like a blast in the desert, wither the heart they reach. The council began to hesitate, and when a member ventured to say that such a man certainly ought not to be sent to the gallows, a natural feeling of humanity and justice prevailed, and a pardon was immediately made out.".

IN some unlucky dispositions, there is such an envious kind of pride, that they cannot endure that any but themselves should be set forth for excellent: so when they hear one justly praised, they will either seek to dismount his virtues: or, if they be like a clear night, eminent, they will stab him with a but of detraction: as if there were something yet so foul, as did obnubilate even his brightest glory. Thus when their tongue cannot justly condemn him, they will leave him in suspected ill; by silence. Surely, if we considered detraction to be bred of envy, nested only in deficient minds, we should find that the applauding of virtue would win us far more honour than the seeking slyly to disparage it. That would show we loved what we commended, while this tells the world we grudge at what we want in ourselves. Feltham's Resolves.

N.B. The Second Volume of this Periodical is now ready; covers for binding, with table of contents, may be ordered of any Bookseller.

reached by human foot. It has now lost its claim to the title on the latter score, the highest peak having been attained by two brothers named Meyer, of Aarau, in 1812; by a guide in 1828; and in 1841 by a party of scientific men, who had been residing among the glaciers of the Aar, for the purpose of making meteorological and geological observations.

The Jungfrau is the first mountain that the children of the country learn to call by name; and strangers arriving at Berne inquire for it as for the principal object of curiosity. With its vast expanse of snow and glacier, it is indeed a magnificent spectacle. Not only its summit, but all the mass of the mountain above the level of the spectator, is white with perpetual snow, of virgin purity, which breaks off abruptly at the edge of a precipice, forming one side of a ravine separating the Jungfrau from the Wengern Alp. It appears to be within gun-shot of the spectator; so colossal are its proportions, that the effect of distance is lost. Planted on the brow of a ravine is a châlet 5,350 feet above the sea-level, directly facing the Jungfrau, and presenting the best view of it. The opposite precipice, forming the base of the mountain, is channelled with furrows or grooves, down which avalanches frequently descend: they are most numerous a little after noon, when the sun's influence loosens masses of ice from the glacier, and causes them to break off.

A distant roar, as of thunder, announces the fall of an avalanche, and in half a minute a gush of white powder, resembling a small cataract, is perceived issuing out of one of the upper grooves or gullies; it then sinks into a fissure, and is lost for a time, but reappears some hundred feet below with another roar, and a fresh gush from a lower gully, till the mass of ice, reaching the lowest step, is precipitated into the gulf below. By watching attentively the sloping white side of the Jungfrau, the mass of glacier which produces this roar may be seen at the moment when disengaged, and before the sound reaches the ear; sometimes it merely slides down over the surface, at other times it turns over in a cake; but, in an instant after, it disappears, is shattered to atoms, and, in passing through the different gullies, is ground to powder so fine, that as it issues from the lowest, it looks like a handful of meal; and particles, reduced by friction to the consistence of dust, rise in a cloud of vapour. Independently of the sound, which is an awful interruption of the silence usually prevailing on the high Alps, there is nothing grand or striking in this phenomenon; and, indeed, it is difficult at first to believe that these echoing thunders arise from so apparently slight a cause, or that that cloud of dust arises from tons of ice hurled down the mountain, which would be capable of sweeping away whole forests, did any occur in its course, and of overwhelming houses and villages. During the early part of the summer, three or four such discharges may be seen in an hour: in cold weather they are less numerous; and in the autumn scarcely any occur. The avalanches finally descend into the valley of Trumlaten, the deep and uninhabited ravine which divides the Jungfrau from the Wengern Alp; and on melting, sen forth a stream which falls into the Lutschine, a little above Lauterbrunnen.

Such is the mountain which the scientific party before alluded to proposed to scale. They had

met at the hospice of Grimsel, intending to sup together for the last time, when it was proposed that they should make one more excursion before they separated. The autumnal season was favourable to their plans, and it was soon decided to attempt the ascent of the Jungfrau, first crossing the Mer de Glace of Viesch.

Having fixed upon a guide, Jacob Leuthold by name, a man of known skill and fidelity, preparations were made during the evening; provisions, consisting of wine, cheese, meat, and a huge quantity of bread, were collected, while each one prepared his package, taking care to exclude every thing not absolutely necessary. The next morning, the 24th August, the weather becoming rainy and stormy, Jacob declined to set out. The weather did not improve during two days, so that it was the morning of the 27th before the party started on their expedition. They were twelve in number, namely, M. Agassiz, the distinguished ichthyologist; Mr. Forbes, professor of natural philosophy at Edinburgh; Mr. Heath, professor of mathematics at Cambridge; M. du Châtelier; M. de Pury; and M. Desor. There were also six guides, at the head of whom was Jacob, who was also appointed captain of the expedition.

Before the commencement of the journey, a circumstance occurred which serves to illustrate the character of the mountaineer guides, and to explain the unlimited confidence which travellers are wont to repose in them.

Johannes Wohren, the inseparable friend of Jacob, and one of the most intelligent among all the guides of the hospice, happened, the day before the intended departure of the expedition, to be seized with a violent inflammation in the knee, which a medical man pronounced to be serious. He had long pleased himself with the prospect of conducting the party to the Jungfrau, for he and Jacob were the only individuals who were in the secret of this expedition. In spite of the pain he was suffering, the poor fellow still hoped it would turn out nothing; and the party felt great grief in telling him that he must no longer think of the Jungfrau. During the two days that the party was detained on account of the weather, Wehren's knee became much better, so much so that, on the evening before they set out, he came limping to them with the assurance that he could go, having no doubt that he would be quite well on the morrow. M. Agassiz, as may be supposed, refused his consent, pointing out to him all the dangers to which he would be exposed. The unfortunate Woehren could object nothing to these reasons; but the greatest sorrow was depicted on his countenance, and he retired to a corner of the apartment, where he continued sobbing, while his comrades were making preparations for departure. Next day, one of the party having occasion to enter the servants' apartment, was surprised to observe Wehren at breakfast with the other guides. Surprise being expressed at this, he inquired if he was not to be permitted to bid them adieu. The party thanked him for his attention, again recommended him to be careful of his knee, and then set out. They had not proceeded far, when, on suddenly turning round a rock, he was seen with the other guides. Every one immediately called out to him, asking if he had really lost his senses. The party endeavoured to persuade him to abandon an undertaking which they believed would be