But Mr Stoddart gives us likewise an Angler's description of the Tweed in a very sweet and very spirited song.

SONG.

"Let ither anglers choose their ain,
An' ither waters tak the lead,
O' Hielant streams we covet nane,
But gie to us the bonny Tweed!
An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn,

That steals into its valley fair-
The streamlets that, at ilka turn,

Sae saftly meet and mingle there.
The lanesome Tala an' the Lyne,

And Manor, wi' its mountain rills,
An' Etterick, whose waters twine

Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills;
An' Gala, too, and Teviot bright,

And mony a stream o' playfu' speed,
Their kindred valleys a' unite,

Amang the braes o' bonny Tweed.
There's no a hole aboon the Crook,

Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath,
Nor drumly rin, nor faery brook,

That daunders through the flowery heath,
But ye may fin' a subtle trout,

A' gleamin ower wi' starn and bead;
An' mony a saumont sooms about

Below the bields o' bonny Tweed.
Frae Holylee to Clovenford

A chancier bit ye canna hae,
So, gin ye tak an angler's word,

Ye'd through the whuns and ower the brae,

An' work awa wi' cunnin hand,

Yer birzy heckles, black and reid;
The saft sugh o' a slender wand

Is meetest music for the Tweed.

O the Tweed! the bonny Tweed!
O' rivers it's the best-
Anglers here, or anglers there,
Troots are soomin everywhere,
Angle east or west."

We are sorry to find that we have little more than a page allowed us for the rest of our article, which, strictly speaking, has been but begun, and would require at least another sheet. We shall therefore return, in our next number, to the "Art of

Angling, as practised in Scotland, by Thomas Tod Stoddart, Esq." Meanwhile we recommend the volume1 (price half-acrown-it is well worth half-a-guinea) to all brethren of the angle as a most amusing and instructive manual—and we advise them to order their copies without delay, if they wish to benefit this season from the wisdom of the experienced sage, for the appearance in Maga of the following two angling songs-among the best ever written-will speedily sell off the edition.

There, as with a pleasant friend,
I the happy hours will spend,
Urging on the subtle hook,
O'er the dark and chancy nook,

By

1 The Angler's Companion to the Rivers and Lochs of Scotland. THOMAS TOD STODDART. Second Edition. With Fishing Map of Scotland, 1853. This work, which has been greatly enlarged and improved since its first appearance in 1835, may be recommended as the best literary vade mecum which the Scottish angler can carry.

A birr! a whirr! the salmon's in,
Upon the bank extended;
The princely fish is gasping slow,
His brilliant colours come and go,
All beautifully blended.

Hark to the music of the reel!
It murmurs and it closes;
Silence is on the conquering wheel,
Its wearied line reposes.

No birr! no whirr! the salmon's ours,
The noble fish-the thumper:
Strike through his gill the ready gaff,
And bending homewards, we shall quaff
Another glorious bumper!

Hark to the music of the reel!

We listen with devotion;

There's something in that circling wheel
That wakes the heart's emotion!"

ANGLIMANIA.

CAST FOURTH-OUR TWO PANNIERS.

[JUNE 1838.]

Of all climates and countries there are none within any of the zones of Mother Earth that will bear a moment's comparison with those of Scotland. A single proof might suffice -Thomson's Seasons; take another-Burns's Poems. But for a moment forget the people—and think only of the region— its Earth and its Heaven. The lovely Lowlands undulating away into the glorious Highlands-the Spirit of Beauty and the Spirit of Sublimity one and the same, as it blends their being in profoundest union to the Imagination and the Heart! Bury us alive in the dungeon's gloom-incommunicable with the light of day as the grave-it could not seal our eyes to the sight of Scotland. We should see it still by rising or by setting suns-whatever blessed scene we chose to call on would become an instant apparition. Nor in that thick-ribbed vault would our ears be deaf to her rivers and her seas. We should say our prayers to their music-and to the voice of the awful thunder along a hundred hills. Our soul now needs not the Senses. They are waxing dim-but it may brightenlong as the Light of Love is allowed to dwell therein-thence proceeding over Nature like a perpetual Morn.

Vain words! and worse than vain! and obliterated be they by these two or three big plashing tears! Not such the strength of our soul. Day after day we feel more and more sadly that we are of the dust, and that we are obeying its doom. This life is felt to be slowly-too swiftly wheeling away with us down a dim acclivity-man knoweth not into what abyss. And as the shows of this world keep receding backward gaze, on which gathers now the gloom and now the glimmer, of this world hardly would they seem to be,

to our