ring boisterous weather, when fishing is out of
the question. Thus has a wise Providence made even the wrath of man to
praise him. The truth of the above narrative may be tested any day, by
waiting upon the Rev. Mr. Dickson, or upon the parties themselves at
Braehead of Cellardykes.

PRESCRIPTION;

OR, THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER.

The serene calmness and holy inspiration of some of our cottage retreats
in Scotland are often the envy of the town-poet or philosopher, who
looks upon the sequestered spots as possessing all the beauty and repose
of the beatific Beulah, where the feet of the pilgrim found repose, and
his spirit rest. The desire arises out of that discontent which, less or
more, is the inheritance of man in this sphere; it is the residuum of
the worldly feelings which, like the clay that, in inspired hands, gave
the power of sight to the blind, opens the eyes to immortality. The wish
for retirement belongs to good, if it is not a part of the great
principle that inclines us to look far away to purer regions for the
rest which is never disturbed, and the joy that knows no abatement. Yet
how vain are often our thoughts as we survey the white-washed hut in the
valley, covered with honeysuckle and white roses; the plot before the
door; the croonin dame on her tripod; the lass with the lint-white
locks, singing, in snatches of Nature's own language, her purest
feelings, like the swelling of a mountain spring! The heart is not still
there, any more than in the crowded mart. The birds whistle, but they
die too; the rose blooms, but it is eaten in the heart by the palmer
worm; the sun shines, but there is a shade at his back. Alas for mortal
aspirations--there is nothing here of one side. Like the two parties who
fought for the truth of the two pleas--that the statue was white, or
that it was black--we find, after all our labour lost, that one side is
of the one colour, and the other of the opposite. These thoughts arise
in us at this moment, as we recollect the little cottage of Homestead,
situated in a collateral valley on the Borders. We were born at a
stone-cast from it; and, even in the dream of age, see issuing from it,
or entering it, a creature who might have stood for Wordsworth's
Highland Girl--a slender, gracile thing, retiring and modest; as
delicate in her feelings as in the hue of her complexion; her thoughts
of her glen and waterfall only natural to her--all others, fearful even
to herself, glenti