abandoned. The fidelity with which he had
reported a sermon of the famous Edward Irving, gained him the personal
acquaintance of that extraordinary individual, who presented him with
some tokens of his regard. In 1826, he was appointed teacher of an
extensive free school in the neighbourhood of London--an office which,
at the end of a year, he exchanged for that of schoolmaster on board the
"Tweed" man-of-war, ordered to the Mediterranean and the Cape of Good
Hope. While the vessel was cruising off the Cape de Verd islands,
Hislop, along with the midshipmen, made a visit of pleasure to the
island of St Jago. Sleeping a night on shore, they were all seized with
fever, which, in the case of six of the party, including poor Hislop,
proved fatal. After lingering for twelve days, he died on the 4th
December 1827, in his twenty-ninth year.

Of a clear head, a warm heart, and exemplary steadiness of character,
Hislop was much beloved; and a wide circle of hopeful friends deeply
lamented his premature decease. By Allan Cunningham, his genius has been
described as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather
than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty, too." As the author of
"The Cameronian's Dream," he is entitled to a place among the bards of
his country.

THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.

In a dream of the night, I was wafted away
To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood,
And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.

'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew
Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.

And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud;
And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

But, ah! there were hearts