people in his behalf, for he was generally treated with kindness. He knew. his father's name and the name of his house, but as none of the people he visited had ever before heard of either the one or the other, they gave themselves no trouble about the matter. He staid nearly two years in a place he called Cowhaur, till a wretch with whom he slept, struck and abused him one day. Duncan in a rage flew to the loft and cut all his Sunday hat, shoes, and coat in pieces; and not daring to abide the consequences, decamped that night. He wandered about for some time longer, among the farmers of Tweed and Yarrow; but this life was now become exceedingly disagreeable to him; he durst not sleep by himself, and the servants did not always chuse that a vagrant boy and his great dog should sleep with them. It was on a rainy night at the close of harvest that Duncan came to my father's house. I remember all the circumstances as well as the transactions of yesterday. The whole of his clothing consisted only of one black coat, which, having been made for a full grown man, hung fairly to his heels; the hair of his head was rough, curled, and weather-beaten-but his face was ruddy and beautiful, bespeaking a healthy body and a sensible feeling heart. Oscar was still nearly as big as himself, had the colour of a fox, with a white stripe down his face, and a ring of the same colour around his neck, and was the most beautiful cur I have ever seen.My heart was knit to Duncan at the first sight, and I wept for joy when I saw my parents so kind to him. My mo ther, in particular, could scarcely do any thing else than converse with Duncan for several days. I was always of the party, and listened with wonder and admiration; but often have these adventures been repeated to me. My parents, who soon seemed to feel the same concern for him as if he had been their own son, clothed him in blue drugget, and bought him a smart little Highland bonnet, in which dress he looked so charming, that I would not let them have peace until I got one of the same. Indeed, all that Duncan said or did was to me a pattern, for I loved him as my own life. I was, at my own request, which he persuaded me to urge, permitted to be his bed-fellow, and many a happy night and day did I spend with Duncan and Oscar. As far as I remember, we felt no privation of any kind, and would have been compleatly happy if it had not been for the fear of spirits. When the conversation chanced to turn upon the Piper of Dewar, the Maid of Plora, or the Pedlar of Thirlstane-mill, often have we lain with the bed-clothes drawn over our heads until nearly suffocated. We loved the fairies and the brownies, and even felt a little partiality for the mermaids, on account of their beauty and charming songs; we were a little jealous of the water-kelpies, and always kept aloof from the frightsome pools. We hated the devil most heartily, but we were not much afraid of him-but a.ghost! oh dreadful! the names, ghost, spirit, or apparition, sounded in our ears like the knell of distruction, and our hearts sunk within us as if pierced by the cold icy shaft of death. Duncan herded my father's cows all the summer-so did 1-we could not live asunder. We grew fishers so expert, that the speckled trout, with all his art, could not elude our machinations, we forced him from his watery cove, admired the beautiful shades and purple drops that were painted on his sleek sides, and forthwith added him to our number without reluctance. We assail. ed the habitation of the wild bee, and rifled all her accumulated sweets, tho' not without encountering the most determined resistance. My father's meadows abounded with hives, they were almost in every swath-in every hillock. When the swarm was large they would beat us off day after day, in all these desperate engagements Oscar came to our assistance, and, provided that none of the enemies made a lodgment in his lower defiles, he was always the last combatant of our party on the field, I do not remember of ever being so much diverted by any scene I ever witnessed, or laughing as immoderately as I have done at seeing Oscar involved in a moving cloud of wild-bees-wheeling -snapping on all sides, and shaking his ears incessantly. The sagacity which this animal possessed is almost incredible, while his father off a horse into a flooded river. Oscar had just swimmed across, but instantly plunged in a second time to his master's rescue. He first got hold of his bonnet, but that coming off he quit.: ted it, and again catching him by the coat, brought him to the side where my father reached him. He waked Duncan at a certain hour every morning, and would frequently turn the cows of his own will when he observed them wrong. If Duncan dropped his knife, or any other small article, he would fetch it along in his mouth, and if sent back for a lost thing, would infallibly he find it. When sixteen years of age, af ter being unwell for several days, died one night below his master's bed. On the evening before, when Duncan came in from the plough, he came from his hiding place, wagged his tail, lick ed Duncan's hand, and returned to his death-bed. Duncan and I lamented him with unfeigned sorrow," buried "at th him below the old rowan-tree back of my father's garden, placing a square stone at his head, which was still standing the last time I was there. With great labour we composed an' epitaph between us, which was once on tha carved on that stone, the metre was Y undaunted spirit and generosity, it good, but the stone was s would do honour to every servant of our own species.to copy. Twice did he save his master's life at one time when attacked by a furious bull, and at another time when he fell from behind my „trodu, jamaa all! Absorb doktorla To ni boboz noithe 1 inga hard, and the engraving so faint, that the characters, like those of our early joys, are long ago defaced and extinct. HYMN TO THE EVENING STAR. ARISE, arise, thou queen of love! Thy bed is chill'd with evening dew; O! let me see thy orient breast; ! come! the evening colours fade; Thy temple be this sylvan bower, Where wounded lovers kneel confest: Be that thy favour'd holiest shrine; I see thy tinsel coverlet, Drawn slightly up the silken sky; O! softly heave, on angel's wing, And here upon thy dearest shrine, And fairer than the virgin snow. Here will I worship with delight, Evanish in the morning beam. EDINBURGH-Printed at the Star Office, (price 4d. a single Number, 4s. 6d. per quarter, deliverable in town, and 58. when sent to the country), by A. AIKMAN, for the PROPRIETORS ; where Subscriptions, and Communications, (post paid), will be received, 1811. The Spy. SATURDAY, AUGUST 10. "Hail ye mighty masters of the lay, Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth! * * * * * * * 牽 * * Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth, THERE is not a more interesting circumstance in the history of man, than the powerful influence which poetry and music have in every stage of society maintained over the heart. In a state of the rudest barbarism, we behold them cultivated with ardour, fascinating the senses, and assuming the perfect mastery of the will; either exciting to the joys of revelry and love, or inflaming the warriors soul and urging him in glittering arms, To fields of blood--." In a succeeding period the powers of melody and song combine with the quiet and peaceful occupations of a pastoral life, to subdue the natural ferocity of men, soften their hearts, and excite an attachment to the social and benevolent affections. An age passes -away,—we find them less generally, but still among the mass of the people, fondly cherished,-assisting to preserve an honest simplicity, and a spirit of independence, from the corrupting influence of wealth and power. Even, in the last stage of human progress, when at length vice triumphs over virtue, and society shakes with a ge No. 50. neral leprosy, the moral lay has exhibited powers to touch the haggard soul, when efforts of a sterner kind could not move it. If we were to ascribe the insusceptibility to poetical charms which mankind gradually acquire, partly to refinement of manners, partly to vitiation of morals, we would perhaps strike at the most general and disposing causes. The age of rudeness, is the age of passion and imagination,-and these are the parents of poetical taste.-Refinement arrives,―men are taught to stifle nature,―to disguise their passions,-to act according to one common standard of politeness. All this is fatal to the imagination, the fetters of method and ceremony render it dull and lifeless. It is from this cause that in a state of barbarism we find every man from the cheftain to the vassal breaking forth into spontaneous songs and verses; that in a state of civilization one good bard in an age is a prodigy, and a poetical taste in a person without education something not less so. But refinement of manners is even less destructive to poetry than corruption of morals. When the lyre is first touched by the hand of nature, it breathes nothing but virtue, and it attains its sublimest heights, while it continues to wake the soul to deeds of heroism and tenderness alone. Let the heart however, once become tainted, it ceases to delight in the accents of virtue; a lawless spirit invokes the lyre, and attempts to call forth unhallowed sounds. But the muse, "Nature's true child, the friend of man and truth," is indignant at the prostitution; it exerts its native energy no longer. So necessarily intimate has the connection seemed between vocal harmony and social order, between musical excitement and virtuous energy, that both philosophers and statesmen have joined in considering the arts of music and poetry as deserving of the warmest countenance and support. The Platonists the most severe of all the ancient sects, enforced it as a matter of high policy, that some intelligent men should devote themselves to the cultivation of these accomplishments. And Lycurgus the most virtuously rigid of all lawgivers, encouraged music and poetry among the Lacedemonians, when he would not tolerate any thing which wore the garb of science. But perhaps the beneficial influence of these sublime arts, is by nothing so remarkably illustrated, as by the jealousy with which they have at different times been regarded by arbitrary governments. When the Romans conquered Britain, they gave every discouragement to the bards, from an apprehension that they would have a powerful effect in keeping up a free and martial spirit among the natives. Yet having taken no violent measures to suppress them, the consequence was, that the natural taste of the Britons for poetry was never quite extinguished during their long subjection; that by means of it, the memory of former times was preserved; and the flame of virtuous patriotism kept alive, till an opportunity occurred for its bursting forth. When Edward I. entered Wales, he adopted a different and a safer policy. He put all the bards to death, the spirit of the inhabitants immediately flagged; they were conquered; and the crown of England was never at any trouble to maintain its conquest. upon the pas It is important to remark, that it is not every species of poetry, nor even poetry by itself, which has the powerful effects we have described sions. Neither didactic nor even heroic strains can boast of having at any time possessed much influence in directing the actions of men. It is in the department of the Thalian muse; in the warlike, amatory, and pathetic songs of every country that we find those exquisite pieces which have been the greatest favourites of the people. Bold in imagery; strong and expressive in diction; enforcing virtue rather by lively precept than laboured argument; irradiated by the warmest tints of imagination; and above all recommended by the charms of vocal or instrumental music, they have displayed a power over the heart, which none of the other kinds of poetry have ever attained. It has been seen that poetry has always had the greatest influence in the rudest ages of society. What is the species which then prevails? Is it not the lyric Songs of war, love, affection and death.-And are not all the poetical productions of this period accompanied with music? Every poet was a musician,-" beneath his own tree," says Ossian, "each bard sat |