panion, he was the
most engaging of men; he was the best story-teller of his day." His
power of humour was unbounded; he had a joke for every occasion, a
_bon-mot_ for every adventure. He had eminent power of satire when he
chose to wield it; but he generally blended the complimentary with the
pungent, and lessened the keenness of censure by the good-humour of its
utterance. His anecdotes are familiar over a wide district, and many of
his witty sayings have become proverbial. He was abundantly hospitable,
and had even suffered embarrassments from its injudicious exercise;
still he was always able, as he used to say--

"To invite the wanderer to the gate,
And spread the couch of rest."

It was his earnest desire that he might live to pay his liabilities, and
he was spared to accomplish the wish. He died on the 28th of February
1854, in the 81st year of his age.

In appearance, Hamilton Paul presented a handsome person, tall and
erect; his countenance was regular and pleasant; and his eyes, which
were partially concealed by overhanging eye-lashes, beamed with humour
and intelligence. In conversation he particularly excelled, evincing on
every topic the fruits of extensive reading and reflection. He was
readily moved by the pathetic; at the most joyous hour, a melancholy
incident would move him into tears. The tenderness of his heart was
frequently imparted to his verses, which are uniformly distinguished for
smoothness and simplicity.

[72] We are indebted to Mr W. Deans, author of a "History of the Ottoman
Empire," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Deans
was personally acquainted with Mr Hamilton Paul.

[73] "He never took any credit to himself," communicates his friend, Mr
H. S. Riddell, "from the widely-known circumstance of his having carried
off the prize from Campbell. He said that Campbell was at that period a
very young man, much younger than he, and had much less experience in
composition than himself."

HELEN GRAY.

Fair are the fleecy flocks that feed
On yonder heath-clad hills,
Where wild meandering crystal Tweed
Collects his glassy rills.
And sweet the buds that scent the air,
And deck the breast of May;
But none of these are sweet or fair,
Compared to Helen Gray.

You see in Helen's face so mild,
And in her bashful mien,
The winning softness of the child,
The blushes of fifteen.
The witc