;
Again, like a proud spirit of the sky,
Though conquer'd, breaking forth in majesty.
Britain, for thee this fearful warning sent,
Oh! mock not foolishly its dire portent;
For now that vice on all her malice wreaks,
Charms on the stage, and in the assembly speaks;
Now that with cheating fires she shameless dares,
Fortunate where virtue once defied her snares;
Again I say, for thee this warning sent,
Oh! mark it well, mock not its dire portent.

F.J.H.

* * * * *

THE SELECTOR,

AND

LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS_.

* * * * *

CHRONICLES OF THE CANONGATE.

(_By the author of Waverley_.)

[We have the pleasure of submitting to our readers, (almost entire,)
one of the stories of the forthcoming _Chronicles of the Canongate_,
it being the second narrative, and the last in the first volume, and
as well as the others, founded on true incidents. The _Chronicles_
are domestic tales; but the _Two Drovers_ should not be taken as a
specimen of the work. Slender as are its incidents, it proves that
"Richard (or Walter) is himself again," for in no vein of writing is
the author of Waverley more felicitous than in delineating scenes of
actual life, splendid as are his narratives of the fairy scenes and
halls of romance: and in the prevailing taste for this description of
writing, we think the Chronicles of the Canongate bid fair to enjoy
popularity equal to any of Sir Walter's previous productions.]

_The Two Drovers_.

It was the day after the Doune Fair when my story commences. It had
been a brisk market, several dealers had attended from the northern
and midland counties in England, and the English money had flown so
merrily about as to gladden the hearts of the Highland farmers. Many
large droves were about to set off for England, under the protection
of their owners, or of the topsmen whom they employed in the tedious,
laborious and responsible office of driving the cattle for many
hundred miles, from the market where they had been purchased, to the
fields or farm-yards where they were to be fattened for the shambles.

Of the number who left Doune in the morning, and with the purpose we
have described, not a _Glunamie_ of them all cocked his bonnet more
briskly, or gartered his tartan hose under knee over a pair of more
promising _spiogs_ (legs), than did Robin Oig M'Combich, called
familiarly Robin Oig, that is Y