enthusiasm with you, and tell us of the land of which you feel so proud. If from England, ingraft your lovely Rose on the stately symbol of my country's freedom-the Thistle. Come to the North with me, and leave behind you all the illustrious names of which you may well feel proud. Should you meet to commemorate the birthday of a distinguished Englishman, I will be with you heart and soul, and will sit down with Shakspeare and Ben Johnson, with Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger and Ford, with Wycherly and Otway, and all your other great dramatic writers; Chaucer and Spenser, Milton and Dryden, Pope and Addison, and all your other poets, from the beginning of the 15th century down to the times of Lord Byron, who was, according to his own account, "half bred a Scot, in heart a whole one," will I toast to your heart's content; but you must cross the classic Tweed, and pass to-night with me in the land of Burns. Gentlemen of Ireland, bid a short adieu to the Emerald Isle. Bring with you "your shamrock so green;" and, as ivy wraps itself around the oak of the forest, let it be gracefully twined around the sturdy stem of the bearded Thistle. Forget, for awhile, your Curran and your Burke, your Sheridan and your Goldsmith, your Knowles and your Moore, and all your other distinguished literati who have thrown a halo of intellectual renown over the "Island of Saints." Leave all the genius of Ireland behind you, and come with me to the "Land of Cakes."

Gentlemen of the United States, when you meet to honor the memory of that great and good man, George Washington, or upon any social occasion of a national character, I will not forget to pledge the names of your countrymen who have distinguished themselves in the field, in the arts and sciences, and in poesy. I

to my

will sit down with your Franklin and your Jefferson, with your Hancock and your Jay, your Patrick Henry and your venerable Carroll, of revolutionary times; with your historians Hinton and Sparks, Story and Bancroft, Prescott, and "the noblest Roman of them all," your world-renowned and much beloved Washington Irving. I will toast your poets, Bryant and Halleck, Longfellow and Whittier, and all your other bards, from Philip Freneau and John Trumbull down to the present time, who have worn and still wear the wreath of poetic renown. But, gentlemen, you must leave them under the protection of the Star-spangled Banner for a brief season, and come with me on the wings of fancy native land, where every mountain has been an altar, and every valley rung choral with the strains of freedom, long before she came to the shores of America. I will show you the plains of Bannockburn-Caledonia's Marathon; I will show you the scenes of which you have read, and of which poets have so sweetly sung: I will introduce you to warm hearts and Scottish hospitality; I will show you smiling fields and happy homes; I will show you a thrifty and intelligent population; I will show you where agricultural science has triumphed over nature, and made the desert to "bud and blossom as the rose." And, gentlemen, one and all, visit our colleges, and seminaries, and parish schools, and make yourselves acquainted with the general diffusion of knowledge, and I feel assured that you will leave this festival and return to your homes with the full conviction that learning has banished ignorance from the land.

Enter with me now into the Temple of Fame. I wish you to become acquainted with the Past as well as with the Presentwith the dead as well as with the living. Behold Wallace and

Bruce, the brave defenders of their country's independence, who struggled with tyranny until freedom sat victorious on the grave of despotism. Their names are embalmed in every Scottish heart. At your leisure you may examine Caledonia's imperishable monument of mind. In the mean time I will introduce you to Robert Ferguson, the author of the Farmer's Ingle; to the pastoral poet Allan Ramsay; to the weaver poet Tannahill; to the shepherd poet James Hogg; and to the ploughman bard, our own immortal Burns, who, as Wordsworth beautifully says:

"Walked in glory and in pride,

Behind the plough upon the mountain side."

Bow reverently again! Here is Sir Walter Scott, the Wizard of the North, surrounded by all the deathless creations of his genius; the poet and the novelist, who, when in Italy, feeling as if his days were numbered, hastened home with all the heartfelt anxiety of a patriot, that he might yield up his mighty spirit in his own beloved land. Allow me to introduce you to Thomson, the author of The Seasons; to Beattie, the author of The Minstrel ; to Tennant, the author of Anster Fair; to Campbell, the poet of Hope; to Motherwell and Roger; to the Delta and Achæus of Blackwood, Dr. Moir and Sterling; and last, not least, to the renowned Christopher North himself. If you are not satisfied with such a goodly company, I will introduce you to all the distinguished scholars of the land, from George Buchanan to the present day, and to all the other poets, from the days of the classic Drummond to Gilfillan and Ballantyne of our own time. I will now leave you to spend a few social hours in this eminent company.

It is delightful, my friends, to meet as brothers, to speak of and to sing the songs of Caledonia. It is sweet to let memory dwell on the Past, and rational to linger in the honeyed bowers of Auld Lang Syne. I know, my friends, that the deadening apathy of age, and the blighting influence of time, have failed to sear the hallowed reminiscences of youth, which cling like evergreens around the sacred temple of the heart.

"Time but the impression deeper makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear."

Come then, my countrymen, come one, come all; and let this night be dedicated to social conviviality, for the sake of Burns. I hope, however, that we have met for a nobler purpose than merely to feast our appetites. Let our social meeting be also an intelletcual banquet. Let the glorious spirit of Burns himself be present. He is now ranked with the author of the Iliad and the bard of Avon, and his name will go down to the latest posterity as a benefactor of the human race. When the splendid monuments that have been erected in honor of the poet shall have crumbled into dust, his memory will live embalmed and undecayed in the affections of his countrymen.

The Death of Frederick P. Tracy.

HERE is a gloom deep and uncommon pervading the city.

THERE

Smiles are banished from every face, and levity from every tongue. The unerring shaft of the Destroyer has laid low a noble victim, and made dreary and desolate a home of happiness and peace. Yes! the "silver cord is loosed, and the golden bowl is broken," and all that remains of FREDERICK P. TRACY now slumbers in the silent tomb. The purple fountain of life has ceased to play, the bright eye of intelligence is dim and closed, and his voice of inspiring eloquence will be no more heard in our public halls. Citizens walk the street as if some great calamity had occurred. His personal friends utter expressions of tender regret, and feel like sorrowing mourners when visiting "the dark valley of the shadow of death."

The deceased was no ordinary man. Gifted with a superior mind, that was richly stored with the classic literature of the world, he adorned the intellectual sphere in which he lived. Familiar with ancient and modern authors, there was a charm in his conversation that was fascinating and irresistible. He threw light upon obscurity, and dispelled the mists of doubt by the brightness of his genius. His enlightened mind was a great treasury of knowledge. He never assumed a position which he