Notices to Correspondents.

We have much to say to you, gentle Correspondents ; but we must devise a
new mode of address, now that our Brother-Editor of Baldwin’s London Ma-
gazine has adopted our ancient style.  Indeed, his Miscellany so resembles our
own in form and pressure, that common eyes may, at first sight, mistake it for
its elder brother. It is, however, a promising young Publication ; and should
any part of the reading public be of opinion that it is, in any respect, an im-
provement upon ours, we must, in like manner, proceed forthwith to exhibit
an improvement upon it, till the world will at last have assurance of a Maga-
zine. Meanwhile, we have room for one Sonnet only.

Sonnet, by the Ettrick Shepherd ;

How sweet when winter, o’er the yarrow rocks,1
Hangs his pale banner, and the speary wood2
Groans to the blast, as if in mustering mood3
And of the far bare hills pine the sad flocks4
When the unseen ice-queen all the torrents locks,5
And with fantastic spray-work plays her pranks6
Along Saint Mary’s Lake and Eltrive’s banks,7
And, with cold glittering buds and leaflets, mocks8
The warm and lovely summer—Oh ! How sweet9
(Now one more moon hath waned like a dream,10
And man is half-forgotten)—come the feet11
Of thy messenger ! —thy wizard gleam12
Flashes the world on the lone bard’s retreat,13
And life is in my ears, like a loud stream.14