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Of course not. 'Tis Hogg's. There are many things in it as absurd as possible-some real monstrosities of stuff-but, on the whole, this, sir, is James Hogg's masterpiece, and that is saying something, I guess. There is a more sustained vigour and force over the whole strain than he ever could hit before; and though, perhaps, there is nothing quite so charming as my Bonny Kilmeny, that was but a ballad by itself while here, sir, here we have a real workmanlike poem-a production regularly planned, and powerfully executed. Sir, James Hogg will go down as one of the true worthies of this age.


Who doubts it? Keep us all, the jug is out again! Come, Christopher, I'll try the thing once more, if you'll read, while my fingers are at work.


Nay, nay, fair play's a jewel. Give me the materials, Tim. Here, Sir Morgan, you shall read, while I create. Give me the bottle, I say.-This shall be ditto?


"Like coats in heraldry, two of the first."-Shakespeare !-hem!


Esto. There, ODoherty, read what I have marked.

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· ἵνα σφίσιν ἐμβασιλευῃ !”—hem !—
"Whoe'er in future time shall stray
O'er these wild valleys west away,
Where first, by many a trackless strand,
The Caledonian held command;
Where ancient Lorn, from northern

Of Clyde to where Glen-Connel roars,
Presents in frowning majesty
Her thousand headlands to the sea :
O, traveller! whomsoe'er thou art,
Turn not aside, with timid heart,
At Connal's tide, but journey on
To the old site of Beregon;
I pledge my word, whether thou lovest
The poet's tale, or disapprovest,
So short, so easy is the way,

The scene shall well thy pains repay;
There shalt thou view on rock sublime,
The ruins grey of early time,
Where, frowning o'er the foamy flood,
The mighty halls of Selma stood.
And mark a valley stretching wide,
Inwall'd by cliffs on either side,
By curving shore, where billows broke,
And triple wall, from rock to rock;
Low in that strait, from bay to bay,
The ancient Beregonium lay.

Old Beregon! what soul so tame
Of Scot that warms not at thy name?
Or where the bard, of northern clime,
That loves not songs of Selma's time?
Yes, while so many legends tell
Of deeds, and woes, that there befell,

These ruins shall be dear to fame,
And brook the loved, the sacred name.

Nay, look around, on green-sea wave,
On cliff, and shelve, which breakers lave;
On stately towers and ruins grey,
On moat, and island, glen, and bay;
On remnants of the forest pine,
Old tenants of that mountain reign;
On cataract and shaggy mound,
On mighty mountains far around
Jura's fair bosom, form'd and full;
The dark and shapeless groups of Mull;
Others far north, in haze that sink,
Proud Nevis, on Lochaber's brink,
And blue Cruachan, bold and riven,
In everlasting coil with heaven.
View all the scene, and view it well,
Consult thy memory, and tell
If on the earth exists the same,
Or one so well deserves the name.*

Thou still may'st see, on looking round,
That, saving from the northern bound,
Where stretch'd the suburbs to the muir,
The city stood from foes secure.
North on Bornean height was placed
King Eric's camp, o'er heathery waste;
And on Barvulen's ridge behind,
Rock'd his pavilion to the wind,
Where royal banners, floating high
Like meteors, stream'd along the sky."

By Jericho, this is almost as good as a bit of Marmion. Fine mouthable apophthegms, as he would call them.


The Shepherd has some grand notes about the Celtic capital of Beregon, or

• Selma signifies The Beautiful View; Beregon, or Perecon, as it is pronounced, The Serpent of the Strait.

Beregonium. Would ye believe it, Tickler, he talks of their having discovered some of the old water-pipes lately, where the streets were: And all this anno five hundredesimo, or so?

HOGG (rousing.)

Hech-eeauecooeeyaaahee-hech yaw-aw-aw-ee-what's that you're saying about the water-pipes of Beregonium?


North was only remarking that you had made a sınall mistake-they turn out to be the gas-pipes, Hogg, that's all.


Like aneugh. I never saw them mysell. But how can ane tell a gas-pipe frae a water-pipe?


Smaller in the bore, you know. And, besides, the stink is still quite discernible. Professor Leslie and Dr Brewster are hot as to the question, whether it had been oil-gas, or coal-gas. You must read that controversy ere your second edition come out.


Certainly, will I. Do they quote Queen Hynde meikle?

Thumping skreeds of her. ed with Queen Hynde.


Upon my word, Hogg, we are all quite delight


Toots, man. Ay, I can make as braw poetry as ony ane o' them a', when I like to tak the fash. I've a far better ane than the Queen on the stocks, out bye yonder. I was just wearied wi' writing sae mony prose novells—it's just a pleasure to me to be skelping awa' at the auld tredd again.


ODoherty has been reading us some of your best passages. I am heartily charmed, Hogg; I wish you joy, with all my soul.


Wha the mischief set him on reading me? I'm sure he never could read onything in a dacent-like way since he was cleckit-rax me the Queen, and I'll let you hear a bit that will gar your hearts dinnle again-rax me the Queen, I say. Here's to ye a'-o' that's clean pushion-rax me the Queen-wha made that awfu' jug?—I'll read you a real chifdoover noo.-Ay, here's the bit. I see it's marked wi' the keelavine. That's some sense, hooever-oo ay, I see it's Mr North's ain copy-I kent it wad never be yours, Captain; ye have na the discretion to pick out a piece like this. Ye wad never ken't by the lave-(reads ore rotundissimo.)

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Thou Queen of the land 'twixt heaven and hell;

Even now thou seest, and smilest to see,
A shepherd kneel on his sward to thee:
But sure thou wilt come with thy glee-
some train,

To assist in his last and lingering strain:
O come from thy halls of the emerald

Thy bowers of the green and the mellow light,

That shrink from the blaze of the sum-
mer noon,

And ope to the light of the modest moon!
O well I know the enchanting mien
Of my loved muse, my Fairy Queen!
Her rokelay of green, with its sparry

My fairy Queen might sojourn there.
Then would I sigh and turn me around,
And lay my ear to the hollow ground,
To the little air-springs of central birth,
That bring low murmurs out of the earth;
And there would I listen, in breathless

Till I heard the worm creep through the

Its warp of the moonbeam, and weft of
the dew;

And the little blackamoor pioneer
A-grubbing his way in darkness drear;

Her smile, where a thousand witcheries Nought cheer'd me on which the dayplay,

And her eye, that steals the soul away; The strains that tell they were never mundane ;

And the bells of her palfrey's flowing

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I have open'd the woodbine's velvet vest,
And sought the hyacinth's virgin breast ;
Then anxious lain on the dewy lea,
And look'd to a twinkling star for thee,
That nightly mounted the orient sheen,
Streaming in purple and glowing in

And thought, as I eyed its changing

Then into the wild-rose I cast mine eye, And trembled because the prickles were nigh,

And deem'd the specks on its foliage

Might be the blood of my Fairy Queen;
Then gazing, wonder'd if blood might be
In an immortal thing like thee!

light shone,

For the children of darkness moved alone!
Yet neither in field, nor in flowery heath,
In heaven above, nor in earth beneath,
In star, nor in moon, nor in midnight

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-There's a strain for you, lads. What say ye to that ane, Mr Tickler? Did Byron ever come that length, think ye? Deil a foot of him. Deil a foot of ane o' them.


It certainly can't be denied, that when you please, you outstrip the whole pack of them.


Every mither's son o' them. Hoots! Hoots!-od, man, if I did but really pit furth my strength! ye wad see somethingTICKLER, (aside.) Preposterous vanity!-ha! ha! ha! ha! hah!


Come, James, you must not talk thus when you go out into the town. It may pass here, but the public will laugh at you. You have no occasion for this sort of trumpetting neither, no, nor for any sort of trumpetting. Sir, you have produced an unequal, but, on the whole, a most spirited poem. Sir, there are passages in this volume, that will kindle the hearts of our children's children. James Hogg, I tell you honestly, I consider you to be a genuine poet. HOGG, (sobbing.)

You're ower gude to me, sir, you're clean ower gude to me-I canna bide to expose mysell this way before ye a'-Gie me your haund, sir,-Gie me your haund too, Mr Tickler-Och, sirs! och, sirs! (weeps.)


Come, Hogg, you know Old Grizzy has a bed for you, this time. You shall go home with me to James's Court-Come away, James-(aside). What a jewel it is, Timothy. (Exeunt.)

Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. Edinburgh.






THERE has been a good deal of writing about Lord Byron since his death in our periodicals; but very little of it much to the purpose. The Quarterly Review has as yet been silent; the Edinburgh Review has contained only one or two insignificant paragraphs. The subject, now at last complete, has hitherto been in the hands of comparatively unauthoritative scribes; and we are constrained to say, that it has not been dealt with in a manner at all likely to increase their authority.

We are sorry to be obliged to notice with particular condemnation the style in which Lord Byron's character and genius have been handled in the Universal Review. That talented, and on the whole respectable Journal, is said to be chiefly conducted by a person of very considerable rank in our modern letters-a scholar, a poet, and a gentleman: and if this be the fact, (which we certainly by no means take for granted,) the tone and temper in which Lord Byron has been treated by the Journal in question is doubly and trebly to be regretted. Whether the accomplished person we allude to, be, or be not, the Editor of this Review, we are quite sure he is not the author of the article we speak of. He (if it be he) has been seduced into admitting the criticism of some totally inferior mind-some mind either not large enough to regard the great ness of the dead poet's fame without envy-or small enough to remember, in the pages of Mr Whitaker's Review, that the proprietor of the Quarterly Review had been also the pub. lisher of that illustrious poet's most successful performances. The article is a splenetic, a malevolent, and, we fear we must add, a mean tirade. It must have been written by an unhappy man, and can be read with pleasure by



Far more reprehensible, because far more lengthened and elaborate-and despicable to boot, because evidently written by a person, who, with friendship in his mouth, had never felt any real friendship for the departed poetis the attempt towards a whole-length portraiture of Lord Byron's character, which appeared some months ago in the London Magazine. The writer of that production must be indeed a miserable. He derives all the vices of Byron-real or supposed-from the fact of his being a Lord. When he is to be commended for anything, "this, in short, is as well as could be expected from a Lord." What a picture of Grub-street bile! The same tone (here is a compliment!) has, we observe, been taken up by the distinguished author of the Liber Amoris, in a new octavo (chiefly, ut mos est, made up of old materials,) which he has published under the modest title of "The Spirit of the Age!!!" The Hero of Southampton-row is exceedingly bitter with Lord Byron, because he had a pedigree. He cannot away with the patrician soul that breaks out continually even in the most radical ravings of Byron's muse. It is evident, that if Mr Hazlitt had seen the living Lion down, he would have rejoiced in kicking him : he now does his pleasure with the dead. And it was for this sort of recompence, say rather retribution, that Lord Byron suffered, for a time at least, his noble name to be coupled in the mouths of men, with these abject souls-these paltry and contemptible caitiffs, who, while they would fain have derived some skulking benefit from his name, never regarded either the poet or the man, but with all the rancours of despairing imbecility and plebeian spite.

The truth is, that Byron's literary success had all along been regarded


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