LITERARY CRITICISM. Restalrig; or, The Forfeiture. By the Author of St PRICE 10d. longed to the better sex. If it be a sin, we plead guilty to the sin of loving female writers, though we are rather disposed to account it a virtue. Nor do we consider it exactly fair to judge of them by the same rigid rules which may be applied to the lucubrations of those who are ironically termed their lords and masters. With the exception of one or two old stagers, for whom we own no compassion, ladies have many difficulties to conWe know of few things more disagreeable than to tend with in coming before the public, of which male be obliged to find fault where we had wished only to creatures may easily get the better. Restricted as the bestow praise. It is the hardest part of a critic's duty, former are to a much inferior knowledge of life and of and that for which few are disposed to blame him, if he the world, their choice of subjects is much more limited, is found wanting; his leniency being pronounced, at their style and expressions must be much more guarded, most, a weakness, that leans to virtue's side. But this and their delineations of the more hidden passions of is dangerous doctrine; and if a critic ever hopes to have human nature, must, in many instances, be much more his judgment relied on, or to be able to do good ser- feeble and imperfect. Female talent, therefore, with a vice to the literature of his country, and fight a good few brilliant exceptions, ought always to be spoken of fight for its intellectual superiority, he must steel his comparatively, in reference to itself, and not to that of heart against a useless clemency to individuals, that he men. Mrs Logan, the reputed authoress of "St Johnmay be able to advance more triumphantly the general stoun," and "Restalrig," we were aware possessed abi.. cause. Suppose several of our most influential review-lities that raised her far above mediocrity; and as she is, ers were to laud to the skies, from motives of private moreover, one of the few authoresses that Scotland has humanity, a particular book, whose merits were, in of late years produced and kept to itself, we were anxipoint of fact, greatly outweighed by its faults, what ous that her second production, "Restalrig," should would be the result? The press would be inundated prove still superior to her first, and be of a nature calwith a multiplicity of works, all indicating talent of a culated to establish her literary reputation on a sure and similar inferior order; and if similar commendations lasting basis. These hopes were perhaps too sanguine, were not bestowed upon them, their respective authors and at all events we are afraid we must say they have (who probably ought never to have published at all,) been disappointed. would be able to convict the reviewers of inconsistency, and might justly complain of having been misled and deceived by them. And thus, what was originally meant as a kindness to an individual would turn out to be a positive injury inflicted on a number. If, to avoid this, the reviewers still continued to praise, then all literary distinctions would be lost or confounded, and the man of genius would rank no higher than the dolt. Restalrig; or, the Forfeiture," is meant to be an historical novel; yet there is not introduced into it a single historical incident of any moment, and in so far as the plot is concerned, (which is certainly meagre enough,) the story, instead of commencing in the year 1608, might just as well have commenced at any other period. In "St Johnstoun," the interesting historical event of the Gowrie conspiracy was the nucleus round which the rest of the tale was wound; but in "Restalrig" there is no nucleus at all, unless the simple circumstance of that estate being declared a "forfeiture" is considered a nucleus. In an historical novel, the author may, if he please, introduce characters of his own creating, and invest them with as much fictitious interest as he can ; but he must, at the same time, give the historical personages whom he brings upon the stage something to do, and if they are not to be his heroes and heroines, they must at least be essentially connected with the fate of these important individuals. This is a rule which can never properly be dispensed with; yet it has been entirely overlooked in "Restalrig," probably because the plot altogether seems to have been hastily formed, and still worse digested. To a certain extent, it is a continuation of "St Johnstoun;" but it is a continuation where no continuation was required, and which ought not to have been undertaken, unless subsequent historical events adWe hesitate not to confess, that we sat down to permitted of a story being developed, equally interesting use "Restalrig," with a prepossession in its favour. This prepossession arose principally from the circumstance of our having been informed that the author be It becomes, therefore, a moral obligation on the part of the conscientious reviewer, fearlessly to state those objections which may occur to him as applicable to any work which comes under his observation. He will, no doubt, do this in some cases much more willingly than in others. If a conceited coxcomb or dogmatical pedant shows himself determined to kick against the pricks, there can be no harm in allowing a few of the pricks to take effect where they will be most felt; but if the efforts of zealous and honest industry, anxious for distinction, fall considerably short of the end at which they aim, it is a far more painful task to point out its imperfections, and to dash from its hand the cup of hope that seemed to mantle high. Yet, as we have already said, it is a task which must be performed, though with all kindly and benevolent feelings, and the everpresent conviction that the end alone would justify the means. with that of the Gowrie conspiracy. So far, however, is this from being the case, that after reading these two volumes, it is impossible to understand why "Restalrig," or the "Forfeiture," should have been made the subject of a novel at all. To prove that we do not make this assertion at random, we shall attempt an analysis of the story, such as it is. tendants, revisit their own country, and the novel ends. We are well aware that all stories must lose considerably when thus abridged; but really the story of "ResA notary at Berwick-on-Tweed, of the name of Sprott, talrig," as a story, is so confused and absurd, that it is summoned to meet a stranger at midnight, amidst can hardly be made to appear worse than it is. There the ruins of an old abbey in the vicinity. The result is not a character in the whole that the reader is induof the conference is, that Sprott, without knowing any ced to take any interest in; and, for the most part, the thing of the person who instigates him to the perform- incidents are either trite and common-place, or unnaance of the crime, but in the hopes of a rich reward, tural and extravagant. Nor are there any detached agrees to forge some documents purporting to be in the graphic delineations of the manners of the times, comhand-writing of his old master and patron-Logan of pensating, to a certain extent, for the deficiencies of the Restalrig-now dead, by which it shall be made to tale itself. With the exception of a few descriptive and appear that Logan was concerned in the recent Gowrie didactic passages, all is "flat, stale, and unprofitable." conspiracy. The documents are prepared and delivered Not being particularly prone to confess this weakness up to the proper authorities; Sprott is thrown into pri- of our nature, we trust we shall be believed when we son, and examined concerning them; they gain full again repeat, that it is with no inconsiderable reluctance credence, and Restalrig is forfeited; but they are con- and uneasiness that we express so unfavourable an opisidered to implicate Sprott himself, who is condemned nion of this work. We beg it to be understood, that it to the gallows. He is assured, however, by the mysterious is to the work itself we limit our observations, and that stranger, that he will be protected and pardoned; but he is, we should be very unwilling to extend them to the aunotwithstanding, treacherously betrayed, and dies at the thoress, whom we still believe to possess a very superior very moment that he expects to be set at liberty. The story mind. She has failed in "Restalrig," we are inclined then introduces us to young Logan, the son of old Res- to think, more because she has had no proper materials talrig, who returns to Scotland from the Continent just to work with, than because she does not know how to in time to learn that his fortunes are ruined. This com- use them if she had. In testimony of her abilities, we mencement, though given somewhat tediously, is calcu- shall subjoin two short extracts, which appear to us two lated to excite interest, and the reader hopes to find the of the fairest specimens of the work. The first gives an story improving as it proceeds,-but it falls off. Lo-account of Logan's farewell visit to the residence of his gan, with a trusty follower, called Roger Dewlap, a very childhood, before he left Scotland :faint imitation of Richie Monyplies, leaves Edinburgh for London, to visit Sir Robert Carey, an old friend, and the guardian of his betrothed bride, Rosa Grey. In London, he is introduced to Queen Anne, wife of James VI., and Prince Henry, his eldest son; but from the King himself he is kept carefully concealed, owing to his father's supposed connexion with the Gowrie conspiracy. He sees his betrothed in rather a romantic way, at a court masque, and becomes more attached to her than ever he had been previously; but before he has time to tell her so, he is sent over, by the Queen, to Paris, with a letter of recommendation to Sully, prime minister of Henri Quatre. On arriving within eight miles of the French capital, he is the means of saving the life of a gallant French knight, whom a love intrigue had betrayed into some personal danger; and this knight turns out, ere long, to be Henri Quatre himself-though it does not exactly appear why he is brought upon the carpet at all, for we hear no more about him. Meantime, Rosa Grey leaves London for Scotland, with her friend and cousin, Isabella. The latter, however, having secretly married Lord Algerton, dissipated young nobleman, meets him by the way, and quits Rosa. Shortly afterwards, at an old castle, where she has stopped for the night, Rosa falls into the power of a strange deformed and malevolent being, with whom we have been previously made acquainted, and who is Lord Algerton's elder brother, though this fact has been kept concealed from the world. He carries her off, hurries her to the sea-coast, and transports her to France, having first caused a report to be spread of her death. In France, she contrives to escape; and having fled in the direction of Paris, she, by great good luck, meets with Logan, just when he had received news of her decease, and at the same time intimation that, through the Queen's interest, Restalrig had been restored to him. We are then informed that the unknown, who had instigated Sprott to forgery, was the elder Algerton, and who, in so doing, had views of personal aggrandisement, both for himself and his friend the Earl of Dunvere. Deprived of Rosa, whom he had wished to make his own, Algerton returns to England, where he assassinates his brother, the husband of Isabella, and is then drowned himself, in attempting to make his escape. Logan and Rosa, with their at "But we return to his son, who was now paying the penalty of his father's conduct, and whom we left sitting on the side of the castle wall, contemplating the alterations which had taken place in the circumstances that formerly connected him with this sea-beaten residence, which he had long loved so well. There was little difference in the external appearance of the fortress, its own rude strength seeming to bid defiance to decay, as if it partook of the character of those imperishable objects, the rocks and the ocean, by which it was surrounded. Every part of the scene in which he sat was coupled in his memory with all that is heart-stirring in the life of a spirited and animated lad; and, as he looked around on the well-known objects, his former feelings in some measure returned. Again he seemed to see his father's gallant pack of hounds thronging along the narrow drawbridge, and heard the rocks and caves once more re-echo to their deep-mouthed chime, and to the horn of the hunters. He beheld them winding their perilous way up the devious pathways of the neighbouring precipices. Anon, he was following hard upon the heels of the foremost dogs, and engaged in one of those desperate chases that led him to the very edge of the neighbouring precipices, which the bravest must have shuddered to approach. Again the scene changed, and he looked up, and beheld, high above him, the eyry which he had prided himself on yearly reaching, that he might possess himself of the young goshawks, whose parents found thus no safety for their brood in the tremendous and giddy height at which they had placed them from the beach below. And well did he remember the throb of heartfelt delight with which, on regaining the summit of the cliff, he exhibited his prize, and listened to the shouts of triumph with which the hardy domestics, his abettors and assistants in the dangerous undertaking, hailed their adventurous young lord. While these joyous acclamations seemed yet to ring in his ears, he again turned his regards toward the dwelling from which he was for ever excluded; and no trumpet could have spoken louder of sorrow and disappointment, than its desolate silence. It was as though one long buried had awakened, to experience the changes and devastations of a century. He thought on the long line of his noble ancestors, by whom the blood in his own veins was mingled with that of the royal Bruce of their martial bravery, and the high stations they had been called on by their country to fill,-and he thought on them with envy, as on those whom Providence had permitted to descend with honour to their graves. Next, his mind reverted to that parent, who was ever indulgent to his wishes; and then to his deathbed, from which, as it now seemed to him, he had unnecessarily absented himself, by his love of travel, and by following his own wayward humour, in opposition to what he had reason to suppose had been the wish of his father for his return. He then followed, with his mind's eye, the funeral procession, up those rocky paths, to that grave where no son had attended to lay the head of his parent in the dust. Then shot through his burning brain the recollection of the inhuman violation of that grave, and of the ghastly head, with its grey hairs streaming in the winds, now affixed to the walls of a prison, an object of horror to some, and of derision to others, and this for an imputed crime, of which he felt an inward assurance his father had not been guilty. "Thus, the gratification of the earnest wish he had cherished, to tread again the hallowed earth on which he had played in childhood, was the means of conjuring up a thousand distracting thoughts; and, no longer able to control his feelings, or silently endure his wretchedness, he again gave way to his irritated mood, and spoke aloud: Shall I, then, tamely bend my neck to the yoke of fell despair,' he said, and set me down and die by inches? No! by the help of Heaven, I will yet be heard; and both kingdoms shall ring with my wrongs, till some reparation be made for the injustice done me." "Vol. Î. p. 80—3. Our other extract furnishes us with a description of the heroine and her friend Isabella :— "On a beautiful summer afternoon, while the sun was shooting his rays of unclouded brilliance on the broad and sparkling water of the noble river Thames, two lovely young women looked on it from an open window in the back part of Somerset or Denmark House; the latter being the name given, at the period when our story commences, to the palace in which the consort of King James I. then held her court. These young females bore each the name of Grey. "The elder had nearly arrived at the age of one-andtwenty; her features had much of the Grecian outline, and possessed the Italian dignity of expression, blended with a softness peculiarly their own, which they owed to eyes large and dark, the exact colour of which it was difficult to ascertain, from the shade thrown on them by uncommonly long and thick eyelashes, of the deepest black. Her complexion, though not what would be called fair, yet almost appeared so, from its contrast with the jet of her hair, which was allowed to play in long spiral ringlets over her neck and shoulders, down to the slender waist, which belonged to a form perfectly proportioned, and of almost aërial lightness. Her dress was splendid, according to the fashion of the times, and the usage of the gay court in which she resided,— being a robe of grass-green sandal, (a thin silk then so called,) tastefully bordered and edged with gold, to the neck of which was attached a deep full ruff of the most costly lace, that fell back on the shoulders, so as to expose to view the graceful throat, and the jewelled necklace that encircled it; while a cimar of white silk, richly embroidered in gold, showed itself on the bosom, forming a stomacher in front, the upper garment being open from the girdle upwards. "The dress of her cousin, who was her younger by two years, differed little from that we have just described, except in the colour of the robe, which was amber; while the style of her beauty formed a complete contrast between them, her complexion being brightly fair, with a profusion of flaxen hair, her eyes blue, and her little mouth expressing a playful sprightliness, and giving frequently to view, in the laugh full of glee, or the smile of archness, the pearly whiteness of her small and regular teeth. Her height was somewhat under that of her cousin's, and her figure more full and less graceful. This.latter deficiency was, however, only to be discovered when they were together; for, when separate, so great was her loveliness, and her general powers of attraction, that it was impossible to wish her in any particular other than she was. But the general fascination of her appearance was much overclouded at the moment we are describing; her lovely mouth wore not its accustomed smiles, and there was spread over her whole appearance a thoughtfulness, that betrayed itself in her air, her physiognomy, and her voice, and gave to each a tincture of languor, and even a gloom, very foreign to their natural and usual expression. This tendency to sadness, it seemed at present the intention of her cousin to divert, by occasionally rallying her on its cause; and, when this method appeared, by the tears which it brought to her eyes, and by her continued silence, not to succeed, by endeavouring to turn her attention to the luxu riant and varied landscape that the opposite or southern side of the river presented to their view; which being then the very reverse of what it is now, exhibited, in place of blackened and crowded buildings, a wide extended plain, covered with pastoral beauties, bounded to the southward by the Surrey hills, then clothed in all their summer verdure, and softened by distance; the intermediate space being enriched with fields, gardens, and orchards, and interspersed with churches, villas, and cottages. But few houses were seen immediately on the margin of the river, between Southwark and the stately towers rose above the wood in which they were archiepiscopal palace of Lambeth, whose venerable and embosomed, and so near to the water, that the ancient spires and trees were reflected in its tranquil surface.”— Vol. I. p. 133-7. many such; but the book, as a whole, is tedious and These are respectable pieces of writing, and there are uninteresting. We rather suspect that the author should turn her attention from novel-writing to some other species of composition. The Edinburgh Review, or Critical Journal. No. XCVI. For September-December, 1828. Edinburgh, Adam Black; London, Longman and Co. Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. No. CXLIX. For February, 1829. Edinburgh, William Blackwood; London, T. Cadell. The Foreign Quarterly Review. No. VI. January, 1829. London, Treuttel and Wurtz. The New Monthly Magazine, and Literary Journal. No. XCVIII. February, 1829. London, Henry Colburn. The SETTING political considerations out of the question, the Edinburgh Review, take it for all in all, is, and has ever been, an honour to the country that produced it, and a very proud monument of Mr Jeffrey's genius. For several years back, this Review has not been quite so distinguished as it once was; but this is to be attributed entirely to that apathy which is but too frequently the natural consequence of complete success. boy soon restores to liberty the painted butterfly that it has cost him a whole summer day to catch; and the man of talent, as soon as he has accomplished the object he had in view, as soon as he has got the start of all his competitors in the race,-rests upon his oars, or looks out for a new path in which to distinguish himself. It is quite impossible that any Editor can always write and think exactly as he should do, and in a work of so comprehensive a description as the Edin- and the natural sincerity and simplicity of character, burgh Review, it was natural to suppose that there combined with a great deal of shrewd observation and should be occasional mistakes and discrepancies; but strong common sense, which so peculiarly distinguishes we believe it is universally allowed, that Mr Jeffrey's James, as he is called. To a stranger, the Shepherd apmode of conducting this periodical is, on the whole, in pears a dull inanimate man in conversation; but he is the highest degree creditable to his temper, his judg- not so to those who know how to touch upon the right ment, and his abilities, or, to use a hackneyed, but ex- chords. He often thinks more than he speaks; but pressive phrase, to his head and to his heart. Errors what he says, though not expressed in the language he has, no doubt, committed, both in matters of science, of Bond Street, is always worth listening to. In the political economy, philosophy, belles lettres, and poetry; Noctes, Hogg is a good deal like what he would be but to say that a man has committed errors is to say were he to put into words all the secret thoughts of his nothing. Look at the per contra, and see how much most inspired and solitary moments, which in his social Mr Jeffrey has done for science, political economy, hours it is not his nature ever to do. He is, in short, a philosophy, belles lettres, and poetry;-perhaps no man more fanciful and beau-ideal sort of Shepherd on paper of the present day has done more, or so much. It than he is in reality,-as people appear to possess an air ought to be recollected, too, that there is not, and never on canvass, which none but the painter probably ever was, a nest of Edinburgh Reviewers in Edinburgh. discovered to belong to them. With the exception of Mr Jeffrey's own articles, the best have come from a distance. Sidney Smith has been a host in himself; Brougham, Macintosh, Hazlitt, Malthus, and others, have contributed many powerful Essays. It is, of course, among the whigs that Mr Jeffrey principally moves; and it is to be regretted, that even in the purely literary Society of Edinburgh, a pretty strong line of demarcation is kept up between the whigs and tories. This is to be attributed, to a considerable extent, to the rivalry and opposition that has so long existed between the Edinburgh Review and Blackwood's Magazine, and the cutting sarcasms and raillery in which the latter has so frequently indulged. Personal feelings, either real or imaginary, have thus been brought into action, and the heroes of the Noctes Ambrosianæ could hardly be expected to meet with a very hearty welcome from the learned Editor in Moray Place. The invention (as it may be called) of the Noctes Ambrosiana has been of great use to Blackwood's Magazine. It was exactly what all Magazines ought to have; yet it was the first attempt which was made in these periodicals to give the reader a more direct and personal interest in the writers whose monthly lucubrations he so regularly perused; and, at the same time, to afford an opportunity for expressing opinions, in an easy and epigrammatic manner, on a thousand subjects of interest, which could not otherwise have been touched upon. The Noctes have been written by various hands, but the most distinguished are Mr Lockhart and Professor Wilson. The former was fonder of introducing a greater variety of characters than the latter generally attempts; but it has not been found that they have lost any of their interest under the Professor's care. The question is frequently asked, whether any such thing as real Noctes Ambrosiana ever takes place? It may be pretty safely answered that they do, though not by any means at stated and regular periods; but Professor Wilson, whenever he chooses to exert himself, or rather without any exertion at all, is a Noctes Ambrosiana in himself. Few men ever combined more happily than he does the vivida vis of intellect, with the deep enthusiasm of poetical genius, and that ever-overflowing playfulness and urbanity which give to conversation so much sparkle and life, and are the sure indication of those kindly dispositions, nihil humani alienum putantes. The Ettrick Shepherd is the person who is now made to figure most conspicuously in the Noctes. Mr Hogg, however, has not of late been in Edinburgh above three or four weeks in the year, so that of course the author of these dialogues draws entirely upon his own imagination for what he puts into the Shepherd's lips. Mr Hogg is not exactly what he is made to appear in the Noctes. It is a powerful portrait, but a good deal exaggerated every way. The Shepherd seldom or never speaks poetical prose; or, if he does, it is by chance, not in a regular and intentional succession of sentences. In one thing the likeness is good,—the total want of all affectation, The articles in the Foreign Quarterly Review are written by men of talent and learning; but we have some doubts whether there be in this country a sufficient number of readers interested in Continental literature, to secure for it a permanent support, the more especially as unfortunate circumstances have introduced to the notice of the public two foreign Reviews at the same time. With the exception of France, Germany, and Italy, there is scarcely a European state in whose literary productions the mass of the reading public of Great Britain takes any interest; and even with regard to the march of mind in these three nations, an occasional article in the Edinburgh or Quarterly Review, or in some of the numerous Magazines, is expected to furnish a general and comprehensive view, enough to satisfy most appetites. But if any Foreign Review can be made to pay in this country, the very respectable work before us must have as good a chance as any that can be started. The New Monthly, or Campbell's Magazine, every body is acquainted with. It is a gentlemanly and clever periodical; but its great fault is, that every succeeding number is too like those which have gone before. This we conceive to be a dangerous error in a periodical work, the very soul of which ought to be variety. The ability with which Blackwood varies his monthly bill of fare is one of the great charms of his Magazine. Even a dull article may safely be inserted now and then, if it has a tone and style of its own, for it will contrast well with the livelier lucubrations of more talented pens. The essays in the New Monthly are not only always good, but they have all the same sort of goodness, and that is nearly as wearisome as the same sort of badness. There is one exception to this remark to be found in the poetical department of this Magazine, which is, in general, very mediocre a circumstance that occasions some surprise, considering the poetical reputation of its editor. It strikes us, indeed, that the poetry of most of the Magazines is, at present, considerably below par. Blackwood does not care much about poetry, considering, rightly, that prose is the anchor to which all periodical works must principally trust. Professor Wilson's contributions, in particular, are almost always in prose; and the Edinburgh Literary Journal has had the honour of giving to the public his two most recent, and certainly not the least beautiful of his poetical productions. Leaving these more general observations, we are desirous, before concluding, to direct the attention of our readers to the leading article in the last number of the Edinburgh Review. It is a disquisition on the life, character, and writings of Burns, taking Mr Lockhart's work on that subject for the text. We have rarely met with a more eloquent or forcible piece of writing, or one more calculated to raise its author in our estimation. With Mr Carlisle's talents, the "Life of Schiller," and other productions, had made us previously acquainted but we were hardly prepared to expect from his pen an article of so much beauty and vigour, and so admirably sustained throughout. A more splendid tribute has never been paid to the memory of Burns; and though we do not exactly agree with Mr Carlisle in all his sentiments, especially in some of his remarks on Byron, and in his criticism on "Tam o' Shanter," we consider it a part of our literary duty to express the gratification we have, on the whole, experienced, in perusing a composition so redolent of genius. We doubt not that most of our readers will make it a point to judge of this Essay for themselves; but, in the meantime, to convince them that we have been bestowing no unmerited praise, we shall transfer to our pages the following admirable passage on THE GENIUS OF BURNS. "Such a gift had nature in her bounty bestowed on us in Robert Burns; but with queen-like indifference she cast it from her hand, like a thing of no moment; and it was defaced and torn asunder, as an idle bauble, before we recognized it. To the ill-starred Burns was given the power of making man's life more venerable; but that of wisely guiding his own was not given. Destiny, for so in our ignorance we must speak, his faults, the faults of others, proved too hard for him; and that spirit, which might have soared, could it but have walked, soon sank to the dust, its glorious faculties trodden under foot in the blossom, and died, we may almost say, without ever having lived. And so kind and warm a soul; so full of inborn riches, of love to all living and lifeless things! How his heart flows out in sympathy over universal nature, and in her bleakest provinces discerns a beauty and a meaning! The daisy' falls not unheeded under his ploughshare, nor the ruined nest of that wee, cowering, timorous beastie,' cast forth after all its provident pains, tothole the sleety dribble, and cranreuch cauld.' The hoar visage' of winter delights him: he dwells with a sad and oft-returning fondness on these scenes of solemn desolation; but the voice of the tempest becomes an anthem to his ears; he loves to walk in the sounding woods, for it raises his thoughts to Him that walketh on the wings of the wind. A true poet-soul, for it needs but to be struck, and the sound it yields will be music! But observe him chiefly as he mingles with his brother men. What warm all-comprehending fellow-feeling, what trustful, boundless love, what generous exaggeration of the object loved! His rustic friend, his nut-brown maiden, are no longer mean and homely, but a hero and a queen, whom he prizes as the paragons of earth. The rough scenes of Scottish life, not seen by him in any Arcadian illusion, but in the rude contradiction, in the smoke and soil of a too harsh reality, are still lovely to him: Poverty is indeed his companion, but love also and courage; the simple feelings, the worth, the nobleness, that dwell under the straw roof, are dear and venerable to his heart; and thus over the lowest provinces of man's existence, he pours the glory of his own soul; and they rise, in shadow and sunshine, softened and brightened, into a beauty which other eyes discern not in the highest. He has a just self-consciousness, which too often degenerates into pride; yet it is a noble pride, for defence, not for offence, no cold, suspicious feeling, but a frank and social one. The peasant poet bears himself, we might say, like a king in exile: he is cast among the low, and feels himself equal to the highest; yet he claims no rank, that none may be disputed to him. The forward he can repel, the supercilious he can subdue; pretensions of wealth or ancestry are of no avail with him; there is a fire in that dark eye, under which the insolence of condescension' cannot thrive. In his abasement, in his extreme need, he forgets not for a moment the majesty of poetry and manhood. And yet, far as he feels himself above common men, he wanders not apart from them, but mixes warmly in their interests; nay, throws himself into their arms, and, as it were, entreats them to love him. It is moving to see · how, in his darkest despondency, this proud being still seeks relief from friendship; unbosoms himself, often to the unworthy; and, amid tears, strains to his glowing heart, a heart that knows only the name of friendship. And yet he was quick to learn ;' a man of keen vision, before whom common disguises afforded no concealment. His understanding saw through the hollowness even of accomplished deceivers; but there was a generous credulity in his heart. And so did our peasant show himself among us; a soul like an Æolian harp, in whose strings the vulgar wind as it passed through them, changed itself into articulate melody.' And this was he for whom the world found no fitter business than quarrelling with smugglers and vintners, computing excise dues upon tallow, and gauging alebarrels! In such toils was that mighty spirit sorrowfully wasted; and a hundred years may pass on before another such is given us to waste." Not less eloquent, and, in the mind and heart of every enthusiastic Scotchman, not less true, is the subjoined panegyric on THE SONGS OF BURNS. "But by far the most finished, complete, and trulyinspired pieces of Burns are, without dispute, to be found among his Songs. It is here that, although through a small aperture, his light shines with the least obstruction; in its highest beauty, and pure sunny clearness. The reason may be, that song is a brief and simple species of composition; and requires nothing so much for its perfection, as genuine poetic feeling,genuine music of the heart. The song has its rules equally with the tragedy; rules which, in most cases, are poorly fulfilled; in many cases are not so much as felt. We might write a long Essay on the Songs of Burns; which we reckon by far the best that Britain has yet produced; for indeed, since the era of Queen Elizabeth, we know not that by any other hand aught truly worth attention has been accomplished in this department. True, we have songs enough by persons of quality;' we have tawdry, hollow, wine-bred Madrigals; many a rhymed speech in the flowing and watery vein of Ossorius, the Portugal Bishop, rich in sonorous words; and for moral, dashed, perhaps, with some tint of a sentimental sensuality; all which many persons cease not from endeavouring to sing; though, for most part, we fear, the music is but from the throat outwards, or at best from some region far enough short of the soul; not in which, but in a certain inane Limbo of the fancy, or even in some vaporous debateable land on the outside of the Nervous System, most of such Madrigals and rhymed speeches seem to have originated. With the Songs of Burns we must not name these things. Independently of the clear, manly, heartfelt sentiment that ever pervades his poetry, his Songs are honest in another point of view; in form as well as in spirit. They do not affect to be set to music, but they actually and in themselves are music; they have received their life, and fashioned themselves together, in the medium of harmony, as Venus rose from the bosom of the sea. The story, the feeling, is not detailed, but suggested; not said, or spouted in rhetorical completeness and coherence, but sung in fitful gushes,-in glowing hints,-in fantastic breaks,-in warblings, not of the voice only, but of the whole mind. We consider this to be the essence of a song; and that no songs, since the little careless catches, and, as it were, drops of song, which Shakspeare has here and there sprinkled over his plays, fulfil this condition in nearly the same degree as most of Burns's do. Such grace and truth of external movement, too, presupposes, in general, a corresponding force and truth of sentiment, and inward meaning. The Songs of Burns are not more perfect in the former quality than in the latter. With what tenderness he sings, |