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tion not easily attainable by others. And yet, with the exception of a few interesting personal anecdotes of his great commander, his book contains nothing that we did not already know from other sources, not to say that it contains much that is now generally known to be incorrect. The truth is, that as a personal narrative-as a picture of the adventures and feelings of the Colonel of the Tenth-the Marquess's work would have been interesting; it is the sketch of a frank, fearless, buoyant, and not over-intellectual soldier. But the wisdom of the friend to whom its author intrusted the assortment and polishing of his papers, has prefixed a sketch of the political intrigues which gave rise to the war, and has communicated to the production the pretensions of a regular history. Weighed in this balance it is found sadly want ing. In one point of view, however, it is important, as showing the feeling which prevailed, even in high quarters, in Sir John Moore's army. The Marquess of Londonderry served under that general in his disastrous advance into Spain. We need not now enter into any defence of the retreat to Corunna. That Soult, Wellington, and Napoleon have joined in praise of it, is sufficient; and if, in addition to this, any one wish to judge for himself, let him read Colonel Napier's masterly demonstration of the circumstances and situation of the army, and the conduct of its leader. We advert to this melancholy part of our history, not for the sake of adding our feeble tribute to the memory of a great and long-misrepresented man; but with the view of expressing the pain it gives us to see the Marquess of Londonderry, long after the propriety of his General's conduct has been established, and the impropriety of the conduct of those officers who sought to shake his plans by their murmurings-long after the hero has sealed his devotion to his country by a martyr's death-giving way to petty feelings of resentment at the remembrance of some rebukes which Moore had found it necessary to bestow upon him.

Colonel Napier's is a work of a different and much higher class. It is strictly a military history, although in a war like that which was carried on in the Peninsula, where the political cause was continually giving a colour to the feelings of the inhabitants, it is impossible to avoid touching occasionally on political matters. We find it necessary, therefore, to advert, in the first place, to the political dogmas which our author has occasionally broached. We do this because it gives us an opportunity of expressing our opinion of a political sect which has lately become rather numerous, especially upon the Continent and among military men. We premise, that our remarks apply to this sect in a body, and are not in the most distant degree personal to Colonel Napier.

The creed of these men is, as it were, a florilegium of the most specious opinions maintained by the different political sects of our times. With the Jacobin, they worship intellect alone the man of talent, according to them, being always entitled to take the lead, independent of all other considerations. With the loyalist, they are much swayed by the remembrance of ancient and hereditary glories; and, at the same time, they incline to take the government which they find in power, and make the most of it. With the sceptic, they admire religion, but only as a pretty useful feeling, and their support of it is very apt to assume the air of patronage. Now, taken individually, there is not one of these principles inconsistent with the purity and honesty of the mind that entertains it. Our objection is, that however good in themselves, each rests upon convictions and modes of belief incompatible with the existence of the others. Their adoption, therefore, cannot be considered as the result of careful reflection and sound conviction. They have been assumed rather as pleasing objects, whereon the feelings and imagination may repose as a dress which sits lightly and gracefully on a gallant youth, because it is thought to indicate a liberality of spirit, which gives the finishing grace to the warrior's self-devotion. We object to these prin

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ciples, that they are superficial, and that they neither form the character, nor give consistency to the actions. In proof of this, we call to witness their inadequacy to guide aright their most distinguished votaries in the late whirl of Europe's affairs. How often were the dauntless, the chivalrous, deserted in the hour of need by these unsubstantial supporters, and left to "turn, and turn, and turn again," until their names became a mockery, and their faith a by-word? Surely all men who attempt to direct the principles of others, should first have established a steady line of conduct for themselves. An opposite course may dazzle for a moment; but it never can obtain the lasting approbation of the truly wise.

We return to Colonel Napier's book as a military history. Viewed in this light, it will be found possessed of the high attributes of sedulous and extensive investigation, strict impartiality, and thorough mastery of the subject. The author has studied attentively, and with success, the tactical principles of the great leaders of his time. He has sought for materials on every hand. Comparing his own experience with the narratives of others, and allowing his extensive store of facts and theories mutually to correct each other, he has succeeded in making even what books have taught him a vital and integral part of his own knowledge. He has thus been enabled to convey to us more clear and distinct notions of the particular actions, and of their bearings on each other, than any author we know. He uniformly speaks out freely and fearlessly,-exposing, on all occasions, weakness and incapacity, or defending, with all the generous ardour of a soldier, those great men whose actions have been misrepresented by faction or ignorance. Finally, by constantly comparing what was executed with what was projected, and pointing out the causes of failure, he has succeeded in making his work not merely a history, but one of the most instructive treatises on the art of war that has been published. He has only to proceed as he has begun, and his book, when completed, will be one of which the country may be justly proud-one which will go far to place the intellectual character of our army on that just footing in which it ought to be held both at home and abroad.

Did space and time permit, we would fain indulge in a few general remarks on the subject of the works which we have been criticising. When the Spaniards first arose with word and deed against the foreign oppressor, there was a sympathy awakened for them throughout Europe, which made their actions be regarded with an almost superstitious reverence. Men looked towards Spain after the fashion of somnambulists, who, with their wide inexpressive eyes resting on surrounding objects, see nothing but their own thick-coming fancies. In those days, Spain, according to the general estimation, was a land of chivalry, of romance, of devoted patriotism. It is a sad thought, that things so fair in show-when seen in prospectiveseldom bear to be looked back upon. It is like viewing some scenic illusion from behind,—it is like sailing over some unruffled lake towards the setting sun, and beholding reflected before us all the gayest hues of eventide, then turning round and finding the fairy path over which we have passed one sad dull mass of water. Yet the history is not without its charm to those who can forget the gay dreams of the past, and find a pleasure in contemplating the severer beauties of truth. They will see in the Spaniards, a nation which, excluded from intercourse with the rest of Europe, had reached the period when age superinduces stiffness and weakness, and yet were still in infantine ignorance—a nation in which incipient dotage was linked with the unabated enthusiasm and inexperience of youth-a nation which, when called upon to combat the evils of life, was found to live in a world of its own imaginings, and to form its conduct upon them—a nation, in short, which seems to have been prophetically typified in his hero by Cervantes. They will see this land of dreamers called upon to support the sacred cause of national independence against a power essentially practical,

and of this world; and which, to the clearest and most extended apprehension of the realities of life, added a lightning rapidity in the execution of its plans. They will see the Spaniards themselves obliged, by their weakness and ignorance, to stand by inactive, while the battle for their liberty is fought on their own plains and mountains between two mightier and more equal powers; or, at the best, embarrassing their allies by their petulant and senseless pretence of assistance. Lastly, they will see all that human intelligence and bravery can effect displayed on either side in the contest. In the contemplation of the mighty game of the now grotesque, now deeply affecting circumstances under which it was played-and in the feelings and characters evolved during its progress, the student of this war's history will find subjects for reflection, elevating, strengthening, and instructing his mind, and far more than compensating for the loss of those airy visions which they banish from his imagination.

unfavourable to the pursuit of truth, the circumstances in which enquiry is a duty, the prejudices adverse to enquiry, the influence of the institutions and practices of society, and the feelings with which the results of enquiry ought to be communicated and received. To this portion of the work, the only objection we are inclined to make is, that the writer does not seem to be sufficiently aware of the fact, that, in the present state of society, it is absolutely necessary, for its harmony and well-being, that a very great part of the population be contented to take for granted the conclusions to which other men have come; for, were all to indulge in investigations of their own, a thousand crude and contradictory notions would inevitably take possession of half-educated minds. It is, of course, to be regretted, that so few are placed in circumstances favourable to enquiry; but it is better to submit to a bad state of things, than to make it worse, by an injudicious attempt to make it better.-The second Essay, which is on the Progress of Knowledge, pleases us exceed

Essays on the Pursuit of Truth, on the Progress of Know-ingly. It is in the form of a dialogue; and, though the

ledge, and on the Fundamental Principle of all Evidence and Expectation. By the Author of Essays "On the Formation and Publication of Opinions." London. R. Hunter. 1829. 8vo. Pp. 302.

THE author of this work is evidently a Deist, or, at least, one who, for the sake of argument, is willing to rest contented with Deism. When, therefore, we say that we have perused his book with pleasure, we shall, of course, be understood as referring to the intellectual acumen which its contents display, and not to any accordance upon our part with the peculiar tenets to which the writer is attached. This is a distinction which every man of independent mind ought to be able to make. It is true, no doubt, that we cannot help being delighted with that author most whose views upon philosophical and metaphysical subjects chiefly coincide with our own; but it would surely argue much weakness, and tend to throw suspicion on the soundness of our own modes of thinking, were we to turn away with disgust from the arguments of those whom circumstances had irresistibly impelled to opposite conclusions. Though Dr Beattie, and Reid, and Dugald Stewart, were able men, it does not, therefore, follow that Hobbes, and Priestly, and Hume, were not able men also. All discussion upon the phenomena of mind is like a combat at chess; the skilful looker-on derives most satisfaction from the play of the victor; but if his antagonist contest the game well, there is no reason why he should not take an interest in him also. In one point of view, it is to us all one what side may be espoused, or what opinions may be promulgated, by any candidate on the field of intellectual gladiatorship. We are of course anxious that truth should be ultimately successful; but error is the very foundation upon which truth builds her temple, and unless a mass of error had been previously overturned, no one could say in what truth consisted. Besides, error is manytongued and hydra-headed,—is strong, and arrogant, and positive; and it will not do to turn away from it with contempt, or to try to crush it by the strong hand of power. It must, if possible, be pulled up by the roots, rather than merely trampled on or cut down. To do this requires patience, and dexterity, and forbearance. Nay, there is often much to admire about error: it is like a flourishing weed, which, though its juice be poison, is, nevertheless, fair to the sight, and pleasant to the smell. There is, we suspect, some poison in the work before us, yet is it mixed up with much nutritious and wholesome food.

The volume contains three Essays, each of which is subdivided into parts or chapters. The first Essay is on the Pursuit of Truth, and on the Duty of Enquiry. The subject is somewhat trite; but it is handled well, and in a bold and liberal spirit. The author, we think, has stated fairly and truly the state of mind favourable and

those of Southey, yet, for the precision of its style, and views it takes are in many respects very different from the varied nature of its illustrations, it would do no discredit to that gentleman; while, for soundness of thinking, and accuracy of conclusion, we are rather inclined to think that it is entitled to the palm.—The third and last Essay is perhaps the ablest of the whole. It is upon the much-disputed subject of Causation, and the Principles of Evidence. Its drift, however, though never distinctly stated, obviously is to show that it is impossible to prove a miracle, or any thing involving a deviation from the uniform succession of causes and effects. The argument is very ingeniously managed, but it is not conclusive; and for this reason: We are perfectly willing to grant the whole of our author's premises;-we grant that there could be no such thing as evidence at all, without a uniformity of cause and effect, and that, were we to confine ourselves solely to the world in which we live, no testimony of a third person or persons would be sufficient to convince us that in any one case this uniformity had been departed from, it being more likely that the witnesses themselves should have been deceived, than that nature should have contradicted itself. But then our author should have recollected that he professes to be a Deist, by which is meant, that, from certain effects, apparent to all, he cannot help believing in the existence of an unseen cause-external to this world, and independent of it. Now, it must be from this great first cause that all effects spring; and surely, if this first cause be a being of intelligence, he may regulate the effects as to him seems good. We therefore here make one step, namely, that this great Being has it in his power, in any individual instance, to decree a deviation from the usual uniformity of cause and effect. The Deist cannot maintain that there is any absolute and blind necessity for the uniformity which prevails. The only other question therefore is, Whether, for wise purposes, this Being may not see proper to ordain such deviation; and whether, its possibility being allowed, there is any evidence sufficient to convince us that it has been ordained. Our author argues truly, that in all common cases, however numerous and respectable the persons may be who bear witness to such deviation having occurred, the great principle of the uniformity of causation, upon which all belief is founded, would militate effectually against our giving credit to their testimony, because a combination of circumstances is much more likely to affect human testimony-which is the result of complex causes-than it is to distort any of the common sequences of cause and effect in the natural world, which are simple, and may easily be verified at any time by experiment. But may not cases be conceived where, under the agency of a Supreme Being, the ordinary sequence of cause and effect is, at a particular time and place, altered or suspended in the material world, in order to give a new impulse and direction to the moral world? One great argument against ghosts

such future opinions may be, I think it substantially corI will grant you, therefore, that it is prudent in a man to suppress any opinions flagrantly hostile to popular prejudice; but it is not, you will allow, high-minded; if it escape our contempt, it is not a species of conduct to raise the glow of enthusiastic admiration, to dilate our strong conception with kindling majesty,' and to elevate us, for å time at least, above the dead level of our nature. The poet says,

'Give me the line that ploughs its stately course,

is, that their reported appearance very rarely seems to be
followed by any practical or beneficial result; and certain-rect.
ly if we were informed that ice did not melt when thrown
into the fire, or that the mercury of a barometer stood at
the height of 30 inches in the exhausted receiver of an
air-pump, we should be justified in disbelieving so cause-
less a deviation from the ordinary laws of the material
world. But if we had any reason whatever to think it
probable or possible that the very framer of these laws
chose to suspend them in these individual instances, in
order to impress certain great truths upon our mind, then
it does not seem inconsistent with the constitution of our
nature to receive, as sufficient, testimony which would not
otherwise have been satisfactory. If we suppose that
the deviation has really happened, we can account for it;
but if we deny it, there is no manner in which we can
explain the strange alteration that has taken place in the
minds of those men who attest the fact. We have not put
this matter perhaps in so clear a light as we could wish,
but we are unwilling to expatiate upon the subject.

We have already said that, on the whole, we look upon
this work as one of very considerable talent, and we re-
commend it to the attentive perusal of that small propor-
tion of the reading public of the present day who are in-
terested in the study of mind and in the discovery of phi-
losophical truth. As a fair specimen of the author's manly
and vigorous style, we present our readers with the fol-
lowing extract upon the propriety of publishing or con-
It is from
cealing one's opinions, whatever these may be.
the second Essay, the dialogue on the Progress of Know-
ledge :
"N. Every one must be struck with the discordance of
tone between the sentiments of our literature, of our public
debates, of our formal documents, on the one hand, and those
heard in private society, and exhibited in the common habits
of life, on the other. The same individual, who has been
speaking to the popular prejudices of the day in public, will
often let you see, by a sneer or a jest, or, at all events, by
the principles which regulate his daily conduct, that he has
in reality been playing the actor, and duping his audience.
Hence our literature does not present us with the actual
sentiments entertained. There is nothing like general sin-
cerity in the profession of opinions. The intellect of the
age is cowed.

"B. A great part of what appears to be insincerity, may perhaps be ascribed to a want of the power to perceive logi

Like the proud swan, conquering the stream by force;' and I confess my admiration will always follow him who boldly breasts the current of popular prejudice, forcing his way by his native energy. Nor can I help thinking, that such a man, if he combined undeviating coolness, moderation, integrity, and simplicity of mind, with great intellectual powers, would, in the end, extort the forbearance at least of the host of enemies who would rush to the encounter

from the instinct of fear.

"A. Such conduct would undoubtedly excite the admiration of a few, but it would be the destruction of the happiness of the individual, unless he were singularly constituted. It is a fearful thing for any man to encounter the execra tion, or even the tacit condemnation, of the society in which he lives. And moreover, it is questionable whether, supposing even his sentiments to be true, he would promote the cause by such a bold and reckless course. For any system of thoughts to be received with effect, the minds of the community must be in a state of preparation for it. If promul gated too early, it is cast back into obscurity by the offended prejudices of society, or becomes a prominent object, against which they are perpetually exasperating themselves. It is light-house amidst the breakers. The genius of a Smeaton in philosophy would be required to erect an intellectual structure of this kind, capable at once of giving intense light and withstanding the moral turbulence by which it would be assailed. A premature disclosure of any doctrine, you may rest assured, retards its ultimate reception. In fact, a forbearance to utter all that a man thinks is a species of continence necessary throughout the whole progress of civilisation; at every step the commanding minds of the age being in one state, and the feelings and opinions of the ma jority in another directly hostile to it."-Pp. 161-7.

a

Before concluding, we beg particularly to allude to the Chapter on Necessity, in which the author states what we conceive to be the only sound and rational view of that much-agitated subject.

Mason. Inverness. 1829. Pp. 268.

Dioclesian. A Dramatic Poem. By Thomas Doubleday. London. Hurst, Chance, & Co. 1829. Pp. 140.

WE class these books together, because they both contain poetry, and for no other reason that we know of. We shall speak of the first, first.

cal inconsistencies, and some part to the habit of thought-Poems Written in the Leisure Hours of a Journeyman lessly expressing in private society opinions not seriously entertained. It has been remarked, by an able writer, that were we to know what was said of us in our absence, we could seldom gather the real opinions of the speakers:There are so many things said from the mere wantonness of the moment, or from a desire to comply with the tone of the company; so many from the impulse of passion, or the ambition to be brilliant ; so many idle exaggerations, which the heart, in a moment of sobriety, would disavow, that frequently the person concerned would learn any thing sooner than the opinions entertained of him, and torment himself, as injuries of the deepest dye, with things injudicious, perhaps, and censurable, but which were the mere sallies of thought less levity. A similar observation might be made with regard to moral and political opinions. Things are said in the social or the listless hour, when the mind relaxes from the tension of steady thought, which would be disowned when the intellect had collected all its forces, and was calmly and solemnly looking at the whole bearings of the subject. Besides, if it were not so, I think you judge the matter too rigidly. Actual simulation of opinions I will not defend; but surely there is a species of dissimulation, or (not to use a word with which unfavourable associations are connected) of suppression, which, far from being culpable, may be prudent, and even meritorious, nay, absolutely necessary. I think I have heard you assert, that if any man were now to promulgate the moral and political opinions (could they be known) which will generally prevail at the end of two

hundred years from this time, he would be hooted from society. In this sentiment I do not participate, as I see no room for so immense a change as it supposes; but, on your

own grounds, a prudent reserve is commendable.

"N. The sentiment was expressed, perhaps, too broadly; but, without pretending to form a conjecture as to what

The day has gone by when a literary mechanic used to be regarded as a phenomenon. Considering, indeed, the wide diffusion of a certain superficial sort of knowledge, the wonder rather is, that we do not see more persons in the inferior walks of life seized with the cacoethes scribendi, One of the great characteristics of the present age is, that all terror of coming before the public has died away, and, like the breaking up of the feudal system, or the destruction of the old noblesse at the French Revolution, hundreds have rushed into those literary circles formerly so select and exclusive, and the aristocracy of letters has been swept off by the torrent. Things may be carried to exA literary coterie may be too jeatremes in both ways. lous and scrupulous, and may shut themselves in within a high barrier, over which genius may in vain attempt to climb, and, discouraged by repeated failures, may ultimately sink into obscurity and neglect. Or, on the contrary, every barrier may be overturned, the deference due to the patres conscripti may be entirely done away with, Parnassian hill, or indulging in vulgar pic-nic parties by a rabble rout may be seen carelessly wandering the Castalian wave, as if these were their own hereditary domain; and, in short, in the very spirit of lawless de

over the

mocracy, mongrels of every sort may rush in "where angels fear to tread." In times past, when, at rare intervals, a man of genius, though of lowly birth and imperfect education, knocked modestly at the gate of the temple, there was no reason why he should not be instantly welcomed in ; but in times present, when all sorts of little ragged boys have reading and spelling whipped into them, it is necessary to be more chary of our hospitality; for a smattering of knowledge is a terrible breeder of vanity, and it will not do to allow everybody who has acquired a certain command of his mother tongue, and who boasts a tolerable liveliness of fancy, to suppose that he is therefore able to instruct and astonish mankind. It must be very evident, on a moment's reflection, that, before the same facilities were held out for the acquisition of knowledge, it could only be the mens divinior that prompted the peasant or the mechanic to seek after it; but now the order is inverted,—a certain degree of knowledge is forced upon every one, and the consequence of its acquisition is too often a belief in the mind of the person acquiring it, that he possesses extraordinary powers. A hundred years ago, or less, this belief might have been fairly entertained, because he must resolutely have encountered, and perseveringly overcome, many difficulties to reach his object, and there must have been a secret principle within him, urging him on to outstrip his compeers; but do not let him indulge any such notion now, or be ignorant of the change which has gradually been extending itself throughout all the ramifications of society. We verily believe, that every second man in Scotland could, at this moment, write a book upon some subject or other, either in prose or verse; and though every one of these books would have entitled its author to reputation a century ago, it would not now entitle him to any thing but an acknowledgment that he possessed a degree of information similar to what almost every body else possessed. The praise bestowed upon any achievement, whether physical or intellectual, should always be in proportion to the difficulty of its accomplishment. Were a second Robert Burns to spring up now, he would not be entitled to so much praise as the first Robert Burns, because he would not have the same difficulties to contend with. We do not say, be it observed, that the present age is more likely to produce a Robert Burns, for its spirit is rather that of smoothness and superficiality; but this we say, that smoothness and superficiality being so prevalent, we are not to be expected, at every step we take, to fall down and worship them.

These remarks apply generally to the numerous works we have recently had occasion to see by weavers, spinners, masons, shopkeepers, and others; but they do not apply particularly to the poems of the Journeyman Mason now before us. It would be unfair to single him out as an example of his whole class, and hang him up in terrorem, without any previous warning. So far from doing this, we have no hesitation in saying that our Journeyman Mason has abilities, which it is his duty to cultivate to the utmost. He is a good clear thinker, and has no inconsiderable share of the poetical temperament in his constitution. We do not expect that he will ever reach to any very great eminence, for, as all are more or less eminent now-a-days, it is only a few-a very few, of the master minds who can soar much above the crowd; but we expect, nay, we are sure, that he may make himself respected, and even looked up to in his own circle, and to a certain extent beyond his own circle; and if we consider the matter properly, this is the whole that any rational man need ever think of arriving at. There can be only one king in England, and there can be only ten or twelve in all Europe, but there may be innumerable petty chiefs, greatly beloved and admired by their own clans and tribes. This reflection, we suspect, is all we can offer to console better men than even Journeymen Masons. Our present Mason, however, is a man not to be despised. He makes, perhaps, rather too much parade about his being a Journeyman Mason, but this may

be excused in consideration of the very sensible prose and very respectable poetry which he writes. The following stanzas, for instance, may be read with pleasure many hundred miles beyond the boundaries of Cromarty:

ON SEEING A SUN-DIAL IN A CHURCHYARD.

"Grey dial-stone, I fain would know
What motive placed thee here,
Where darkly opes the frequent grave,
And rests the frequent bier.
Ah! bootless creeps the dusky shade
Slow o'er the figured plain;
When mortal life has pass'd away,
Time counts his hours in vain.

"As sweep the clouds o'er ocean's breast
When shrieks the wintry wind,
So doubtful thoughts, grey dial-stone,
Come sweeping o'er my mind:

I think of what could place thee here,
Of those beneath thee laid,
And ponder if thou wert not raised
In mockery o'er the dead.

"Nay! man, when on life's stage they fret,
May mock his fellow-men;
Forsooth, their soberest pranks afford

Rare food for mock'ry then :
But ah! when past their brief sojourn,
When Heaven's dread doom is said,
Beats there a human heart could pour
Light mockeries o'er the dead?

"The fiend unblest, who still to harm
Directs his felon power,

May ope the book of grace to him
Whose day of grace is o'er;
But sure the man has never lived
In any age or clime,

Could raise, in mockery o'er the dead,
The stone that measures time.

"Grey dial-stone, I fain would know
What motive placed thee here,
Where sadness heaves the frequent sigh,
And drops the frequent tear.
Like the carved, plain, grey dial-stone,
Grief's weary mourners be;
Dark sorrow metes out time to them,

Dark shade marks time on thee.

"Yes! sure 'twas wise to place thee here,
To catch the eye of him

To whom earth's brightest gauds appear
Worthless, and dull, and dim.
We think of time, when time has fled;
The friend our tears deplore,
The God our light, proud hearts deny,
Our grief-worn hearts adore.

"Grey stone, o'er thee the lazy night
Passes untold, away;

Nor is it thine at noon to teach
When fails the solar ray.
In death's dark night, grey dial-stone,
Cease all the works of men;

In life, if Heaven withholds its aid,
Bootless their works and vain."

Nor are we less pleased with the following poem, which we have slightly abridged, although the whole of it possesses much merit :

ODE TO MY MITHER TONGUE.

"I lo'e the tones in mine ear that rung

In the days when care was unkend to me; Ay, I lo'e thee weel, my mither tongue, Though gloom the sons o' lear at thee. Ev'n now though little skill'd to sing,

I've rax'd me down my simple lyre; O! while I sweep ilk sounding string, Nymph o' my mither tongue, inspire! "I lo'e thee weel, my mither tongue, An' a' thy tales, or sad or wild;

Right early to my heart they clung,

Right soon my darkening thoughts beguiled-
Ay, aft to thy sangs o' a langsyne day,
That tell o' the bluidy fight sublime,
'I've listen'd, till died the present away,
An' return'd the deeds o' departed time.
"An' gloom the sons o' lear at thee?
An' art thou reckon'd poor an' mean?
Ah! could I tell as weel's I see,

Of a' thou art, an' a' thou'st been!
In thee has sung th' enraptured bard
His triumphs over pain and care;
In courts an' camps thy voice was heard-
Aft heard within the house o' prayer.

"In thee whan came proud England's might, Wi' its steel to dismay and its gold to seduce, Blazed the bright soul o' the Wallace wight, And the patriot thoughts o' the noble Bruce. Thine were the rousing strains that breathed

Frae the warrior-bard ere closed the fray; Thine whan victory his temples wreathed,

The sang that arose o'er the prostrate fae.

"An' loftier still, the enraptured saint,

Whan the life o' time was glimmering awa', Joyful o' heart, though feeble and faint,

Tauld in thee o' the glories he sawO' the visions bright o' a coming life,

O' angels that joy o'er the closing grave, An' o' Him that bore turmoil an' strife,

The children o' death to succour and save.

"An' aft, whan the bluid-hounds track'd the heath,
Whan follow'd the bands o' the bluidy Dundee,
The sang o' praise, an' the prayer o' death,
Arose to Heaven in thee:

In thee, whan Heaven's ain sons were call'd
To sever ilk link o' the papal chain,
Thunder'd the ire o' that champion bauld,
Whom threat'nings and dangers assail'd in vain.

"Ah, mither tongue! in days o' yore,
Fu' mony a noble bard was thine;

The clerk o' Dunkeld and the coothy Dunbar,
An' the best o' the Stuart line;
An' him wha tauld o' Southron wrang
Cow'd by the might o' Scottish men;
Him o' the Mount and the gleesome sang,
And him the pride o' the Hawthornden.

"Of bards were thine in latter days

Sma' need to tell, my mither tongue; Right bauld and slee were Fergie's lays, An' roar'd the laugh whan Ramsay sung: But wha without a tear can name

The swain this warl shall ne'er forget? Thine, mither tongue, his sangs o' fame,'Twill learning be to ken thee yet!"

We understand that the author of these poems is only six-and-twenty, and judging by them there is every reason to hope, that before he is six-and-thirty, he may rise to considerable distinction. In the present miscellaneous collection we think he has fallen into an error, which we observe to be a very common one among the less distinguished votaries of Apollo. Finding themselves in a sort of vague poetical mood, and imagining that "the fit is on them," they wander forth into the fields, or shut themselves up in their room, and determine to write something -it is all one what. Accordingly, they commence with the first subject that presents itself, and having set down without any ultimate end or aim their first train of ideas, they either break off suddenly without coming to any point, or, finding that their poetical vein is not exhausted, they continue to write on in a rambling and desultory manner, till they weary both themselves and their readers. Now, these persons are not aware that the choice of a subject, and the conception of the proper mode of treating it, point out the man of true genius

more readily, perhaps, than any thing else. A vigorous and highly poetical mind is not contented with the power of saying something sweet and pretty upon any thing. It makes for itself subjects, and gives to each subject a unity and completeness by the mode in which it treats it. We doubt that a man of first-rate genius would write a long poem in heroic verse, which he would entitle "The Patriot," or that he would write an "Ode to Mrs," or an "Ode to William." There is something vague and unmeaning in these titles, which implies something vague in the thoughts of the writer. riously recommend all young poets to be sure that they have something worth writing about before they begin to write at all.

We se

The Dramatic Poem of " Dioclesian" will not detain us long. There is a good deal of power in it, and, as a whole, it inspires us with considerable respect for the author, Mr Thomas Doubleday, whom we suppose to be a gentleman and a scholar. His besetting sins are, obscurity and mannerism, which often render his sublimity scarcely intelligible. The last days of Dioclesian-the mighty Pagan, who fell down from his high elevation before the genius of Christianity—afford a good theme for poetry; and though Mr Doubleday has not exactly treated it in the manner we could have wished, he has done enough to convince us that there is in him both vigorous thought and lofty feeling. We subjoin one short extract, -a part of one of Dioclesian's soliloquies in his tower at Salona:

DIOCLESIAN (alone.)

Methinks the moon that rose so bright to-night,
Hath hurried to decline; and, as with dread,
Sunk in the Adriatic, that lay smiling

And trembling like a bride. And now the clouds,
Reft of the beam, and the unstable winds,
'Gin rage contentious strife, and in their war
Blot the dim hills and distant glimmering sea:
All now is night-all, save th' eternal stars,
The better part of night-and nought is heard
But the wild voices of the winds, and clouds
Which stoop too near the rugged-bosom'd world,
Brushing the mountain tops, and giant towers,
That emulate the mountains.

I

(He pauses.) Gloom! still, gloom!

gaze into th' abyss-and from beneath

The vap'rous darkness thickens-as it rose
From some Lernæan Fen; heavy and dank;
Flagging on lurid wing.

(He walks about disturbed.) Mort darkness?—yea;
Night is, to-night, distemper'd and apace,

The swarthy monarch frowns! The restless blasts
Are voiced in sympathy-the starry sky
Grows darker. O'er its glittering fields, behold
The phalanx of the many-winged clouds
Is making swift aggression. They move on;
And darkness comes to darkness.
Let it come ;-
And is this all?-doth Fame live, to die thus,
And find such night as this ?-shall Dioclesian
Thus wane and dwindle to the common end;
Less than a dream; and, at the best, a shade;
Food for Oblivion's unsubstantial maw?
Trod out of life-nay, being; as the slave
Whose breath is not his own, or outcast vile
Condemn'd for insufficient food to whine
Still at another's gate; and basely share
With the gorged hound, that, grudging, hoarsely bays
At such companionship? If this shall be,
Then all is baseless, and yon burning stars
But motes that swim before the sightless eye;
Beings of negation; inorganic; void;
Born of the night; and, like their parent, only
Shadow-sprung shadows.

We believe Mr Doubleday has not been before the public till now. We shall be glad to meet with him again soon, and shall then be able to point out more accurately what rank he is entitled to hold, and likely to attain.

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