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According to her, Burns spent that day, though labouring under a cold, in the usual work of his harvest, and apparently in excellent spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to grow very sad about something,' and at length wandered out into the barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him, entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return to the fireside. On being again and again requested to do so, he always promised compliance-but still remained where he was, striding up and down slowly, and contemplating_the sky, which was singularly clear and starry. At last Mrs Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet, that shone like another moon,' and prevailed on him to come in. He immediately, on entering the house, called for his desk, and wrote, exactly as they now stand, with all the ease of one copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses

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Thou lingering star, with lessening ray
That lovest to greet the early morn,

Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O, Mary! dear departed shade,

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid,

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?' &c.

The following simple and touching verses refer to the approaching separation of the lovers. They ought immediately to be set to music, and are well calculated to take their place among the popular songs of their lamented author:

VERSES,

By Robert Burns, when about to leave Scotland. O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, What woes wring my heart while intensely surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave.

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,

E'er ye toss me afar from my loved native shore; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,

The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dewdrops of morning fall cold on her grave.

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore;
Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and off he sets,
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

"I doubtna, lass, that weel-kenn'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes ;

I am nae stranger to your fame,
Nor his warm-urged wishes.
Your bonnie face, sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours;

And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers,

"Auld Truth hersell might swear ye're fair,
And Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een,
Might fire even holy Palmers;
Nae wonder, then, they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

"I doubtna Fortune may you shore,
Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,

And band upon his breastie;
But oh! what signifies to you

His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

"Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And host up some palaver.

My bonny maid, before ye wed

Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.

"Forgive the Bard! My fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues,
For de'il a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,—
And every year come in mair dear

To you and Willie Chalmers."

To Mr James Burnes, of Montrose, the poet's cousin, Mr Lockhart has been indebted for five unpublished letters of Burns. Two of these we shall extract. The first was written in 1789, just after his marriage and establishment at Elliesland. Considering the circumstances which led to his union with Miss Jean Armour, and the scandalous stories which were circulated at the time, it cannot fail to be read with much interest:

We may here mention, that we are aware of the existence, and have perused, in his own handwriting, one other unpublished poem by Burns. It is addressed to Clarinda, "(Elliesland, 9th Feb. 1789.)-Why I did not write you and was lately in the possession of Mr Syme of Dum- long ago, is what, even on the rack, I could not answer. fries. It is not, however, one of the poet's most success- If you can in your mind form an idea of indolence, dissi ful efforts. Mr Lockhart has likewise recovered an in-pation, hurry, cares, change of country, entering on untried teresting poetical epistle, by Burns, which has never before been given to the public, and which will form not the least valuable addition to his new volume. He thus introduces it to the notice of his readers:

"It was at this time, (1787,) I believe, that Burns indited a lively copy of verses, which have never yet been printed, and which I find introduced with the following memorandum, in a small collection of MSS., sent by the poet to Lady H. Don. Mr Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetical epistle to a young lady, his dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:

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scenes of life-all combined, you will save me the trouble of a blushing apology. It could not be want of regard for a man for whom I had a high esteem before I knew him-an esteem which has much increased since I did know him; and, this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other indictment with which you shall please to charge me.

"After I parted from you, for many months my life was one continued scene of dissipation. Here, at last, I am be come stationary, and have taken a farm, and-a wife. The farm lies beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, a large river that runs by Dumfries, and falls into the Solway Frith. I have gotten a lease of my farm as long as I pleased; but how it may turn out is just a guess, as it is yet to improve and enclose, &c.; however, I have good hopes of my bargain on the whole.

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My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly acquainted. I found I had a much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery among my hands, and I durst not trifle with so sacred a deposit. Indeed, I have not any reason to very good wife, and have shaken myself loose of a very bad repent the step I have taken, as I have attached myself to a failing.

"I have found my book a very profitable business, and with the profits of it have begun life pretty decently. Should Fortune not favour me in farming, as I have no great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided myself in another resource, which, however some folks may affect to despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. In the heyday of my fame, a gentleman, whose name at least I daresay you know, as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr Graham of Fintry, one of the Commissioners of Excise, offered me the commission of an Exciseofficer. I thought it prudent to accept the offer; and accordingly, I took my instructions, and have my commission by me. Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny the better for it, is what I do not know; but I have the comfortable assurance, that, come whatever ill fate will, I can, on my simple petition to the Excise-Board, get into employ.'

The other letter is of a later date, and of a more melancholy nature. It was written to Mr Burnes shortly before the poet's death, when he was alike oppressed by sickness, poverty, and the pride of independence:

"My dearest Cousin,-When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? O, James! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas! I am not used to beg! The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely. You know, and my physician assures me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease; guess, then, my horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in a manner. How shall I use this language to you? O, do not disappoint me! but strong necessity's curst command! I have been thinking over and over my brother's affairs, and I fear I must cut him up; but on this I will correspond at another time, particularly as I shall want your advice. Forgive me for once more mentioning, by return of post. Save me from the horrors of a jail! My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what I have written. The subject is so horrible, I dare not look it over again. Farewell! “R. B.

"July 12th, 1796.”

In addition to these relics of one so dear to his native country, and so much admired everywhere, Mr Lockhart has collected a good number of new anecdotes concerning him, some of which he has given in a cluster, and others are scattered up and down the volume. We have gleaned the most of these, and shall now place them all in juxta-position for the benefit of our readers :

ANECDOTES OF ROBERT BURNS.

"It may naturally excite some surprise, that of the convivial conversation of so distinguished a convivialist, so few specimens have been preserved in the memoirs of his life. The truth seems to be, that those of his companions who chose to have the best memory for such things, happened also to have the keenest relish for his wit and his humour when exhibited in their coarser phases. Among a heap of MSS. memoranda with which I have been favoured, I find but little that one could venture to present in print; and the following specimens of that little must, for the present,

suffice.

"A gentleman who had recently returned from the East Indies, where he had made a large fortune, which he showed no great alacrity about spending, was of opinion, it seems, one day, that his company had had enough of wine, rather Sooner than they came to that conclusion: he offered another bottle in feeble and hesitating terms, and remained dallying with the corkscrew, as if in hopes that some one would interfere and prevent further effusion of Bourdeaux. 'Sir,' said Burns, losing temper, and betraying in his mood something of the old rusticity-Sir, you have been in Asia, and for aught I know, on the Mount of Moriah, and you seem to hang over your tappit-hen as remorsefully as Abraham did over his son Isaac-Come, sir, to the sacrifice!' "At another party, the society had suffered considerably from the prosing of a certain well-known provincial Bore of the first magnitude; and Burns, as much as any of them, although, overawed, as it would seem, by the rank of the nuisance, he had not only submitted, but condescended to applaud. The Grandee being suddenly summoned to ano

ther company in the same tavern, Burns immediately addressed himself to the chair, and demanded a bumper. The president thought he was about to dedicate his toast to the distinguished absentee: I give,' said the Bard, I give you the health, gentlemen all,-of the waiter that called my Lord out of the room.'

"He often made extempore rhymes the vehicle of his sarcasm: thus, for example, having heard a person, of no very elevated rank, talk loud and long of some aristocratic festivities in which he had the honour to mingle, Burns, when he was called upon for his song, chanted some verses, of which one has been preserved :

Of lordly acquaintance you boast,

And the dukes that you dined wi' yestreen,
Yet an insect's an insect at most,

Though it crawl on the curl of a queen.'

"I believe I have already alluded to Burns's custom of carrying a diamond pencil with him in all his wanderings, and constantly embellishing inn-windows and so forth with his epigrams. On one occasion, being storm-stayed at Lamington, in Clydesdale, he went to church; and the indignant beadle, after the congregation dispersed, invited the attention of the clergyman to this stanza on the window by which the noticeable stranger had been sitting: 'As cauld a wind as ever blew; A cauld kirk, and in't but few; As cauld a minister's ever spak; Ye'se a' be het or I come back.'

"Sir Walter Scott possesses a tumbler, on which are the following verses, written by Burns on the arrival of a friend, Mr W. Stewart, factor to a gentleman of Nithsdale. The landlady being very wroth at what she considered the disfigurement of her glass, a gentleman present appeased her, by paying down a shilling, and carried off the relic. "You're welcome, Willie Stewart,

You're welcome, Willie Stewart;
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, The bowl we maun renew it;

The tappit-hen gae bring her ben,

To welcome Willie Stewart.

'May foes be strang, and friends be slack,
Ilk action may he rue it ;

May woman on him turn her back,

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart.'

"Since we are among such matters, perhaps some readers will smile to hear, that Burns very often wrote his name on his books thus- Robert Burns, Poet;' and that Allan Cunningham remembers a favourite collie at Elliesland having the same inscription on his collar.

"Even to the ladies, when he suspected them of wishing to make a show of him, he could not help administering a little of his village discipline. A certain stately peeress sent to invite him, without, as he fancied, having sufficiently cultivated his acquaintance beforehand, to her assembly. 'Mr Burns,' answered the bard, will do himself the of honour of waiting on the -, provided her

Such an animal

ladyship will invite also the learned pig.' was then exhibiting in the Grassmarket. "One of the Dumfries volunteers thought fit to affect particular civility to Burns, and inter alia seduced him one day into his house, where a bottle of champagne was produced, and a small collection of arms submitted to the bard's inspection. Burns well knew the gentleman's recent hostility, and appreciated the motives of his courtesy. tell me, Mr Burns,' said he, what do you think of this pair of pistols?'-Why,' said Burns, after considering them with all the gravity of a half-tipsy connoisseur-‘I think I may safely say for your pistols what nobody would say for the great majority of mankind-they're a credit to their

maker.'

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"I may mention here, that during the later years of his life, his favourite book, the usual companion of his solitary rambles, was Cowper's Task. It is pleasing to know that these illustrious contemporaries, in spite of the widely different circumstances under which their talents were developed, and the, at first sight, opposite sets of opinions which their works express, did justice to each other. No English writer of the time eulogised Burns more generously than Cowper. And in truth they had much in common,

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the love of simplicity; the love of nature; sympathy with | the poor; humour; pathos; satire; warm and manly hearts; the pride, the independence, and the melancholy of genius. Some readers may be surprised to find two such names placed together otherwise than by way of contrast. Let it not be forgotten, that Cowper had done little more than building bird-cages and rabbit-hatches, at the age when the grave closed on Burns."

Our readers will now perceive that Mr Lockhart has not trifled with his new edition, but that it is a bona fide enlargement and improvement of the two which have preceded. As such, it will meet with a ready sale whereever the name of Burns is held in the estimation it de

serves.

in Nasmyth's sketch, given as a vignette in Lockhart's Life, is on the head, and casts a partial shade over the countenance. The colouring is soft and harmonious; and as to the likeness, means have been taken to obtain the opinions of those persons best qualified to judge, and their sentiments are decisive upon the point. We have seen letters from Sir Walter Scott, Mr Syme of Dumfries, Mr Peter Hill, Mr Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Mr David Bridges, junior, Mrs Burns, Mrs Maclehose (Clarinda), Mrs Janet Thomson (formerly Miss Jess Lewers), and Miss Dunlop, all of whom agree in speaking of this portrait as amazingly like the original. Sir Walter Scott expresses himself in these terms:

"Sir, I was much gratified by the sight of the por

only once, and that many years since, and being a bad
marker of likenesses and recollector of faces, I should in
an ordinary case have hesitated to offer an opinion upon
the resemblance, especially as I make no pretension to
judge of the Fine Arts. But Burns was so remarkable
a man, that his features remain impressed on my mind
as if I had seen him only yesterday; and I could not he
sitate to recognise this portrait as a striking resemblance
of the Poet, though it had been presented to me amid a
whole exhibition. I am, sir, your obedient servant,
"WALTER SCOTT.

"Edinburgh, 14th Nov. 1829.

"P. S.—I will accept of the inscription which you tell me the Proprietors intend putting to the engraving, as a great honour."

The postscript refers to the intention to dedicate the Portrait, when engraved, to Sir Walter Scott. In like manner Mrs Burns says,-" I am requested to give my opinion regarding the Portrait of my late husband, painted by P. Taylor. I was not aware that another original portrait had been taken but the one in my possession by Nasmyth. After seeing this one, I have no hesitation in stating my belief that it is original. The likeness to the upper part of the face is very striking."-The letter from Clarinda is still stronger. We subjoin it:

Passing from this subject to one not less interesting and intimately connected with it, we have no small plea-trait of Robert Burns. I saw the distinguished poet sure in being the first to announce the existence of a genuine and original portrait of Burns, which has hitherto remained altogether unknown, but which there is every reason to believe is a still more striking likeness than the only portrait of him with which the public has been yet made acquainted—that, namely, which was taken by Nasmyth. The new portrait was painted by the late Peter Taylor, an artist of considerable celebrity at the time Burns made his first appearance in Edinburgh in the year 1786. Mr Taylor was then a very young man, but was looked upon by competent judges as destined soon to rise to the very head of his profession as a portrait-painter. Buchan, Bonnar, and Nasmyth, were his contemporaries, and entertained the highest respect for his abilities. He fell into bad health, and was ordered to the south of France, where he died at an early age. He was of an enterprising spirit, possessed of fine taste, and celebrated for the accuracy of his likenesses. It is recorded of him, as a collateral circumstance, that he was the first who introduced the waxcloth manufactory into Scotland. Taylor and Burns were very intimate, the latter often visiting the artist and his wife. We have it on the authority of Mr William Taylor, merchant in Leith, the present possessor of the portrait, that on one occasion, when Burns was at the painter's house, Taylor said to him," Robie, if you'll sit to have your picture drawn, I will do it." The poet agreed, and the picture, after a good number of sittings, was completed. It is a reminiscence of the Ettrick Shepherd, that upon one occasion, when calling on Mrs Taylor, along with Gilbert Burns, she informed them that Burns used to come pretty frequently to breakfast, on which occasions the picture in question was produced. The portrait, it appears, never went out of the artist's hands, and upon his death became the property of his widow. She had an extraordinary regard for it, and would scarcely permit any one to see it, much less to borrow it. Once, however, she allowed it to go out of her custody for a short time, on the earnest application of the Earl of Buchan, who, about sixteen or eighteen years ago, was anxious to show it to the late Duchess of Gordon. His Lordship afterwards offered forty guineas for the loan of it a second time; but Mrs Taylor, having been displeased by his keeping it a day or two longer than he bargained for before, refused to listen to any terms. All applications from other quarters for permission to have it copied or engraved were uniformly negatived. In 1828, Mrs Taylor bequeathed the portrait to her relative Mr William Taylor, of Leith.

Our readers will do us the justice to believe that we state these facts thus minutely, from a full conviction of their fidelity. The portrait does not come to us from the hands of any professional picture-dealer, in which case, aware as we are of the practices of such people, we should have looked upon it with more suspicion. We have ourselves seen it, and as far as our opinion goes, can safely pronounce it an exceedingly interesting, wellpainted, and delicately-finished portrait, in a fine state of preservation. It is a cabinet picture, and is what painters call a two-third likeness. The hat, of a broad-brimmed clerical shape, similar to that which the poet wears

"Sir, I return you the fine portrait of Burns, taken from the life by the late Mr Peter Taylor, his early friend. In my opinion it is the most striking likeness of the poet I have ever seen; and I say this with the more confidence having a most perfect recollection of his ap pearance. With best thanks for your polite attention in calling to show it to me, and your obliging present of the second edition of the Life, I remain, sir, your obliged servant, "AGNES MACLEHOSE. "Edinburgh, 14, Calton Hill, 28th October, 1828."

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After perusing such testimonials in favour of this por trait, our readers will be glad to learn that it has at length been put into the hands of Horsburgh, one of the best of our Edinburgh engravers, and very little inferior to some of the best in London. He will require about six months to do it full justice; and as soon as it is ready, it is to be published by Messrs Constable & Co. For our own parts, we sincerely rejoice that a treasure of this kind should thus be brought to light; for, by tending to perpetuate that feeling of individuality which we are ever anxious to attach to the illustrious dead, it cannot fail to give to the genius of Burns a more lasting and endearing dwelling place in our bosoms.

Memoirs of the Life and Times of Daniel De Foe; containing a Review of his Writings, and his Opinions upon a variety of Important Matters, Civil and Eccle siastical. By Walter Wilson, Esq. of the Inner Temple. 3 vols. 8vo. Pp. 482, 527, and 685. London. Hurst, Chance, and Co. 1830.

THE greater part of these volumes is filled with reviews

of De Foe's works, chronologically arranged; accompanied with such notices of the politics of the day as the author has thought were necessary, in order to explain the origin and aim of each. Some original letters of De Foe are inserted, for the authenticity of two of which the vouchers seem to us scarcely sufficient. The personal anecdotes of De Foe, which Mr Wilson and his predecessors have been able to rescue from oblivion, are, though interesting, not quite so numerous as we could have wished; for a complete account of that restless spirit, his associates, and their domestic habits, would be one of the most welcome and instructive chapters in a history of English manners. We proceed to share what we have learned concerning him with our readers, and shall also subjoin a brief sketch of his literary character-giving (cavillers may say) "our store of little to that which hath too much." Daniel de Foe was born in the parish of St Giles, Cripplegate, London, in the year 1661. His ancestors seem to have been substantial English yeomen; his father had settled in the metropolis, and embraced the profession of a butcher. The family were non-conformists, and, at the time of Daniel's birth, attended on the ministry of Dr Samuel Annesly, an ejected Presbyterian divine, of whom he has drawn a most pleasing character. The old gentleman, who was in easy circumstances, gave his son a tolerable education. He was placed, in his fourteenth year, at a private academy at Newington Green. There were, at that period, many such institutions among the Dissenters, who had recently been driven to establish them, on their being refused admission to the Universities, and who counted among their number many men who had highly distinguished themselves at Oxford and Cambridge. The master of the academy to which De Foe was sent, was among the most celebrated of their teachers; but the chief benefit which his pupil seems to have derived from him, if, indeed, he had not inherited it from nature, was a habit of continuous and universal reading.

De Foe was, of course, educated in the Puritan tenets, and his writings evince that they adhered to him to the last. At the same time, if we can place any reliance upon his reminiscences of his boyish years, he was early distinguished by those sallies of an untamed spirit through the restraints of sectarian discipline, which we find to be invariably a characteristic of every Dissenter who has raised himself above his fellows. He reverts, even in age, with pleasure to the recollection of his boxing feats; and one anecdote he tells, which is peculiarly characteristic. During the Popery panic under Charles II., several of the honest Dissenters, fearful that it might soon become unlawful to possess a copy of the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue, set about copying the Bible in shorthand. To this task young De Foe applied himself likewise, and "worked," he tells us, "like a horse, till he had written out the whole Pentateuch, when he grew so tired, that he was willing to risk the rest.” This is just what we see in every boy, from whom any thing is to be hoped in future life;-the passionate enthusiasm prompting him to undertakings, the tedium of which can only be endured by the matured patience of manhood-the gradual cooling of his zeal, and light-hearted reversion to the joyous idleness of youth.

which Mr Wilson, in his anxiety to prove that he never was a hosier, defines to be an intermediate agent between the manufacturer and dealer in stockings. Later in life, he became a merchant-adventurer; and in that capacity is understood to have made several voyages to Spain, France, and perhaps the Netherlands. He afterwards conducted, with considerable profit, a tilery in Essex, the first attempt to introduce that manufacture into Britain, but which was ruined by his confinement to Newgate for one of his political offences. Subsequently to this event, he seems to have supported himself by his literary labours, aided, at two brief intervals, by a small pension from the Crown. A speculative disposition led him into serious embarrassments, from which he afterwards retrieved himself. He appears originally to have inherited some landed property; and a short time before his death he was in possession of a country estate, and a snug villa at Stoke-Newington. He joined the Duke of Monmouth in his ill-fated invasion, and appears to have retained to the last his belief in the legitimacy of that rash young man, and consequently of the validity of his claims to the crown. He was more than once consulted by King William, and seems to have enjoyed the favour of Queen Mary. During the reign of Queen Anne, he was protected and employed by both the rival statesmen, Godolphin and Harley. He was several times dispatched by the latter in secret missions, and was an accredited agent of the government at Edinburgh during the transactions by which the incorporating Union of England and Scotland was effected.

We have already noticed his steady adherence through life to the principles and communion in which he was educated. He retained to the last a pious abhorrence of the theatres; and regarded May-poles as so completely simultaneous in local and temporal existence with the two great bug-bears of his life, Toryism and Prelacy, as to render it difficult to determine whether they were the cause or the consequence of these evils. These two trifles, however, set apart, De Foe was neither a narrow-minded nor a gloomy man. In his early life he seems to have paid considerable attention to his dress, and was a frequent, as well as a welcome visitant at the city feasts. In politics and in polemics, he held the even tenor of his way, unshackled by the party with which he generally acted. And we have the testimony of an enemy in favour of his clear head, courage, honesty, and independence. In the latter part of his life, he seems, in the intervals of sickness, to have sought refuge from domestic annoyances in the management of his garden. His faculties, notwithstanding an attack of apoplexy, remained entire till his death; although, perhaps, a little tinged by the querulousness of age, and the passion for money which seems to gain upon men exactly at the time when they are about to cease to need it. He was married, but to whom is not known: he had sons and daughters, whom we know only by name. He died on the 24th of April, 1731. This is nearly all that is known of the author of Robinson Crusoe, a work which exercises, or perhaps, we should rather say, exercised, a wider sway over British intellect than any book except the Bible.

De Foe was one of the best authors of a class which, so far as we know, has existed only in England, and even Our author, who, like all men of true republican prin- there only since the Revolution. The essence of their ciples, is very anxious to prove that his hero was a gen-being is democracy, not as existing for itself, but as called tleman, and educated for one of the learned professions, seems rather to have failed in this attempt. There is no proof that his parents ever entertained any such ambitious views respecting him; nor will the circumstance of his boasting in after life that he understood several languages, which he might have picked up in his commercial voyages, supply the want of evidence, and the strong presumptions to the contrary, arising out of the style and matter of his writings. Let him, however, have been originally intended for what he would, it is certain that he commenced business early in life as a hose-factor,

into active and fierce exertion by the opposing claims of the privileged classes. This character could be found nowhere else, for in no other country is the citizen of such weight as with us, except in America, and there he has no aristocracy to come into collision with him. De Foe was one of the first of this class, as he still remains the best specimen of it. Since his day there has never been wanting some one to fill his place with more or less ability. Among the numerous competitors in this line, whom we at present possess, the great Coryphæus is undoubtedly William Cobbett, a man equal to De Foe in

his natural and graphic details, and, perhaps, as much his superior in native vigour, as he falls short of him in honesty and consistency. We look upon this class of writers as the organs and representatives of the British democracy; and while we see and confess how dangerous they have often proved, we confess that we have a sneaking kindness for them, and are proud to acknowledge them as countrymen. Their style has little polish; but perhaps, from their want of classical education, has genuine English freshness about it, which we often miss in the writings of more accomplished authors. Every thought bears the impress of the society amid which they have grown up,-is tinged not only with the peculiarities of their nation, but of their caste. They see every thing from one point of view, and through one medium. We are not to look to them for comprehensive and statesmanlike views; but they discuss any single question that comes within their reach with shrewdness and sagacity, -they turn it on every side, they anatomize it, they exhaust it. They finish their business in a workmanlike manner. They often see things that more scientific speculators overlook in the pride of their learning. They will succeed at times by a lucky hit in unloosing a knot about which the most delicate and dexterous fingers have puzzled in vain. Their power, however, is bounded-it is resistive, not creative. They are useful when," sitting at the fireside, they talk of what is done i' the Capitol." They keep alive the broad sturdy spirit of our populace, and convey their biting jeers to the ears of their rulers. They are prompt critics on public transactions, and keep public men on the alert. But woe to the country, when, in the clashing of embittered factions, power comes to be lodged in their hands.

We find all the excellences of this class, with a very small portion of their errors, in De Foe's political writings. It is true, we do not look upon him as the faultless monster which Mr Wilson, taking him at his own word, has represented him; but considering him as a demagogue, which he undoubtedly was, and reflecting, too, on the fierce, petty, brawling characters among which he lived, we say that he had fewer faults than any man of his occupation mentioned in history. It is certainly as a political author that we are to consider De Foe during by far the greater portion of his career; for it was not until late in life that he began the composition of those varied and delightful works of fiction upon which bis fame now entirely rests. The De Foe of his contemporaries, and our De Foe, are two entirely different persons. The former is a busy, bustling, bold, and uncompromising disputant; the latter is the unknown author of some of the most peculiar and charming works in our language. This fact, it may be premised, goes far to extenuate the injustice of Pope and Swift to De Foe. We can excuse their blindness to the merits of a mere political antagonist; had he been earlier known to them as the author of Robinson Crusoe, the task would have been more difficult.

by Charles Lamb, in a communication to the author of these volumes, that we borrow his words:

"In the appearances of truth, in all the incidents and conversations that occur in them, they exceed any works of fiction that I am acquainted with. It is perfect illusion. The author never appears in these self-narratives, (for so narrator strains us down to an implicit belief in every thing they ought to be called, or rather autobiographies,) but the he says. There is all the minute detail of a log-book in it. Dates are punctually pressed upon the memory-facts are repeated over and over in varying phrases, till you cannot choose but believe them. It is like reading evidence in a court of justice. So anxious the story-teller seems that the truth should be clearly comprehended, that when he has told us a matter of fact, or a motive, in a line or two further down he repeats it, with his favourite figure of speech, I say, so and so, though he had made it abundantly plain be fore. This is in imitation of the common people's way of speaking, or rather of the way in which they are addressed by a master or mistress, who wishes to impress something upon their memories, and has a wonderful effect upon matter-of-fact readers. Indeed, it is to such principally that he homely. Robinson Crusoe is delightful to all ranks and writes. His style is everywhere beautiful, but plain and classes; but it is easy to see that it is written in a phraseology peculiarly adapted to the lower conditions of readers. Hence it is a special favourite with seafaring men, poor boys, servant maids, &c. His novels are capital kitchen-reading, while they are worthy, from their interest, to find a shelf in the libraries of the wealthiest and the most learned. His into a long relation of common incidents, which might happassion for matter-of-fact narrative sometimes betrayed him pen to any man, and have no interest beyond the intense appearance of truth in them to recommend them. The whole latter half, or two-thirds of Colonel Jack,' is of this description. The beginning of Colonel Jack is the most affecting natural picture of a young thief that was tree, and finding it again when in despair, and the being in ever drawn. His losing the stolen money in the hollow equal distress at not knowing how to dispose of it, and several similar touches in the early history of the Colonel, evince a deep knowledge of human nature; and putting out of question the superior romantic interest of the latter, in my mind very much exceeds Crusoe. Roxana (first edition) is the next in interest, though he left out the best part of his friend Southerne. But Moll Flanders, the account of it in subsequent editions, from a foolish hypercriticism same stamp of character." of the Plague, &c. &c., are all of one family, and have the

Historical Account of Discoveries and Travels in North America; including the United States, Canada, the shores of the Polar Sea, and the Voyages in search of a North-west Passage; with Observations on Emigra tion. By Hugh Murray, Esq., F. R. S. E. 2 vols. 8vo. London. Longman, Rees, Orme, & Co. Edinburgh. Oliver & Boyd. Pp. 530 and 556.

WE are inclined to flatter ourselves that we improved upon the practice of our predecessors, when we laid it down as a rule, always to read a book before we reviewed it. The advantages accruing to the public and to the author, from this new and original plan, are too obvious to need explanation. As to the waste of time which it not unfrequently occasions to the reviewer, that is another matter. Our steadfastness, we confess, has more than once been put to a sore trial, but we have still re

It would be doing injustice to De Foe to omit mentioning his "Scandal Club," a department of a paper published twice a-week, which was conducted, and almost entirely composed by him, during a period of nine years. The Scandal Club consists of a collection of religiously adhered to our resolution. We never see a very marks on men and manners, which seems to have suggested to Steele the idea of his Tatlers. They are interesting in this point of view, and many of them are not unworthy of De Foe's ingenious successor, Isaac Bickerstaff, Esquire. A re-publication of this portion of the periodical (eight volumes of which are in the possession of a friend of the author now before us) would make a neat and not a very bulky book, would be an acceptable present to the lovers of this branch of literature, an addition to the history of English literature, and a piece of justice to the memory of Daniel De Foe.

We now come to De Foe's works of fiction; but what we would say on this score has been so much better said

large book, however, without trembling, for we are aware of the task we have to perform; and if the road be a rough or a dull one, Heaven knows, our situation is not one of the most enviable. To Mr Hugh Murray we owe our best thanks. His book, though a large one, in compli ance with the comprehensive nature of his subject, is, nevertheless, one which we have gone through with as much facility and pleasure as if it had been a small duodecimo. This is partly to be attributed to the interesting materials of which it is composed, and partly to the able manner in which those materials are arranged.

It is utterly impossible that we can pretend to give any thing but a very general idea of the merits of a work

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