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second Lord Livingston, and left two sons: the younger, Dugal, was ancestor of the Macfarlanes of Tullichinthall, Tinart, &c., while the elder,

ANDREW MACFARLANE of that Ilk, marrying one of the daughters of John Stewart, Lord Darnley, left a son,

Sir JOHN MACFARLANE of that Ilk, who received the honour of knighthood from JAMES IV., and attended that prince to the fatal field of Flodden, where he was slain with the pride and flower of the Scottish gentry. His eldest son,

ANDREW MACFARLANE of that Ilk, married Lady Margaret Cunningham, daughter of William Earl of Glencairn, Lord High Treasurer of Scotland, and dying in the commencement of the reign of MARY, was succeeded by his son,

DUNCAN MACFARLANE of that Ilk, a gallant warrior of the troubled period in which he lived, who joined, with 300 of his clan, the Earls of Lenox and Glencairn, and, participating in the battle of Glasgow Muir in 1544, was attainted, but shortly after obtained a reversal under the Privy Seal.

He married, first, Isabel Stewart, daughter of Andrew Lord Ochiltree, by whom he had no issue; and secondly, Anne, daughter of Sir John Colquhoun of Luss, by whom he had a son, ANDREW, his heir. The Laird of Macfarlane ultimately fell at Pinkie, and was succeeded by his son,

ANDREW MACFARLANE of that Ilk, a zealous promoter of the Reformation, and a warm partisan of the Regent Murray, in opposition to the ill-fated Mary Stuart. We find him at Langside enrolled under that nobleman's banner, and to his "valiance" Holingshed ascribes the success of the Earl. He married Agnes, daughter of Sir Patrick Maxwell, of Newark, and was succeeded by his son,

devoted Royalist, who was fined 3000 merks for joining the standard of Montrose, and was twice besieged by the Parliamentarians, who burned to the ground his castle of Inveronglass. He married Margaret, daughter of Sir James Semple, of Belltrees, and had issue :

JOHN, his heir, who died, leaving daughters only: the eldest, Jean, married John Buchanan, of Lenie ; the second, Giles, Alexander Macmillan, of Dunmore; and the third, Grizzle, Archibald Buchanan, of Torie.

ANDREW, of Ardess.

Giles, married to Adam Colquhoun, of Glens.

The second son,

ANDREW MACFARLANE of Ardess, but eventually of that Ilk, married twice, and had several sons, of whom three were slain at Malplaquet. The eldest,

JOHN MACFARLANE of that Ilk, Colonel of a Regiment of Foot, left by Helen, his second wife, daughter of Robert, second Viscount Arbuthnot, three sons,

WALTER of that Ilk, a distinguished antiquary, who married Lady Elizabeth Erskine, daughter of the sixth Earl of Kellie, but died issueless. WILLIAM, of whom presently. Alexander, who settled in Jamaica, where he was one of the assistant Judges, and a Member of the Assembly. He was a distinguished mathematician. He died unmarried. The second son,

WILLIAM MACFARLANE, Esq., who succeeded his elder brother Walter at Macfarlane, married Christian, daughter of James Dewar, Esq. of Vogrie, and was grandfather of the present

General Sir ROBERT HENRY MACFARLANE, K.C.B., K.G.H., &c. Colonel of the 89th Regiment of Foot, a gallant and highly distinguished officer, who married at Palermo, 10th February 1815, Maria Gertrude, eldest daughter of G. Henry Vankemper, Esq., Captain in the Dutch Navy and Consul of the Netherlands at Tripoli—the lady whose portrait forms the illustration of the

JOHN MACFARLANE of that Ilk, a gentleman of great piety and benevolence, who founded a noble alms-house at Brintfort, on the main land opposite to his castle of Elenore, for the reception of poor passengers. By the Lady Helen Stewart, his second wife, daughter of Francis Earl of Bothwell, he left a son and successor, WALTER MACFARLANE of that Ilk, a present month's Magazine.

3

SIR PETER HAS HIS FAULTS!

BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY, ESQ.

I'LL thank you, Lawrence, for my salts-
I own, Sir Peter has his faults;
And yet you're really wrong to say,
That I have "thrown myself away."
The phrase is strong-extremely strong-
And you are wrong, Sir, very wrong—
What should I do without my salts ?-
I own, Sir Peter has his faults.

Sir Peter says-oh! how he talks!—
He don't approve my country walks ?
He added, Lawrence, that you are
To me much too particular!
And would he rob me of my friend?
My only one! How will it end?
He always drives me to my salts!
Alas! Sir Peter has his faults!

Oh, crying is a great relief;
Where is my pocket-handkerchief?
I'm sure I give him no offence!
He never was a man of sense!
He cannot walk, poor gouty man;
So I must walk with one who can.
'Tis so unjust-where are my salts ?
Yes-yes-Sir Peter has his faults.

You are related—are you not?
How it occurs I've quite forgot.
His cousin, eh? Yes, 'pon my life,
You're cousin to his cousin's wife-
My own relation! Too absurd!
The strangest whim I ever heard!
Dear cousin, give me back my salts,
"Tis plain, Sir Peter has his faults!

He's old! poor man! he can't help that;

And, then, he gets so very fat!

Besides, he has that horrid gout—

'Twas that which made him cross, no doubt;

And jealous, too!-his theme of strife

The cousin of his cousin's wife!

It's too absurd! My salts! my salts!
Yes, yes-Sir Peter has his faults.

You think, I want a walk to-day?

There may be truth in what you say:
You think 'twere best by chance to meet ?
Well, then, I'll drive (you're so discreet!)
I'll go and put my bonnet on,

But mind we meet at Kensington ;
And cousin, you must bring my salts:
Heigho! Sir Peter has his faults.

THE BOOKS OF THE PAST YEAR.

"BOOKS!"-The word is an incantation in itself; a divining syllable that conjures up a multitude of images of Beauty, and Thought, and Power and Pleasure, in their loftiest and purest shapes. Books, truly, are the apostles of knowledge; and even in this age when they are more numerous than ever they were before-when every village has its COLLINS and its FIELDING at least and chronicles of Action and Character accumulate upon us faster than leaves in the budding spring, that throws from her vernal lap such myriads of fresh hueswhen production increases so rapidly as to suggest a hint of satiety—even in this prolific age, the lover of literature wearies not of the delight that "grows by that it feeds

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The author of a recent allegory entitled "Adventures in the Moon," has put forward a pleasant fancy upon literature, in which he imagines our satellite to be the depository of all things that are lost upon earth-including even reputation—and amongst the rest those unfortunate books that, conceived in the vanity of men's ambition, are finally consigned to oblivion, and packed up in shelves in a commodious library prepared for their accommodation by Luna, the benignant patroness of all human follies and failures. It may be readily believed that the library must be tolerably extensive, and, although it would not exactly suit the purposes of a circulating library, seeing that the volumes of which it is composed must have ceased to circulate before they got there, yet it is to a miracle the sort of library which would crown the happiness of such retired and wealthy burgesses as the old gentleman in the "Clandestine Marriage," who so provokingly teazes Lord Ogleby by taking him over his grounds of a morning to "shew him his improvements." To people who never read, but who possess that enviable measure of substance which enables them to command all the luxuries of life, a library is more indispensable than to those who read by a condition of their nature as imperative as their physical appetites. Where the Passion exists, no hindrances can intercept its gratification. The want of a library is supplied in a

thousand ways-the eye explores every nook and cranny where a book is to be found-and a few books, inexhaustible in their kind, constitute the Penates of the poor scholar. Dermody learned Greek at the book-stalls, where he was discovered, in rags and in want, by some passing Mecænas, who, encouraging his genius, drew out that felicitous spirit of Poetry which was ultimately quenched in his own wild excesses. Bloomfield used to hide his books-the scanty volumes he purchased with savings garnered up by severe privations-under his work-board, and used to read all the night through. The springs of literature are at the feet of the student, tread where he will, in solitude or in crowds, and whether he be steeped in penury, or surrounded by riches. Nor can the fruits of his research be taken from him. They are indestructible. "Persecution," exclaimed Tasso in prison, "cannot make me forget what I have acquired. They may prohibit the light of heaven, and the common aliment of life; but they cannot deprive me of my knowledge." To the Book-worshippera being quite as imaginative and enthusiastic as the Fire-worshipper-books are always accessible, and the Faith is so strong within him that he has no need to trouble himself about the outward Forms. But it is with books as it is with more sacred things. Those who are the least moved in the spirit are the most scrupulous about appearances. They get up a library, as other people go to church, for the sake of the example, and for the credit of their reputation. The rich man must have his library. It is a part of his stock in character. It is as unavoidable an appendage of his country-house as his conservatory, his clumps of evergreens, his orange alleys, his pond, his artificial vistas, and manufactured ruins. The quality of his books is not the point; number, binding, the munificence of the display, are the essentials. His shelves rival the condemned archives of the Moon-the Botany Bay of the publishers.

Now it is not our intention, in looking back upon the Books OF 1836, to inquire what portion of them may by this time have evaporated into air, and found their

way in shadowy resuscitation to that forlorn resting-place from whence no mortal hand may ever snatch them-where there are no second editions, real or pretended, to cheer the desponding authors, or stimulate the reluctant public-where there are no venal critics to exalt false pretension, and decry real excellence-and where stern Truth presides over an appellate jurisdiction whose decrees are irreversible. We propose nothing more than a hasty gathering of reminiscences, which, like the imagerial points-in Mnemonics, will help to light up the chain of associations, kindling along the almost countless links of a year's reading. The retrospect is abundantly diversified, not only in matter, but in degrees of merit, and is replete with instruction. What a multitude of pens have been employed in these productions; what reams of paper have been blotted, torn, burned, and engrossed. in their preparation; what an endless variety of gestures, shrugs, grimaces, and hems! and pshaws! have been expended over the sheets, as they grew into MSS. under the quickening labours of the authors; what hours have been stolen from sleep, and prayer, and champaign, and domestic duty, pleasure, pain, and the whole round of business and enjoyment, for the busy solitude of invention; how many temptations have been resisted, how many cares have been combated, how many compunctions of pride have been sacrificed, to enable the writers of these books to dwell in the delusions of their imagination, and to make unto themselves, for a brief season, a sort of beatitude, which is utterly incomprehensible to everybody else. A curious chapter might be put together on the habits of authors, who being, by universal consent, the most eccentric, unmanageable, ambiguous, hare-brained, and self-willed class of people, furnish, of course, the most extraordinary instances of the curious and wonderful in natural history. But that does not come within the scope of our present purpose: some day or another, perhaps, we may make an anthology of the ways of authors; we have now to do only with their books.

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There were not more than two or three works published within the year that properly fall into the division of History; although there were several that might be considered as contributions to historical knowledge. The "History of China," published in the "Edinburgh Cabinet Library,"

and the "History of Russia," published in "Lardner's Cyclopædia," were the only volumes legitimately entitled to take permanent rank as histories. The former is compiled with great care and industry, and possesses the advantage of extending its utility beyond the province of narrative record, by embracing a variety of separate details upon the social condition of the people and the productions of the soil. In the latter, the History of Russia may be said to be presented to the English reader for the first time: for, with the exception of Tooke's disjointed and singularly incorrect book, there is no other work upon the subject in our language. The third volume is yet wanted to complete this publication. Mr. Stebbing's "History of the Reformation" is too diffuse in its materials to claim a place for its author amongst the historians who have confined themselves to the affairs of nations; but, considered as a wide view of the events connected with the establishment of the Reformed Faith, it will be found worthy of the attention of general readers, who have neither learning nor leisure enough to dip into the original sources for themselves. Of the historical narratives, one of the most prominent is Mr. James's "Life of the Black Prince," tediously elaborated, crowded with the minute results of a somewhat extended research, but incomplete in design, and deficient in clearness of arrangement and purity of style. Carr's "Manual of Roman Antiquities" (apparently indebted in a considerable degree to Adam's "Roman Antiquities") ought to be noted as a useful key to the student of the classics; and a translation, from the German, of Hase's "Public and Private Life of the Greeks," which was published about the same time, ought to be classed along with it, for the sake of its utility, although it does not come within the range of English works. Admiral Napier's "Account of the War in Portugal," in which he was a leading actor, hardly deserves a place in our enumeration. But it is a remarkable book for many reasons. It is distinguished by a blunt, sailor-like frankness, by the truth and fearlessness of its matter, and the absence of that spirit of display which might be excused in a man who had come home crowned with triumphs, and who sat down to record them in the heat of excitement produced by the ingratitude of the Government he served. And here ends our historical retrospect, which, considering the

character of our national literature, is exceedingly meagre and contemptible.

A benison as pure as unsunned snow, and as sweet as the south breathing over a bed of still more aromatic flowers than violets, rest upon the Old Times! The genial, kindly, unsophisticated Old Times, when the houses were roofed with pancakes, and the streets were paved with gold! There is something more than the mere fabulous El Dorado in that nursery legend, good reader. It is an allegory that carries with it a palpable allusion to that felicitous credulity which in former times represented the body of the age; when men believed honestly in the plenteousness of the land, and always looked at the sunny side of things; when they eschewed the shadow of doubt, and took every matter for granted that was recommended by its qualities of the marvellous or the magnificent. That was the time for books of travels! What wonderful voyages men made in those days to the Coast of Guinea and the Highlands of Scotland! And what stories they brought home! The Anthropophagi were beggared in description by the tribes that were seen in the West Indies; and people in those happy days never troubled themselves about settling disputed points in geography, for they never had any disputes on the subject, and they did not care a pin's point whether the Leeward Islands ought to be called Windward, or the Windward Leeward, or neither the one nor the other. It was a succession of agreeable tales with our forefathers, who, flying from discussion, basked in the pleasant light of their own easy faith, like the noble company in Boccaccio escaped from the plague, and indulging in dreams of soothing tranquillity. We have suffered a "sea-change." Our travellers for the most part very nearly as entertaining, and infinitely more artificialcan hardly see the sights they are so deeply engrossed in themselves; and that which they permit their readers to see is seen through a medium that colours it inevitably with the idiosyncracy of the writer. Thus a modern book of travels in Africa presents us with an Africa of the author's own; he spreads himself over Africa until he covers it, and we are compelled to look through him (it is true he is transparent enough) before we can catch a glimpse of the land. But amidst the mass of books of this kind, including tours, travels, and descriptions, which in the last year amounted

to at least thirty in number, there are
some that will descend to the next genera-
tion, who, if the world progresses as it has
done hitherto, will be harder of belief than
ourselves. These may be briefly catalogued.
A work on the Chinese, by Mr. Davis, who
went out with Lord Amherst, and who pos-
sessed excellent opportunities for forming
an accurate opinion upon the habits and
character of the people, is full of informa-
tion of a very valuable kind, and may
safely be referred to as an authority. He
was not one of those gentlemen who peeped
into the Canton market, dined with a Hong
merchant, landed at Whampoa, stared at
the female smugglers, and conceived himself
capable all at once of illuminating the
world upon the mysteries of a country that
is guarded at all points with as much
jealousy as the seraglio at Constantinople.
He saw the Chinese face to face, was
licensed amongst them, as far as any licence
could carry and protect him, had time and
means for observation, and profited by them.
Another work developing extensive know-
ledge, and acute criticism, and worthy of per-
manent fame, is Mr. Strang's "Germany."
In this publication we obtain a complete
view of the German character, free from
such metaphysical refinements as obscure
the laboured analyses of Madame de Staël,
and the jargon that has latterly mystified
the English public upon all matters con-
cerning intellectual Germany. Mr. Strang's
opinions are founded upon patient investi-
gation. They are not always correct, and
sometimes they betray a weakness of judg-
ment in reference to individuals that can be
referable only to personal feelings, or those
accidents of intercourse that sometimes pa-
ralyse the judgment. Nor is the treatment
of the whole as lucid and systematic as
could be desired. But the work is of de-
cided importance from the magnitude of its
grasp, and the variety, novelty and general
excellence of its matter.
The most pro-
found publication, however, of this class
that was issued within the year, is Mr.
Laing's admirable work on Norway, a
country of whose institutions and resources
we were comparatively ignorant. In these
volumes, the social policy of Norway, its
agriculture, its legal tenures, its laws, cus-
toms, and costume, are opened up with an
amount of ability, a closeness of thought,
and an accuracy in the accumulation and
employment of facts, that can hardly be
estimated too highly. It unquestionably

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