it became a habit, and a very offensive one; but this bad taste is rarely to be found in his Poetry, and generally speaking, it occurs in those letters addressed to persons who, from their ignorance and low feelings, were likely to enjoy such rhodomontade, and to encourage it. When he writes with all his heart and all his soul, and obeys the impulses of his own noble nature, the strain of his moral feelings is simple, pure,-even sublime. And when it is considered how great a proportion of his Poetry is of this character,—how beautifully he has painted the manners, feelings, and domestic enjoyments of the Peasantry of Scotland,with what an affectionate enthusiasm the name of Burns is uttered daily and hourly throughout the cottages of a thousand valleys, it may well excite a stronger feeling than surprise, to hear a man of talents and virtues like Mr Jeffrey assert, "that a great part of his productions have a character of immorality at once contemptible and hateful."

But even allowing for a moment that these faults attach to the writings of Burns to a far greater extent than I believe they do, it was most rash and unadvised to say that the leading vice of Burns' character was a contempt for prudence, decency, and regularity. At all events, so grievous a charge ought to have been accompanied with a free and joyful admission of his many great virtues. This does not appear to have been the case; and though, therefore, the article in question contains much good criticism both on the Letters and the Poetry of Burns, I think that Mr Jeffrey has been so unrestrained in the expressions of his dislike and aversion to what may have been reprehensible, and so chary of his admiration and delight in all that was noble in the character of that illustrious man, as to have rendered his account of him not only imperfect and unsatisfactory, but erroneous and unjust.

Of Burns' character as a man, it yet remains for some mind of power to speak as it ought to be spoken of. To me it seems that he was a sublime Being. While yet a Boy,-before his very sinews were knit, we behold in him the prop and the pillar of his Father's house. We see him not walking only on the mountain-tops, breathing in the inspiration of nature, as other great Poets have by the benign indulgence

of Providence been allowed in their youth to walk,-but we see him laden with incessant toil,-I might almost say, working the work of a slave. He arose with the lark, but it was not to the life of the lark, a day of song and of rapture in the happy brightness of the sky. Severe and painful duties assailed him and enveloped him: the fields and the hills were first known to his soul as the scenes of bodily labour and endurance, and the very clouds of heaven agitated him with the hopes and fears connected even with the bare means of existence. But "chill Penury represt not his noble rage,”—Freedom sprung out of slavery,-Glory out of gloom,-Light out of darkness. Like an Alpine flower, he grew in beauty and in grace, amid the hail, the snow, and the tempest. Like a stormloving bird, he "beat up against the wind." As Wordsworth himself says finely of young Clifford, there was "Among the shepherd grooms no mate For him, a child of strength and state."

When the day closed in upon him, "and the weary cotter to his cottage went," he sat not down in dim despondency by the smoke of his lowly hearth. He sat there like a Spirit or a Godin a sublime contentment inspired by the inward power of genius and of virtue. His Father's gray hairs blessed him; and now that human duties were nobly performed, came the hour of his triumph. His Country's genius ap peared before him, and bound the holly round his head,—not the Phantom of a mere heated Fancy, but the living Genius who had watched over him from his cradle, who loved her mountains and her valleys more dearly for his sake, and from whose kindled eyes there shot into his heart the assurance of immortal fame.

There is no need to shrink from the contemplation of his manhood, or of his death. He did not talk only of independence-if ever man did, he practised it. We hear of the munificence of the rich, and we praise them: but what is it to the life-giving generosity of Robert Burns? It fell like dew from heaven upon the hoary temples of his Parents-he was a noble Friend to a noble Brother-and though neglected by the Great, whose mean existence he has immortalized, there is, to my mind, something delightful in that very neglect, for it leaves Burns unpatronized and unpensioned,-his body

possessed in equal freedom with his soul, and standing aloof from the worldlings, none daring to impeach his integrity, nor to tear one leaf from that oaken branch which Independence bound round his forehead, among the immortal laurels of Genius.

Burns is in his grave, but let no good man ever behold that splendid monument which now rightly covers his ashes, without feeling, in a profound trance of love, pity, and veneration, that his errors and his frailties were but as passing clouds that sometimes marred the beauty of his radiant soul,-that all the primal duties of human life were gloriously performed " by the poor inhabitant below,”—and that if the Ghosts of the dead were permitted to join in the affectionate devotion of the living, that the Father of Burns would, with his aged Mother, and his Widow, and his Sons, and his Brother, kneel beside his grave, and bathe it with the tears of love, gratitude, and nature. Such are some of the feelings which rise up in my mind when I think of that great Man; and if there be any truth in them, it is not to be wondered at that Mr Wordsworth, himself a Poet, should be indignant with any person who has spoken slightingly or severely of such a Being. At the same time, Mr Wordsworth is more indignant with, and less inclined to make allowance for Mr Jeffrey than I am, and than what seems to me reasonable. I conceive that Mr Jeffrey, having in his recollection some of those offences of Burns against good taste and feeling before alluded to, wrote of them with the severity they deserved, but that, in the warmth and zeal of composition, he came to view them as of more frequent occurrence than they really are, and thus to consider as a cardinal vice of Burns' character what was only an acquired habit. I see no reason to believe that he was actuated by any other motive than a regard for morality and virtue; nor is it credible, on any supposition, that he strove purposely to depreciate the character of Burns. All his critical writings are distinguished by a pure and high moral feeling; and it is to be regretted that in this case he has looked only at the darker side of the picture, and blamed too severely what was reprehensible, without at all eulogising what was truly sublime. But though Mr Jeffrey may in this way be excused, no excuse should be offered

for the criticism itself; and I willingly deliver up the offensive passages to the full tempest of Mr Wordsworth's indignation.

In addressing to you these remarks, I have no other object than the defence of truth; and I therefore must say, that while I sympathize with all the noble and exalted sentiments contained in Mr Wordsworth's Letter, as they respect Burns and the Biography of Poets and literary Men, I cannot by any means admire his efforts at wit and sarcasm, which seem to me very clumsy and ineffectual; and when he calls Mr Jeffrey "an infatuated slanderer," he certainly transgresses the limits of a righteous anger, and affords some shadow of pretence to such poor creatures as the Observer, when they accuse him of undue irritation towards that gentleman.

There is here no call upon me to deviate into any discussion on the merits or demerits of Mr Jeffrey as a Critic. He probably would care as little for my opinion as I do for his; yet it is right that all liberal-minded men should, to a certain degree, respect each other's opinions. I therefore declare it to be my conviction, in direct opposition to that of Mr Wordsworth, that Mr Jeffrey is the best Professional Critic* we now have, and that, so far from shewing gross incapacity when writing of works of original genius, that he has never, in one instance, withheld the praise of originality when it was due. Of Mr Wordsworth himself he has uniformly written in terms of far loftier commendation than any other contemporary Critic, and has placed him at all times in the first rank of Genius. It is true that he has committed innumerable mistakes, and occasionally exhibited a very perplexing ignorance, both when discussing the general question of Poetry in reference to Mr Wordsworth's system, and when analysing individual poems and passages; but of many of the most striking and most admirable qualities of Mr Wordsworth's poetical character, he has shewn an acute and fine discernment, and poured himself out in praise of them

ber, the character of this celebrated Person ⚫ Our readers will find, in an early Numdiscussed by Schlegel. His Essay on the Periodical Criticism of England has been translated for us by one well qualified for the task. EDITOR.

with the most unrestrained and glowing enthusiasm. Those unmeaning sarcasms fitting the lively and ingenious turn of his mind, accustomed in his profession to a mode of thinking and feeling not very congenial with the simple and stately emotions of Poetry, can have no influence upon spirits capable and worthy of enjoying such Poems as the Lyrical Ballads, and such a Poem as the Excursion, while they may afford a suitable amusement to those pert and presuming persons, or those dull and obtuse ones, with whom genius holds no alliance, and to whom she can speak no intelligible language; but it is surely pleasanter to see such small folk contentedly swallowing the dole dealt out to them, in a moment of spright liness, by a facetious Critic, than to see them laying their unprivileged hands on the viands of that Table which Wordsworth has spread for the rich and wealthy men in the Land of Intellect.

It should, however, be held in mind by Mr Wordsworth's admirers, among whom are to be found every living Poet of any eminence, that, with all the fearlessness of original genius, he has burst and cast away the bonds which were worn very contentedly by many great writers. Mr Wordsworth is a man of too much original power not to have very often written ill; and it is incredible that, 'mid all his gigantic efforts to establish a system (even allowing that system to be a right one), he has never violated the principles of taste or reason. He has brought about a revolution in Poetry; and a revolution can no more be brought about in Poetry than in the Constitution, without the destruction or injury of many excellent and time-hallowed establishments. I have no doubt that, when all the rubbish is removed, and free and open space given to behold the structures which Mr Wordsworth has reared in all the grandeur of their proportions, that Posterity will hail him as a regenerator and a creator. But meanwhile some allowance must be made for them who, however ignorantly, adhere to their ancient idols; and for my own part, I can bear all manner of silly nonsense to be spoken about Wordsworth with the most unmoved tranquillity. I know that if he has often written ill, Milton

speare.

But in a subject of this nature, why should we dwell on any disagreeable or painful altercations between men of Power. Here there is a noble prospect, without any drawback or alloy, to delight our souls and our imagination. A Poet distinguished for the originality of his genius,-for his profound knowledge of the human heart,

for his spiritual insight into all the grandeur and magnificence of the external world,—for a strain of the most serene, undisturbed, and lofty morality, within whose control no mind can come without being elevated, purified, and enlightened, for a religion partaking at once of all the solemnity of faith, and all the enthusiasm of poetry,-and, to crown all with a perfect consummation, a Poet who has realized, in a life of sublime solitude, the visions that have blessed the dreams of his inspiration,-He comes forward with a countenance and a voice worthy of himself and the Being of whom he speaks,-and vindicates, from the confused admiration, or the vulgar reproaches of ordinary minds, a Bard who is the pride of his native land, and a glory to human nature,-while he speaks of his failings with such reverential pity-of his virtues with such noble praise, that we see Burns standing before us in all his weakness and all his strength,-the same warmhearted, affectionate, headstrong, fervid, impassioned, imprudent, erring, independent, noble, high-minded, and inspired Man, that won or commanded every soul, and whose voice, omnipotent in life, speaks with a yet more overpowering sound from the silence of the grave.

N.

VERSES,

By WALTER PATERSON.

MR EDITOR,

THE two following little pieces are the composition of Mr Walter Paterson, author of the Legend of Iona, a beautiful though neglected Poem, of which I should wish to see some notice taken in your review department.* He is now abroad; but I can venture to send you these elegant trifles without his express permission.

C. C.

LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

I CANNOT stain this snowy leaf
Without a sigh of pensive grief,
As, musing on my days gone by,
And those that still before me lie,
I read a mournful emblem here
That few could read without a tear!
For as my musing eyes I cast
Upon the pages that are past,

I search them all, but search in vain,
To find a page without a stain !
But what has been is not to be:
The happy Future yet is free;
Far as my forward eye can go,
The Future still is white as snow,

So free from stains, so free from cares,
The tainted Past it half repairs!
It is a goodly sight! but oh!
Too well within my heart I know,
That this fair Future, at the last,
Shall be itself the tainted Past.

A THOUGHT.

O COULD we step into the Grave,
And lift the coffin-lid,

And look upon the greedy worms

That eat away the dead!

It well might change the reddest cheek Into a lily-white;

And freeze the warmest blood to look Upon so sad a sight!

Yet still it were a sadder sight,

If in that lump of clay

There were a sense to feel the worms
So busy with their prey.
O pity then the living heart;-
The lump of living clay,
On whom the canker-worms of care
For ever, ever prey!

*We shall, in due time, attend to this recommendation. EDITOR.

ROB ROY.

[As the whole world is now anxiously expecting the appearance of ROB ROY, and his history is nevertheless known to but few, we are happy to present our readers with some account of that extraordinary character, drawn up by a Gentleman long resident in that quarter of the Highlands where many of Rob's exploits were performed. All the anecdotes contained in this article are traditional, and, it is believed, authentic. It cannot but be interesting to peruse a narrative of those plain facts on which the "MIGHTY UNKNOWN" has doubtless

erected a glorious superstructure. EDITOR.]

MEMOIR OF ROB ROY MACGREGOR,
AND SOME BRANCHES OF HIS FA-
MILY.

The Eagle he was Lord above,
But Rob was Lord below.

WORDSWORTH.

THOUGH the natives of the Highlands of Scotland had long contemned and resisted the laws of the kingdom, and lived in a state of proud and turbulent independence, the cruelty and injustice which dictated the proscription of the Clan Macgregor, can only be regarded as a wretched picture of that government, and that age, which could sanction an act of such barbarity.

This clan occupied the romantic wilds, and, at that period, the almost inaccessible valleys of Balquhiddar, and the Trosachs, comprehending a portion of the counties of Argyll, Perth, Dumbarton, and Stirling, and appropriately denominated the country of the Macgregors. The stupendous and rugged aspect of their mountains, and the deep retirement of their woods, secured them from the sudden intrusions of other marauding bands, as well as from the immediate cognizance of the law; and though they were not more addicted to depredatory war than the other clans of the Highlands, their unsettled and disorderly habits rendered them the terror of surrounding countries, and, from a supposititious circumstance, drew upon them the vengeance of the State. It was their misfortune to possess an inheritance situated betwixt the countries of two mighty chieftains, each of whom was jealous of their growing importance, and eager for an occasion whereby to deprive them of their lands, and exterminate themselves; and to the influence of the chiefs, Montrose and Argyll, with a

weak and credulous monarch, is to be attributed the dreadful severities which long visited this devoted clan.

The peculiar constitution of clanship formed a bond of union, which no privation could tear asunder, nor contention overcome. The obstinate solidity of this compact produced those fierce and desultory forays, which so often emerged from the mountains, and spread dismay and misery among the individuals of hostile tribes, from whom various tributes were extorted, or humiliating concessions required.

The Clan Gregor, during this state of irregularity, had become a formidable sept in prosecuting all the evils which arose from feudal manners and hereditary antipathies; and, from their local situation on the confines of the Highlands, were more closely approximated to the vigilance and infliction of the border military, or the opposition of their southern neighbours.

Among those regions, in former ages, the benefits of agriculture were almost unknown to the inhabitants, who chiefly lived upon animal food; but of this they were often deprived by the rigour of winter, so that the mutual spoliation of cattle became a regular system, especially during the period of the Michaelmas moon, and in some parts was essential to their preservation. The Macgregors pursued this plan in common with other tribes, though not under more aggravating cruelties. But, from their border station, and the dread with which they were always regarded, they readily levied the arbitrary tax of black-mail, extorted as the price of their own lenity, and under the promise of protecting those who paid it from the depredations of other plundering parties, from whom they also engaged to recover whatever booty was carried away. This species of warfare was eventually more destructive than the open contests of armies, and led to that rancorous hostility, and those petty feuds, so disgraceful to the times.

The event which occasioned the merciless decree of fire and sword against the Clan Gregor, is so well known that it need not here be narrated. Not only was this race to be rooted out, but their very name was forbidden. They were indiscriminate ly pursued and massacred wherever they were found, until, by incessant persecution, and subdued by the num

ber of their enemies, they were ul timately driven to despair, and sought refuge among the mountainous parts of Perth and Argyll, inhabiting the dismal cavities of rocks, and the sombre recesses of forests. Even in this state of misery they were not allowed to exist. They were discovered in their fastnesses, and the Earl of Argyll, with determined butchery, hunted down the fugitives through moors and woods, till scarcely any other than their children remained alive.

Such general and destructive slaughter appeared, for some time thereafter, to have sated the sanguinary propensity of that nobleman, and a relaxation of oppression seemed to promise the Macgregors a state of tranquillity to which they had long been strangers; but it was only a short-lived gleam of hope. Some conciliatory overtures on the part of the Campbells flattered these prospects, and one of them, the Laird of Achnabreck, took a friendly charge of the chief of the Clan Gregor, a young man of promising parts. They paid a visit to Argyll in his castle of Inverary, where Macgregor was received with apparent kindness; but after retiring to his bed-chamber at night, he was treacherously laid hold of and carried out of the house. The first object which presented itself to Achnabreck in the morning, was the body of his young friend Macgregor hanging on a tree opposite his window. Filled with grief and horror at so base a breach of hospitality, he instantly quitted the mansion, determined on revenge, which he soon had an opportunity of satisfying, by running Argyll through the body.

But those barbarities, so wantonly followed up, were not calculated to restrain the impetuous spirit of a valiant clan, and the descendants of those murdered people ceased not to remember and to avenge their sufferings.

Amidst the calamities of his race arose Robert Macgregor, Celtically named Roy (red), from his complexion and colour of hair, and as a distinctive appellation among his kindred, a practice which is still followed throughout the Highlands. He was the second son of Donald Macgregor of the family of Glengyle, a lieutenant-colonel in the king's service, by a daughter of Campbell of Glenlyon, and consequently a gentleman from birth. He