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NORTH. Of course not. 'Tis Hogg's. There are many things in it as absurd as possible-some real monstrosities of stuff_but, on the whole, this, sir, is James Hogg's masterpiece, and that is saying something, I guess. There is a more sustained vigour and force over the
whole strain than he ever could hit before; and though, perhaps, there is nothing quite so charming as my Bonny Kilmeny, that was but a ballad by itself-while here, sir, here we have a real workmanlike poem--a production regularly planned, and powerfully executed. Sir, James Hogg will go down as one of the true worthies of this age.
TICKLER. Who doubts it? Keep us all, the jug is out again ! Come, Christopher, I'll try the thing once more, if you'll read, while my fingers are at work.
NORTH. Nay, nay, fair play's a jewel. Give me the materials, Tim. Here, Sir Morgan, you shall read, while I create. Give me the bottle, I say. This shall be ditto
“Like coats in heraldry, two of the first.”-Shakespeare !-hem! Esto. There, ODoherty, read what I have marked.
ise otion éußeosasun !"_hem ! « Whoe'er in future time shall stray These ruins shall be dear to fame, O'er these wild valleys west away, And brook the loved, the sacred name. Where first, by many a trackless strand, Nay, look around, on green-sea wave, The Caledonian held command;
On cliff, and shelve, wbich breakers lave; Where ancient Lorn, from northern On stately towers and ruins grey, shores
On moat, and island, glen, and bay; Of Clyde to where Glen-Connel roars, On remnants of the forest pine, Presents in frowning majesty
Old tenants of that mountain reign ;
The dark and shapeless groups of Mull; To the old site of Beregon;
Others far north, in haze that sink, I pledge my word, whether thou lovest Proud Nevis, on Lochaber's brink, The poet's tale, or disapprovest,
And blue Cruachan, bold and riven,
In everlasting coil with heaven.
If on the earth exists the same,
Thou still may’st see, on looking round, And mark a valley stretching wide, That, saving from the northern bound, Inwall'd by cliffs on either side,
Where stretch'd the suburbs to the muir, By curving shore, where billows broke, The city stood from foes secure. And triple wall, from rock to rock; North on Bornean height was placed Low in that strait, from bay to bay, King Eric's camp, o'er heathery waste ; The ancient Beregonium lay.
And on Barvulen's ridge behind, Old Beregon! what soul so tame Rock'd his pavilion to the wind, Of Scot that warms not at thy name? Where royal banners, floating high Or where the bard, of northern clime, Like meteors, stream'd along the sky." That loves not songs of Selma's time? Yes, while so many legends tell Of deeds, and woes, that there befell,
By Jericho, this is almost as good as a bit of Marmion. Fine mouthable apophthegms, as he would call them.
The Shepherd has some grand notes about the Celtic capital of Beregon, or
Selma signifies The Beautiful View; Beregon, or Perecon, as it is pronounced, The Serpent of the Strait.
Beregonium. Would ye believe it, Tickler, he talks of their having discovered some of the old water-pipes lately, where the streets were: And all this anno five hundredesimo, or so?
HOGG (rousing.) Hech--eeaueeooeeyaaahee-hech yaw-aw-aw-ee-what's that you're saying about the water-pipes of Beregonium?
North was only remarking that you had made a sinall mistake-they turn out to be the gas-pipes, Hogg, that's all.
Like aneugh. I never saw them mysell. But how can ane tell a gas-pipe frae a water-pipe ?
Smaller in the bore, you know. And, besides, the stink is still quite discernible. Professor Leslie and Dr Brewster are hot as to the question, whether it had been oil-gas, or coal-gas. You must read that controversy ere your second edition come out.
Certainly, will I. Do they quote Queen Hynde meikle?
Thumping skreeds of her. Upon my word, Hogs, we are all quite delighted with Queen Hynde.
Toots, man. Ay, I can make as braw poetry as ony ane o' them a', when I like to tak the fash. I've a far better ane than the Queen on the stocks, out bye yonder. I was just wearied wi' writing sae mony prose novells—it's just a pleasure to me to be skelping awa' at the auld tredd again.
TICKLER. ODoherty has been reading us some of your best
I am heartily charmed, Hogg ; I wish you joy, with all my soul.
Wha the mischief set him on reading me? I'm sure he never could read onything in a dacent-like way since he was cleckit-rax me the Queen, and I'll let you hear a bit that will gar your hearts dinnle again-rax me the Queen, I say. Here's to ye a'-o' that's clean pushion-rax me the Queen-wha made that awfu' jug ? —I'll read you a real chifdoover noo.-Ay, here's the bit. I see it's marked wi' the keelavine. That's some sense, hooever-00 ay, I see it's Mr North’s ain copy~I kent it wad never be yours, Captain ; ye have na the discretion to pick out a piece like this. Ye wad never ken’t by the lave-(reads ore rotundissimo.)
“ No muse was ever invoked by me, When the cloudy curtain pervaded the But an uncouth Harp of olden key;
east, And with her have I ranged the Border And the sunbeam kiss'd its humid breast, green,
In vain I look'd to the cloud overhead, The Grampians stern, and the starry To the echoing mountain dark and dread; sheen;
To the sun-fawn fleet, or aerial bow,With my grey plaid fapping around the I knew not whence were the strains till
strings, And ragged coat, with its waving wings; They were from thee, thou radiant Yet age my heart beat light and high
dame, When an air of heaven, in passing by, O'er fancy's region that reign'st supreme; Breathed on the mellow chords; and Thou lovely Queen, of beauty most bright, then
And of everlasting new delight, I knew it was no earthly strain,
Of foible, of freak, of gambol, and glee, But note of wild mysterious kind,
Of all that pleases, From some blest land of unbodied mind.
And all that teazes, But whence it bew, or whether it came And all that we fret at, yet love to see! From the sounding rock, or the solar In petulance, pity, and love refined, beam,
Thou emblem extreme of the female Or tuneful angels passing away
mind! O’er the bridge of the sky in the showery O come to my bower, here deep in day,
Thou Queen of the land 'twixt heaven I have open'd the woodbine's velvet vest, and hell;
And sought the hyacinth's virgin breast ; Even now thou seest, and smilest to see, Then anxious lain on the dewy lea, A shepherd kneel on his sward to thee : And look'd to a twinkling star for thee, But sure thou wilt come with thy glee. That nightly mounted the orient sheen, some train,
Streaming in purple and glowing in To assist in his last and lingering strain :
green; O come from tby halls of the emerald And thought, as I eyed its changing bright,
sphere, Thy bowers of the green and the mellow My fairy Queen might sojourn there. light,
Then would I sigh and turn me around, That shrink from the blaze of the sum And lay my ear to the hollow ground, mer noon,
To the little air-springs of central birth, And ope to the light of the modest moon! That bring low murmurs out of the earth; O well I know the enchanting mien And there would I listen, in breathless Of my loved muse, my Fairy Queen!
way, Her rokelay of green, with its sparry Till I heard the worm creep through the hue,
clay, Its warp of the moonbeam, and weft of And the little blackamoor pioneer the dew;
A-grubbing his way in darkness drear; Her smile, where a thousand witcheries Nought cheer'd me on which the dayplay,
light shone, And her eye, that steals the soul away; For the children of darkness moved alone! The strains that tell they were never Yet neither in field, nor in flowery heath, mundane;
In heaven above, nor in earth beneath, And the bells of her palfrey's flowing In star, nor in moon, nor in midnight mane;
wind, For oft have I heard their tinklings light, His elvish Queen could her minstrel find. And oft have I seen her at noon of the But now I have found thee, thou vanight,
grant thing, With ber beauteous elves in the pale Though where I neither dare say nor moonlight.
sing; Then, thou who raised'st old Edmund's For it was in a home so passing fair, lay
That an angel of light might have linAbove the strains of the olden day;
ger'd there : And waked'st the bard of Avon's theme I found thee playing thy freakish spell To the visions of his Midnight Dream Where the sun never shone, and the rain Yea, even the harp that rang abroad
never fell, Through all the paradise of God, Where the ruddy cheek of youth ne'er And the sons of the morning with it
And never was kiss'd by the breeze of By thee was remodell’d, and strung day ;
It was sweet as the woodland breeze of O come on thy path of the starry ray,
even, Thou Queen of the land of the gloaming And pure as the star of the western heagrey,
ven, And the dawning's mild and pallid hue, As fair as the dawn of the sunny east, From thy valleys beyond the land of the And soft as the down of the solan's dew,
breast. The realm of a thousand gilded domes, Yes, now have I found thee, and thee The richest region that fancy roams !
will I keep, I have sought for thee in the blue hare. Though thy spirits yell on the midnight bell,
steep; And deep in the fox-glove's silken cell ; Though the earth should quake when For I fear'd thou had'st drunk of its po nature is still, tion deep,
And the thunders growl in the breast of And the breeze of the world had rock'd
the bill; thee asleep ;
Though the moon should frown through Then into the wild-rose I cast mine eye, a pall of grey, And trembled because the prickles were And the stars fling blood in the milky nigh,
way ; And deem'd the specks on its foliage Since now I have found thee, I'll hold green
thee fast, Might be the blood of my Fairy Queen; Till thou garnish my song—it is the last!" Then gazing, wonder'd if blood might be In an immortal thing like thee! Vol. XVII.
-There's a strain for you, lads. What say ye to that ane, Mr Tickler ? Did Byron ever come that length, think ye? Deil a foot of him. Deil a foot of ane o'them.
ODOHERTY. It certainly can't be denied, that when you please, you outstrip the whole pack of them.
Every mither's son o' them. Hoots ! Hoots !-od, man, if I did but really pit furth my strength! ye wad see something
TICKLER, (aside.) Preposterous vanity !-ha! ha! ha! ha! hah!
Come, James, you must not talk thus when you go out into the town. It may pass here, but the public will laugh at you. You have no occasion for this sort of trumpetting neither, no, nor for any sort of trumpetting. Sir, you have produced an unequal, but, on the whole, a most spirited poem. Sir, there are passages in this volume, that will kindle the hearts of our children's children. James Hogg, I tell you honestly, I consider you to be a genuine poet.
HOGG, (sobbing.) You're ower gude to me, sir, you're clean ower gude to me, I canna bide to expose mysell this way before ye a'-Gie me your haund, sir,-Gie me your haund too, Mr Tickler-Och, sirs ! och, sirs ! (weeps.)
Comė, Hogg, you know Old Grizzy has a bed for you, this time. You shall go home with me to James's Court-Come away, James-(aside). What a jewel it is, Timothy.
Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. Edinburgh.
THERE has been a good deal of wri. Far more reprehensible, because far ting about Lord Byron since his death more lengthened and elaborate—and in our periodicals; but very little of despicable to boot, because evidently it much to the purpose. The Quar. written by a person, who, with friend terly Review has as yet been silent; ship in his mouth, had never felt any the Edinburgh Review bas contained real friendship for the departed poetonly one or two insignificant para- is the attempt towards a whole-length graphs. The subject, now at last com- portraiture of Lord Byron's character, plete, has hitherto been in the hands of which appeared some months ago in comparatively unauthoritative scribes; the London Magazine. The writer of and we are constrained to say, that it that production must be indeed a mihas not been dealt with in a manner serable. He derives all the vices of at all likely to increase their authority. Byron-real or supposed-from the
We are sorry to be obliged to no- fact of his being a Lord. When tice with particular condemnation the he is to be commended for anything, style in which Lord Byron's charac “ this, in short, is as well as could be ter and genius have been handled in expected from a Lord.” What a picthe Universal Review. That talented, ture of Grub-street bile! The same and on the whole respectable Journal, tone (here is a compliment !) has, we is said to be chiefly conducted by a observe, been taken up by the distinperson of very considerable rank in guished author of the Liber Amoris, our modern letters-a scholar, a poet, in a new octavo (chiefly, ut mos est, and a gentleman: and if this be the made up of old materials,) which he fact, (which we certainly by no means has published under the modest title take for granted,) the tone and tem- of “The Spirit of the Age !!!" The per in which Lord Byron has been Hero of Southampton-row is exceedtreated by the Journal in question is ingly bitter with Lord Byron, because doubly and trebly to be regretted. he had pedigree. He cannot away Whether the accomplished person we with the patrician soul that breaks out allude to, be, or be not, the Editor of continually even in the most radical this Review, we are quite sure he is ravings of Byron's muse. It is evi. not the author of the article we speak dent, that if Mr Hazlitt had seen the of. He (if it be he) has been seduced living Lion down, he would have reinto admitting the criticism of some to- joiced in kicking him: he now does his tally inferior mind-some mind either pleasure with the dead. And it was not large enough to regard the great for this sort of recompence, say rather ness of the dead poet's fame without retribution, that Lord Byron suffered, envy—or small enough to remember, for a time at least, his noble name to in the pages of Mr Whitaker’s Re- be coupled in the mouths of men, with view, that the proprietor of the Quar- these abject souls—these paltry and terly Review had been also the pub- contemptible caitiffs, who, while they lisher of that illustrious poet's most would fain have derived some skulka successful performances. The article ing benefit from his name, never reis a splenetic, a malevolent, and, we garded either the poet or the man, but fear we must add, a mean tirade. It with all the rancours of despairing immust have been written by an unhappy becility and plebeian spite. man, and can be read with pleasure by The truth is, that Byron's literary none.
success had all along been regarded VOL. XVII.