He who his Son, his only Son, Who shall presume to charge with guilt Triumphant from the grave. And pleads our cause within the vail, Then who can e'er divide us more The 50th Paraphrase is generally ascribed to Dr. Isaac Watts, altered for the Assembly's collection by the Rev. William Cameron, minister of Kirknewton, Linlithgowshire, the author of the 14th and 17th, who had a principal share in the preparation of the appointed version. The second verse is said, in the newly-found manuscript, to have originally stood thus: who knew of his having touched with his genius some of the Paraphrases, would have remained silent at such a time upon the circumstance? Some of his clerical acquaintances, cognizant of the fact, must surely have divulged it at such a period of wonder and excitement about the peasant-bard? That Burns, at an early period of his life, had strong religious impressions, is a circumstance that in no way countenances the idea of his having given the finishing dress to some of the best of our Paraphrases. The minds of all true poets, when the first promptings of their genius is felt within them, take a decidedly devotional tone. It is in the very nature of inspiration to have in it some yearning after the Ideal-some longing after Immortality-some deep and stirring impulse to lead the soul beyond the mere Realistic of this commonplace world. without these marks and signs of genuine inspiration. Burns was not He tells us himself "that the ear liest composition that he recollects taking pleaThe Vision of Mirza,' and a sure in, was hymn of Addison's beginning How are thy servants blest, O Lord!" With him a strong feeling of piety and virtue was "early ingrained." But his devotion, however ardent, did not always take a religious turn; his impres Thus affirmed to be rendered by Burns, as in our sions, however strong, were not, even at that early present version : "Those bodies that corrupted fell Shall uncorrupted rise, And mortal forms shall spring to life, Immortal in the skies." The 26th Paraphrase, of unknown authorship, was also altered by Cameron. The opening verse, in the manuscript thus reads :— "Ho! ye that thirst approach the spring As said to be amended by Burns, it runs "Ho! ye that thirst approach the spring Where living waters flow." Of the 6th Paraphrase it has never certainly been known who was the author, although it has been attributed to Watts. The only alteration made on it appears to have been on the 4th and 5th verses, which were originally written thus:Though in his garden to the sun 66 His boughs with verdure smile; Though deeply fixed, his spreading roots Unshaken stand awhile, Yet, when from Heaven his sentence flies, He's hurried from his place.' In the supposed hand of Burns they thus read:- His boughs with blossoms smile, But forth the sentence flies from heaven, glorious career of fame, and the poet-ploughman was the subject of conversation in all the circles With period, invariably virtuous. A man may worship a false deity, and yet have more real devotion than many who worship the true one. Burns, love and poetry went hand in hand, and not poetry and religion. In his younger years, at the time these Paraphrases must have been so amended by him, or some one else, love engrossed all his affections. He was never without one rustic sweetheart or another, and his devotion to the "fair Cynthia of the minute" knew no bounds while it lasted. “Far beyond all other impulses of my heart," he says, "was un penchant à l'adorable moitié du genre humain. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or another." But what we want to remark about this feeling of devotion is, that during those periods when it was undoubtedly of a strongly religious nature in the bosom of Robert Burns, his was not exactly the heart to have contented itself with a few occasional alterations of paraphrases, the productions of others; but that its own strong impulse would have led him to throw off one or more complete pieces, bearing all the impress of his high genius, and manly and vigorous intellect, worthy to be inserted in that collection which could already boast of his emendaWitness the ardour with which he, some years later, set about writing songs for the valuable musical collection of Mr George ThomCan it be conceived that he would have restrained the boundings of his mighty genius, to merely doing the dull drudgery of editorial taskwork? It is not, indeed, within the range of possibility, that those, whoever they might be, who asked him to revise the Paraphrases, should not tions. son. have thought of asking also a himself. paraphrase from If he was thought qualified for the of his native land, is it to be supposed that those one, surely he must have been deemed abundantly capable of the other. And that his mind, if pro- | perly attuned and directed, was fully competent for such a sublime task, the few pieces of a religious nature that he has left-his version of the first Psalm, and of part of the ninetieth, and his touching stanzas, entitled, "Man was made to Mourn," as well as his divine "Cotter's Saturday Night," amply testify. and in whose possession is the original of one of his poems. At first sight he at once declared it to be Burns's handwriting. On a closer inspection, however, he began to entertain doubts, and was ultimately convinced that it was not the poet's. We repeat there is a vitality and grasp in the handwriting of Burns which we look in vain for in the supposed manuscript of his, now for the first time given to the world. The specimen of the "Cotter's Saturday Night," although not writ like what the poet's hand might be considered to have been while he was under twenty-two; and that of the Paraphrase revision, what it might have been had he reached a period of life much beyond that at which he died. To us it seems clear that the latter belongs to a person at the time much advanced in years; and it is not unlikely to have been that of an elderly minister or other person who had something to do either with the copying or the revision of the Paraphrases. That Burns's supposed connexion with the Paraphrases was unknown to his sons, as hinted above, is an acknowledged fact. Since this article was written, a paragraph has appeared in the Dum-ten for full four years thereafter, looks much more fries Standard of the 19th May, which is entitled to attention, as it embodies the testimony of one of the bard's sons in favour of the authenticity of the writing in question. The Editor of the paper mentioned states that he submitted the lithographed fac simile in the Free Church Magazine, and the explanatory notice, to the eldest son of the poet, now resident in Dumfries. As may readily be fancied, he was not a little astonished. "That is his hand," he said, "there can be no doubt of that; no man | ever wrote like Burns; but I never knew before After all, before the summer of 1781, neither that my father had been consulted regarding the the literary nor the moral position of Burns was Paraphrases. It is certainly very strange, but it such as to countenance the assumption now made. is no doubt perfectly true." In the course of At the period of his life anterior to that date he the conversation which ensued on the subject, Mr. had not the slightest standing as a poet, and his Burns said that he recollected the poet was very moral character, even then, was not quite so irrefond of the Paraphrases, and had caused him, proachable as to warrant his being applied to, by when quite a child, to learn the first one, begin- any of the clergy especially, to undertake such a ning, "Let heaven arise, let earth appear, said sacred charge as the revision of the spiritual songs the Creator Lord." "For," remarked Mr. Burns, of his country. It was not long after this period, "the line ran in this way then, and not 'Said the that, from his powers of satire, directed against Almighty Lord,' as it does now; and from early the clergy, in which he has never yet been equalassociation, and because the term is more appro-led, he became the terror of all the ministers of priate, I prefer greatly the old version of this the west of Scotland; some of whom actually passage to the new." Nevertheless, we remain | unconvinced. Burns's son is as likely to be mistaken as any other man. On a superficial view, the conjectural handwriting is calculated to deceive and to satisfy; but no evidence on earth can be more fallacious or delusive than that of handwriting. Lawyers and lithographers, and all who are familiar with the mode adopted in Courts of Justice, in relation to manuscript identity, are sufficiently aware of this. We submitted the lithograph of the Free Church Magazine to a gentleman not unknown in the religious literature of his country, well versant in Burns's handwriting, trembled in their pulpits when they knew that Burns was present among the congregation. And even while yet resident in the parish of Tarbolton, (including the short portion of his time spent in Irvine,) from his seventeenth to his twenty-fourth year, his name had become so notorious in "kintra clatter," as, in common decorum, would have deterred any of the clergy of that day, having to do with the preparation of the new version of the Paraphrases, from consulting him on such a subject. It may turn out to be the fact that Logan's handwriting bears a strong resemblance to that of Burns. VERSES. "Vita nam flammæ similis. YES! bright is their lot, whose names dazzle in story, To some, still more blest, at each day's calm returning, SLOBBERLY HALL. "MAURICE," said Mr. Macarthy, to an unshaven attendant who was brushing up the crumbs under the breakfast table, bring me my boots; I must be off to the castle." "There they are fornent your honour," answered Maurice, "nice and warm inside the fender." "And so they are,' said Mr. Macarthy, kicking off one of his slippers. "I wonder what has become of my eyesight. By and bye, I wont see the decanter on the table before me." "The heavens forbid it would ever come to that!" ejaculated the trusty serving man, looking, at the same time, as if he did not much fear that it ever would. "Maurice," continued his master, as he drew on his boots, "there is plenty for you to do this morning; and it can't be done if you keep on sweeping, sweeping, at that rate, after a few dry crumbs of bread. Leave them there, man, and I'll be bound the chickens will pick them all up clean enough. There's one coming in at the door now, by the same token; so hurry, Maurice, hurry. Take away these things; and then as soon as you eat your own breakfast, fall to and brush my new black clothes. I'll want them to-day for the company, d'ye hear? Don't leave a spot of grease on the waistcoatthe way you disgraced me the last day I dined at Sir John's." "That wasn't my fault, Master," said Maurice. "How could I see spots of grease at five o'clock of a winter's evening, when I wouldn't get a candle to do my work by?" "Whisht! hold your tongue you spalpeen, and listen to what is said to you. After you do that, (and you have the daylight for it now), polish my thin boots till you can see that wart on your nose in them." "That's aisy said," growled the offended Maurice, "and aisy done too, if we had the polish; but the thing isn't to be done with the black of the pot and a dhrop of sour beer." "Can't you step over to the town, then, and bring a jar of Day and Martin? I never knew a fellow of less contrivance. Take the pass-book, and you may as well bring back a few bottles of porter, in case any of the gentlemen would like it with their cheese." "And that they will, I'll be bound," says Maurice, mollified by a commission which promised him what he dearly loved an hour's gossip in a country shop. "Mr. Ryan, at laste, can never feel it's after dinner he is, till he has a glass of it." "Well, no matter what Mr. Ryan feels; he's no great things, whatever he feels; but bring the porter, nevertheless, and harkye-O! will any one shut the door? That confounded piano in the next room is bewildering me. I can't hear my ears with it." Here Mr. Macar thy stamped his heel against the floor; but whether he did it out of vexation, or merely to settle his foot comfortable within a rather tight boot, our history is silent. 'My dear," said Mrs. Macarthy, who sat in the window studying Mrs. Rundall on cheesecakes, “the girls must practise, or they never will be accomplished; and I'd like to know what a young lady in these times would be without accomplishments?" "Let them be accomplished," replied her husband. "I have no objection to that, I am sure; their accomplishments cost me a good deal of money; but can't they get through their lessons without making such an infernal racket? I like music well enough; but such pounding and thumping as that, without as much as a tune or an air that a man might whistle to, is enough to drive one out of the house; and it does drive me out of the house ten times in the day." "That's because you don't understand the new Italian system, Mr. Mac.," said the lady. "Tunes and airs, as you call them, are now quite vulgar and out of date. None but grocers' daughters think of playing tunes upon the piano. A young lady is nothing at all without execution." "Execution sure enough it is," said the gentleman of the house, that puts me to the rack every day in the year. I don't like executions in my house at all, Mrs. Mac." Maurice grinned, and wondered in a half-suppressed tone, "Who would?'' And the lady declared she liked wit, but could not laugh at the same joke twenty times repeated. Mr. Macarthy was now ready to go out. His slippers had been thrown, one into a corner behind the tea-chest, and the other under the sideboard. The newspaper lay on the hearthrug, with the cat blinking and purring over its contents. Upon the mantel-piece he had deposited all the lumber of his coat-pockets, consisting of a dog-chain and collar, a pocket-handkerchief rather soiled, a worsted glove without a fellow, sundry packets of garden seeds, and a well-thumbed copy of Youatt on The Horse. Having thus made himself smart, he gave Maurice a few more parting orders, and set out for the Castle of my Lord Dunbrown. The sporting gentlemen of the neighbourhood were to meet there that morning, in order to wind up the affairs of a fox-hunting club, which, for want of sufficient funds, or of proper care in the management of them, had been allowed, as Mr. Macarthy (a parlous wit, by the bye) observed, “to go to the dogs.” His horse stood ready for him at the hall-door, and two or three countrymen were lounging about anxious to see his honour, having already lost an hour or two in expectation till he should make his appearance. One of them was a neighbour who wanted a few trees to roof a barn he was building; and being very desirous to finish the work out of hand, begged that he might be allowed to cut them down that day, the money being ready quite convenient. "That's tempting, certainly," thought Mr. Macarthy, as he threw his leg over the saddle; "but," said he, "the thing is impossible to-day. I never permit a tree to be touched till I mark it out myself; and I shall not be at leisure to go into my woods until the day after to-morrow." His "woods" consisted of a skirting plantation about a hundred yards wide, that ran along the roadside. The man could not wait till then. He must go on to another gentleman who was thinning his plantations five or six miles farther off. "That's unlucky too," says the Squire half to himself and half aloud; "for the change would be convenient, and I know I have just the sticks that would answer. But I can't spare the time, being very busy at this present. The Lord expects me at the Castle, and I must not be late there on any account." Another man in waiting was a slater who had done some work for his honour, and wanted to be paid, as there was to be a fair next day in Timoleague, and he wished to make up the price of a cow. Now, the trees which the first man wanted for his building would fetch something more than was needful to satisfy this poor tradesman's demand, and one hour would have sufficed to mark them out and receive the payment for them; but that was not to be thought of. My Lord Dunbrown must not be kept waiting; "upon his honour," therefore, Mr. Macarthy had not any money in the house, and didn't know when he should. Perhaps if the man would call next week, he might have better news for him. Although Mr. Macarthy may not have had enough of money in the house to help out the purchase of a cow for the poor slater's family, he had a five-pound note in his pocket-book, which he was carrying to my Lord Dunbrown's to liquidate the defalcations of the dog-kennel, being resolved to keep up his credit in the county, and to let the whole world see that he was not the man to shirk an honourable engagement. The third waiter upon his honour was his own ploughman, who could not go on sowing the oats that fine dry morning because the brown mare was dead-lame for want of a shoe. He wished to know, therefore, how he should employ himself with the other horse until she came round? "And why did not you take her to the forge last night, as I told you to do, you good-for-nothing dog?" said the enraged master, vexed that his spring-work, which had been delayed, according to custom, to the last moment, should now be interrupted in the midst of so fine a season. "Becase," said the ploughman, "in the first place, it was a holiday, and the smallicar would not kindle his fire of a holiday for any one, barring it was to put a nail in the shoe of the Priest's pony, or the like of that; and in the next place, the mistress would have both the horses put under the carriage to take herself and the young ladies to Mrs. Doolan's dance in the evening, if they had to go on their bare knees, the crathers. It's a many a day till she'll stand to get a shoe on her after last night. It's the mare I mane." "That's more of your accomplishments," said Mr. Macarthy, as he rode away from the hall door trying to whistle a tune, having first told the ploughman that he might go and do what he liked with the other horse until the pair could be yoked again. The sensible rustic, taking the license in the widest sense, went away accordingly, as soon as his master was fairly out of the gate, to the turf bog, and brought home a load of firing to his own cottage, where the supply had been rather limited for some time for want of such an opportunity. But Mr. Macarthy was not out of the gate quite so soon as he had reckoned upon. For before he had gone * Blacksmith. half way down the avenue, a shrill whistle through the fingers of Maurice Foley, the butler, from the hall door steps, brought his head round, and the form of Mrs. Macarthy was seen hastening after him, with a white handkerchief waving in her hand. Mr. Macarthy pulled up. It would have been a com→ pliance with a fashion of which most husbands disapprove, to have gone back. He waited, therefore, somewhat sulkily until his almost breathless spouse came within hearing. "Well, what have you forgot now?" said Mr. M. "Nothing, my dear," said Mrs. Mac. "I have only remembered what you forgot. Did you write to Dublin about the renewal of your bill to the wine merchant?" "It quite went out of my mind," said the gentleman, looking rather sheepish; "and 'twill be due to-morrow.' "So I thought," said his wife, "which is the reason I called you back. Had you not better write now?” 'Now, my dear? Don't be ridiculous. By the time I had my letter written and a stamp brought out of the town to enclose in it, what o'clock do you think it would be? And I have eight miles to ride yet to Dunbrown Castle before twelve.” “And what good will your going to Dunbrown Castle do towards paying your bill, or getting a renewal of it either?" said the lady. "Is Lord Dunbrown too free in paying his own bills, not to say a word of yours?'' "Tis true for you, my dear, not a guinea will I ever be the richer for going there; but how would I hold up my head in the county if I did'nt go there to-day? Suro we must keep up our consequence whatever we do; and if his Lordship was to take huff, and not ask you to drink wine the next time we meet him at dinner at Sir John's, what a pretty thing it would be." This was a poser to the lady. She shuddered, almost perceptibly, at the mention of such a slight, and her prudential anxiety about the fate of the bill gave way. She acquiesced, therefore, meekly in the consoling obser vation of her lord and master, that it could only be protested," and that something might turn up between that and the first day of the term to make provision for it, or at least to bar farther expenses for a season. Mr. Macarthy then rode gaily away, and put down his five guineas, like a gentleman, towards the expenses of the "Killbuck Blazers;" for which he had the satisfac tion to be commended by Lord Dunbrown-who, with ten times his income, put down five guineas also—as well as by Sir John and several gentlemen of great note in those parts, though, if we should name them, few of our readers would be the wiser. Not any of them all gave more and several gave less, than our generous squire. On his return home, he met the poor slater coming out of another squire's gate, more jaded, and quite as dead in look, as he had left his own hall door in the morning. Mr. Macarthy was a hearty, free-spoken gentleman, when nothing happened to vex or worry him; and being much elated by the praises his liberal spirit had just evoked from such excellent judges of merit as Lord Dunbrown and Sir John, he found himself in an excellent humour to sympathise with the distresses of the poor. He entered, therefore, into conversation with the slater, and was grieved to learn that the plan of buying a cow must be abandoned for the present, inasmuch as none of the gentlemen about seemed to have ready money any more than himself. "It was a pity," thought he, "that | Jack, being handy at shaking small seeds, and able to rear a cucumber, or a melon may be, towards the latter end of the season. He was the general man of business of the house, drove the jaunting car or the carriage when the mistress went abroad; drove the market cart of a Saturday, when she could be prevailed upon to stay at home; executed all manner of commissions for the household, from the purchase of a worsted staylace to that of a quarter of beef; and it was his business to run or ride, as the nature or emergency of the case required, every morning to the post-office for letters. the Blazers devoured such a quantity of oatmeal, and the foxes strangled so many geese and turkeys last winter, otherwise it might be a different story with this poor fellow and his children. But at all events, I did perfectly right to maintain my consequence in the county; and at another time, please God, the slater shall have his cow." Thus placing his right hand on his left breast, to assure himself that his heart was in the right place, and finding that it was so, Mr. Macarthy, in the conscious enjoyment of a generous sentiment, bade the slater a good day, and pushed homewards to prepare himself, his family, and dependents, for performing the duties of hospitality on a large and becoming scale. During his absence affairs at home went on with the bustle and disturbance not uncommon in the best regulated families on a company day. No sooner was the master's back turned than Maurice Foley delegated the washing of the glasses to a boy, whom the mistress allowed him to bring in now and then, unknown to her lord, to help him in the pantry, and whom, by little and little, he was installing as his permanent fag and assistant. In this he was only taking pattern by Jack Tracey, who had the care of the stable committed to his unassisted hands, and yet had not rubbed a horse's heels for the last three months-thanks to the pig-boy whom he kindly volunteered, somewhat against the grain of the youngster himself, to indoctrinate in the practical duties of a groom. In like manner, also, the cook made it a point to take a daily loan of a little girl, the daughter of the herd, who came into the kitchen every morning for milk, and whom she detained half the day, scrubbing and scouring, peeling the turnips, chopping the parsley, and washing the potatoes-while potatoes were "in it." It is, in short, the universal practice of Irish service, when practicable-that is, when the voice of watchful authority does not interpose a strong veto against it-for the accredited functionary, whether in doors or out of doors, in the field, the garden, the stable, the kitchen, the pantry, or the nursery, to perform the duties of his or her office, so far as it is possible to perform them, by the hands of some other person. Upon this principle, Maurice had introduced a two-legged wedge into his pantry, whom he hoped shortly to see not only fixed there, but, "with the help of God," handing about the plates at table in the dining room, dressed in a jacket of many buttons, and in trousers of the same colour. Great, therefore, was Jack's astonishment at being directed in so imperious a tone by Mr. Foley to walk in and clean the knives. "Who says so?" he demanded. "I do," roared Mr. Foley, rubbing very fiercely at the candlestick. Do it yourself, then, Maurice, jewel," replied the handy man," and say it was I." "Oh, very well Mr. Tracey, that's quite enough," said the butler, eyeing his wart in the candlestick; “I suppose your mother, down by the bog-side, has a fine dinner of corned beef and greens preparing for your honour, with lashings of good table-beer to wash it down?'' "What do you mean by that?" said Jack. "And I suppose," continued the butler, without seeming to notice the interruption, "you have a nice warm bed there, with a white countherpaine upon it, waiting for your honour to step into, as soon as you are tired of doing nothing at all beside the fire?" Again Jack demanded what he meant. "You're at a mighty great loss to know, I'm sure," tauntingly replied Mr Foley; "but stay till you see the master; that's all." 'Did the master order me to clane the knives?" said Jack. “Time tells all things," answered the oracle of the pantry; "I suppose I wouldn't go for to order you out of your elements, Misthur Tracey, if I didn't know for what." And perceiving that he had cowed his man, he turned on his heel and went back into the house, rubbing away at the candlestick, until, upon looking into it, he saw his nose and its peculiar ornament reflected as though the noble feature had been "one entire and perfect carbuncle." Jack Tracey soon followed in surly mood, having first cuffed the pigboy, because he demurred about running afoot for the postbag, saying, that was none of his business anyhow. And the pigboy, to make his own word Boldness increases by success. One deputy was not enough for Mr. Maurice this important morning; but he must go out into the stable-yard and press a deputy-good, went home to his mother's cabin by the roadside, assistant-substitute-in-general into his department. Forth then he walks, with a candlestick in his hand, which he rubbed with a piece of chamois skin, as indicating that he must himself be engaged in the higher branches of his calling; and with a tone of command, desires Jack Tracey to walk in and clean the knives. Now, Jack himself, as we have said before, was as one having authority. He was master of the horse, and, for that matter, of the cows too; for it was he at least who was supposed to tie up those useful animals at night and let them out in the morning; though seldom he did either the one or the other, while his aid-de-camp, Shawn-nak, was "convanient." A bit of a gardener, also, was and persuaded a younger brother, by dint of the same rhetoric which had been so successfully employed upon himself, to perform the errand. Having thus set the matter in train, he stole back into the stable, lay down under the manger, and slept till his deputy returned. Mr. Foley, having set forward his own work below stairs in the hands of two efficient representatives, and then arranged the dinner table in the parlour, having flung the master's slippers into the coal hole, and deposited his own apron in the bread-basket, put on his Sunday coat and hat, and walked off leisurely to “the town,” to discuss the affairs of the nation in the shop, and fetch home a jar of Day & Martin. |