gun; house, air, Looks rousingly." Lake," or of "Gertrude of Wyoming," or Tells wandering knights their revels are beof any romantic love-story since the world began. What, indeed, can be more beau- Or blazing brand, that from the vintage tifully or poetically conceived than the On long October nights, through the still figure of Aurora, whose lover is gone to the Holy Land, and reported to be slain; but who, hoping against hope, lights up, But the songs are the finest things in night after night, a beacon-flame, on the this drama. They resemble those little floueastern cape of the island, to guide the rishes of flame we often see on the crest of vessel which is to restore him to her the evening fire-or they are the tresses arms? Eve among her flowers, "herself of Hope's golden hair. Altogether, the a fairer flower," is not more fair than" Beacon" shines Miss Baillie's least, Aurora beside her fires, herself a purer but loveliest play, and long shall warmand more celestial flame! The whole hearted admirers watch, and dance and conception is one of pure and perfect sing for gladness around its unwaning genius-the time that of the Crusades light. And, although she meant it not, the scene, an island in the Mediterra- yet to us it seems an unconscious and nean; the beacon-light burning over the mythic parable of the "Old Hope" of the hallowed waves; and the high-born maiden, Church, lighted up on the bleak rock of a Aurora by name, bending over her love- stormy and infidel age-burning towards lighted watch-fire, and looking eastward, the East, casting a beautiful although dim with an eye soft with tremulous love and light upon the troubled waters around it bright with high expectation. Surely fed by the midnight ministrations of a she is, henceforth and for ever, the few faithful hearts-and which is not almodel-image of the passion of the play, ways to burn in vain. which is Hope. Our readers will remember the issue. The "Beacon" has not been lit in vain. Her lover, Ermingard, returns in disguise, is recognised Miss Baillie's miscellaneous works conand welcomed by Aurora, and, after over- sist of metrical legends, songs, and poems coming some very ingeniously-constructed on general subjects. In her metrical leobstacles to their union, the play leaves them on the brink of having their mutual "Hope" realised. ་་ The Absent will return, the long, long Lost be found." gends, she likes best the wierd and the terrible element, and wields it with a potent hand. Yet the grace and elegance are such that we feel her to be a witch, not a sorceress. We prefer "Lord John of the East" to all the rest put together; We hardly know which of the scenes, or songs, or sentences in this lovely little drama we should quote, for all are so beautiful, and the most so well known. perhaps partly for the reason that we met We take the following fine string of pleasant images, which might have been prefaced by the "So have I seen" of Jeremy Taylor. They refer to the bea con: with it in childhood, and that it haunted us like a veritable ghost, and has often since made the opening of an outer door, in a dark evening, a somewhat tremulous experiment, as we asked ourselves WHO or WHAT may be standing behind itbetween us and the stars? "Malcolm's Heir," and the "Elden Tree," are too manifestly imitations of "Lord John"far and faint echoes of that tremendous knocking which shook the castle, and What time his wife their evening meal pre-made even fierce "Donald the Red" aghast. "Viola. Fie on such images! Thou shouldst have liken'd it to things more seemly; Thou mightst have said, the peasant's evening fire, That from his upland cot through winter gloom, pares, Blinks on the traveller's eye, and cheers his heart; Or signal torch, that from my lady's bower By the way, what a subject for a poem in the words, "Who knocks at the midnight door?" Is it the kind and dear friend, long absent? or, the son returned Her poems on general subjects are not, from a far journey at sea? or, a messenger on the whole, equal to her others, or to to relate the tidings of a friend's deadly herself. Some of her devotional strains illness? or, a ghastly maniac astray from are bald and tame, although here and his keepers? or-for imagination, awaked there, as in the hymn at page 837, she at midnight, will have midnight fancies rises on wings of worship soft as a dove's -the sheeted dead? or, your own wraith? and strong as an eagle's. But her muse or, the Enemy? or, incarnate Death him- is seldom a seraph. Her poem-page self-attired in some such fearful fashion 792-on the death of Sir Walter Scott as thishas many such prosaic lines as the first couplet: "In reveller's plight he is bedight; With a vest of cramoisie meet; But his mantle behind that streams to the wind Is a corse's bloody sheet?" "Thou pleasant noble bard, of fame far spread, Now art thou gather'd to the mighty dead." Nor can we coincide with the criticism, any more than admire the poetry, of the following: It is pleasing to pass from such dreams and legends to her songs, which we hesitate not to say are only inferior to those of Burns-superior to those of Haynes "A tale like 'Waverley' we yet may con, But shall we read a lay like 'Marmion?"" Bayly and Moore, and quite equal to those of Sir Walter Scott and Campbell. Need That Scott's poems are superior to his we speak of "The Gowan glitters on the novels, is a literary heresy of some magsward," "Saw ye Johnny coming?" "Tam nitude. We grant, indeed, that parts of o' the Linn," or the "Weary pund o' tow?" the "Lay" and of "Marmion," and the Every Scotchman in the world, worthy of the name, knows these by heart; while, perhaps, thousands are ignorant that they are by Joanna Baillie. We quote one in English of a different description. SONG. "What voice is this, thou evening gale, We regret we have not time to do more justice to the merit of Miss Baillie's songs to their dignified simplicity— their purity-their quiet, pawky humour -their pastoral tenderness, and all the other truly Doric qualities which distinguish them. whole of the "Lady of the Lake," are quite worthy of his genius. But, in the first place, they reveal only a segment of Scott's mind-his minstrel spirit and fire; they contain little trace of his humour, strong insight into human nature, and power of personifying various characters. Secondly, as artistic compositions, they are even more flimsily and hurriedly put together. Thirdly, by assuming the name of poems, they have subjected themselves to a much severer ordeal-we try them by such standards as the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey;" whereas, where was the novel previous to Scott, except "Don Quixote," which had risen into the region of lofty art at all? Richardson, Fielding, and Defoe, with all their merits, belonged to a far lower class. Goethe had only, as yet, written "Werter." So that, while Scott's poems are of a secondary order in, their school, his novels are first in theirs. Fourthly, Scott's poems are often centos always imitative; his novels are a creation—a fact as new as the Flood, or the Reformation. And, fifthly, if we combine the consideration of quantity with quality, the poems of Scott sink like a driblet in the ocean. What are three clever me trical romances-the "Lay of the Last | culars of her life, nor disposed to forestal Minstrel," "Marmion," and the "Lady of the office of her biographer; but we speak the Lake" (we drop at once the "Lord of in this, we are certain, the general sentithe Isles," and more reluctantly "Roke- ment of the literary world. She has had by," from the list, because confessedly in- few literary feuds, and none of the disgraceferior), to "Waverley," "Guy Mannering," ful notoriety of many of her contemporathe "Antiquity," "Rob Roy," "Old Mor-ries. She has neither fought nor puffed tality," "Heart of Midlothian," "Ivan- on her way, but has won it by the calm, hoe," "Kenilworth," "Quentin Durward," cumulative progress of successive excelthe "Talisman," and the "Fair Maid of lence. She has never forgot the woman Perth," with all the wondrous masses of in the authoress; never bated a jot of the description, dialogue, eloquent reflection, dignity of the lady, that she might gain clear, easy writing, costume, character, the laurels of the poet. Her course has historical information, and romantic in- been the quiet, deep, fructifying progress terest, which they contain? of a river hid in woods; and speaking in the flush of the woods and fields it has nourished, rather than in the clamour of its voice, or in the sheen of its waters. She has, above all, in the general tone of her poetry, as well as in many of her separate strains, done ample homage to the leading principles of morality and religion, and is therein entitled to a deeper praise than the name of poet by itself usually justifies. We were just preparing to bring this criticism to a close when a newspaper arrived, containing the intelligence of Miss | Baillie's death. She died at the good old age of eighty-nine, full of years, of good deeds, and of well-deserved honours. She 'sleeps well," although far in death from her beloved native manse of Bothwell. Peace to her ashes! In the circumstances in which her death has unexpectedly placed us, it is a pleasing thought that we were speaking of her in a reverent spirit, and that there is not a word in our critique which, on reflection, we feel in-name interesting through many associaclined to alter. Nay, we are glad to leave it as it is—an estimate of the living, not a panegyric upon the dead. Yet we must now be permitted another sentence in addition to what we had written ere the painful tidings reached us. Few writers have passed through life with less of the pains and penalties of an authorship than Joanna Baillie. We are not intimately conversant with the parti Thus do our great ones pass away! Another splendid gem on the circlet of our female authors had but a few days before dropped into the dust-Mrs Shelley. She, too, was a name to "start a spirit”—a tions, and from her own merits much and warmly admired. But her creed was cold-her mind was morbid-her works have a gigantic, but abortive greatness -and we, for our part, had rather have written one "Beacon" than one hundred "Frankensteins." What meaneth, after all, this going out of our stars in clusters? Is it because the day is near the breaking, and the SUN about to arise? THOMAS AIRD. "BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE" has unques- | Law Rhymer calls him, Wilson; Locktionably collected around it one of the hart, the sharp, and caustic, and manly most distinguished of the many clusters spirit; Hogg, the "poet-laureate to the into which the literary men of the present | Faery Queen;" Galt, the Defoe of Scotday have gravitated. Its roll of names is a land, the only writer we know completely brilliant one, including "that great Scots- up to Sawney in all his wily ways; Delta, man with the meteor-pen," as the Corn- the tender and beautiful poet; MacGinn, He the wild wag; De Quincey, the lawful in- | into his words, and to pack it too closely heritor of Coleridge's mystic throne and together. His great power lies in deappetite for the poppy; Doubleday, the scription-knotty, minute, comprehensive elegant dramatist; Warren, the vigorous and piercing portraiture. He has hardly weaver of melo-dramatic tale; Croly, the the constructive faculty, is perhaps unable impetuous and eloquent; Simmons, that to produce a whole; but what a strange, fine scion of the Byronic school of poetry; unearthly light he casts on the jagged Moir, the accomplished critic; Ferrier, the edges and angles of things! Inevitably rising metaphysican; and last, not least, does he leave the impression upon you, Thomas Aird, author of "Religious Cha- as you read, whether it be to blame or to racteristics," "Othuriel," &c., whom we praise, This is no echo, but a native voice, propose, as he is comparatively little sounding from the inner penetralia of naknown, more particularly to introduce to ture's own temple. "His mind," says our readers, and who certainly, in point of Wilson, "dwells in a lofty sphere." original genius, is surpassed by few of the breathes freely an air which it is difficult names we have just cited. for inferior men to respire. He is drawn, Thomas Aird is, we say, a man of ori- by a native attraction, to the snowy sumginal genius. He sees all things, from a mits of high and holy thought. There, as constellation to a daisy, in a certain severe the " moon glazes the savage pines" and searching light. His mind is stiff- around, as the wind lifts the unresisting ened by nature's hand into one earnest snow at his feet, as the melancholy song position. His stream of thought is not of the Aurora sounds past him like the broad, nor winding, but narrow, deep, pant of spirits, he meditates strangely, moving right onward, and lurid in its and with folded arms, upon life and death lustre, as though a thunder-cloud were -"Erebus and old Nox," Chaos and "bowed" over it throughout its entire Demogorgon-wild shapes, meanwhile, course. His original sympathies are ob- sweeping by in the wan moonlight; deviously with the dark, the stern, and the moniacs from Galilee, who seem already terrible. He delights, or rather is irre- to "dwell 'mid horned flames and blassistibly led, to paint the fiercer passions of the human soul, the drearier aspects of nature, the gloomy side of the future world. While his heart is full of the milk of human kindness, his genius has a raven wing, and an almost Dantesque dreadfulness of tone. All his works are studies from Scripture, but breathe more of the element of Sinai than of Calvary. He has evidently spent his youth in meditative solitude, with more thoughts than books; Bunyan and the Bible all his library, but these deeply pondered have pressed down a load of influence upon his genius, and account at once for its monotony and its power. He "curdles up" meaning into his words, oftentimes to an oppressive degree. In his desire to do justice to the fulness of the view presented him of a scene or a subject, in manly aversion to the gingerbread, the lackadaisical, the merely pretty, he is apt to become harsh, elliptic, abrupt, obscure, at once to stuff too much thought phemy in the red range of hell;" gibbering ghosts, with "fire-curled, cinder-crusted tongues;" a Father's form, dilating wrathfully as it comes; sooty negroes, with black enormous trumpets at their lips; Nebuchadnezzar, with insane eyes, lightening through his feathery hairs; and, bringing up the rear, the "grizzly terror" himself, the fiend-dreamer on Mount Acksbeck, "like fiery arrow shot aloft from some unmeasured bow." This sphere is certainly lofty, but remote from human sympathies; as solitary as it is sublime, a "dread circle," carved by the magician like a scalp, on a snowy and savage hill, and across which few, save congenial spirits, can ever break. Aird's genius, indeed, is not, like that of Milton, one to the appreciation of which men must and will grow. It is rather, in its intense peculiarity, like that of Coleridge or Shelley, which, if you hate, you hate at once and for a long time; which, if you love, you love at first sight, and "even to the end." Hopeless of his works tateuch," but viewing the Cross through ever becoming popular, we do not despair the medium of his own genius. His soul of seeing them take up, in the hearts of dwells in the haunted climes of Palestine, a select few, the place due to their ori-"tosses its golden head afar on the snowy ginality, their power, their daring, and mountains cold" of Mount Lebanon, retheir religious spirit. His faults are ob-clines on the banks of the Lake of Galiscurity, mannerism, a want of flow and lee, mounts Tabor Hill, and sees, with fluency of verse, a style often cumbered kindling rapture, the eclipsed light of and perplexed, and an air-it is no more heaven bursting forth from every pore of -of elaborate search after peculiarities the Saviour's transfigured frame - his of thought and expression. Such are, form, long bent under a weight of wo, however, we believe, nothing but excre- erecting itself like a palm-tree from presscences upon the robust oak of his essen- sure; his eye shining out like a sun from tial originality. It is the struggle of a the skirts of a departed cloud; his brow native mind to convey itself in a vehicle expanding into its true dimensions, its so imperfect as words, which has begot wrinkles fleeing away, its sweat-drops of all those minute strangenesses of style, climbing toil changed by that sudden rawhich are but the wild veerings of a diance into bright bubbles of glory, when strong-winged bird, beating up against a contrary wind. Nature has given Aird genius in high measure, but art has not added the calm and completeness of an equal empire over words. His power over them is great; but it is a convulsive In another and a darker mood, he foldespotism, rather than a mild, steady, lows the Demoniac amid the tombs, or and legitimate sway. His language is traces him along the crackling margin of picturesque and powerful; but comes from far, and comes as a captive. His obscurity, the grievous fault of his earlier productions, has been manfully sifted out of his later writings. His mannerism he has not been able altogether to remove. It adheres to him, and will as long as he lives. "Light o'erflow'd him like a sea, and raised his shining brow, And the voice came forth that bade all worlds the Son of God avow." the Dead Sea, or pursues Nebuchadnezzar into the wilderness, or catches the skirts of Ezekiel, advancing under the very ring of the wheels, "so high that they were dreadful;" or reverently, tenderly, and from afar off, follows the footsteps of the awful Sufferer into the gloom of Gethsemane, or up the ascent of Calvary's quaking hill. He has caught much of the spirit of the olden Hebrew prophet bards; their abruptness, austere imagination, and shadowy sanctities. He has drunk out his inspiration from those deep springs, which at the rod of prophecy sprang out of the Syrian wilderness. His genius, as it is said of Bunyan, has not been dipped in dews of Castalie, but baptised with the Holy Ghost and with fire. Such is the short portraiture of a unique, who, had his ambition been equal to his powers, might have taken, long ere now, a much higher place; one who is strong and rounded in his originality as in a castle, but who has laid down all the peculiarities of that genius, and all the keys of that castle, meekly and gently at the foot of the Cross; who has never, we believe, sung one strain which did not mount, ere its close, as if by instinct, to His first work (beyond a volume of juheaven. He is, in the true sense, a religi- venile poems, inclusive of "Murtzoufle," ous poet; not merely making an occasional a tragedy, discovering less dramatic than irruption into the consecrated region with poetic power) is entitled "Religious Chasome; not singing with others certain racteristics." It attracted at the time sickly strains of loathsome sweetness and considerable notice, and is still fresh in affected unction; not, with a third class, the memories and much in the hands of breaking into blank the gospel of St those who allowed their generous peneLuke, and boldly pilfering from the Pen-tration to pierce past the rough rind of ' |