Juvenal ever more terse and tremendous | rial of songs. A song is just an unmeathan in his darker mood does Burns be- sured sonnet, and aspires to the same come. simple unity. It is essentially a dropIn two or three of his poems, he essays whether a tear of joy or grief from a a style of which we wish that he had given poet's eye, or of blood from his very vius larger specimens-we refer to the vi- tals, or of a thunder-shower from the sionary or purely bardic manner. The laden sky of his imagination. Such globest specimens of this are of course his rious or gloomy drops are Burns' songs; two "Visions," the one at his own "chim- it is a perfect shower of them he pours ney-neuk," and the other at Lincluden forth-some luxurious as lovers' tears, Abbey. The second is more elaborate and others rich as a patriot's gore-some artistic, although very striking; but the simple as the dew, and two or three first is pure inspiration. In writing it, magnificent as a cloud on which swims he seems, like Coleridge, when copying the rainbow. But all are true, all clear, the lines of Kubla Khan, which he had all more or less beautiful. Of Moorean made in his dream, to be in haste lest affectation, or of the undue point of Bethe magic syllables, which had come ranger, or of the mystic involution of the upon him like shadows, should "so de- songs of Shelley, there is nothing. Yet part." His words rush-hurry-almost it is curious, that while no Scottish poet trample upon each other-in their eager- since Burns has approached him by a ness to record the glorious vision, ere, thousand miles, in the other departlike a flush on the evening sky, or a ments of poetry, some, such as Tannamomentary halo around the moon, it has hill, Robert Gilfillan, and others, have passed irrecoverably away. And this uttered melodies not much inferior to poem came upon the ploughman as he his. He is, in fact, the greatest of Scotsat by a peat-fire, with a deal table before him, and nothing but a bowl of milk as the Helicon of his muse. Verily the spirit of poetry, like the wind, "bloweth where it listeth." tish song-writers, chiefly because he was before the rest in the field, and because his songs are more numerous and more varied. This seems to prove that good song-writing is more an affair of warm His epitaphs and epigrams, with some heart, considerable ingenuity, and good exceptions, are mere trash, with a little ear, than of transcendent genius. Even cleverness barely serving to spice profa-poor Sandy Rogers has written songs not nity and the coarsest commonplace. It is unworthy of Burns; nor did he ever exhumiliating to think of the author of the cel the "Wee Willy Winkie" of William "Vision" reduced to a maker of extem- Miller. pore graces before meat, which were in general mere niaiseries. Burns' prose seemed to Dr Robertson to be, considering his circumstances, even Very different is our estimate of his more remarkable than his poetry. It has songs. As it should be with all true in it, in, proportion, a great deal more songs, they are richer in feeling than in trash; but it has also some passages thought. They catch and crystallise which no prose-writer has since surpasssome one simple emotion; some single ed. If you regard it as a series of comswelling in a true torn heart; some lit-positions, it fails: the true light to look tle incident in personal or domestic life; at it is as a succession of fierce fragments a feeling that has passed like a breeze torn from a ruin-some distinguished by over a solitary wanderer at eventide; a symmetry and strength, and others only mood which has swept over his pillow by their rude and jagged angles. Yet at midnight, like a meteor: "Some natural sorrow, love, or pain, Which has been, and may be again!" Such is the plain yet profound mate from what a noble ruin have his letters to Cunningham, to Dr Moore, and to Mrs Dunlop proceeded! Cowper's letters, as a whole, are more pleasing, easy, and better sustained, but have few passages to compare with the finer flights of the We have left ourselves little room for gauger. the last, and, as it may seem to some, What a pity that Burns had no Boswell the most important part of the subject, to track his steps, and catch the fire-syl- namely, the influence which Burns and lables which fell in such rapid profusion his writings have exerted upon his native and bickering brilliance from his touched country. And yet, perhaps, the whole lips! His talk seems to have been as truth on this subject may be comprised strong, natural, and rich an essence as in a very few sentences. His influence ever flowed from the lips of man. It was has been in part beneficial, and in part strong as a native power, and it was of pernicious. Burns HAS added an imall his powers the most carefully cultivat- perishable nimbus of glory to his country; ed. Like Dr Johnson, he generally set and Scotland, notwithstanding all his himself to "talk his best." In society, errors, is proud of having produced such and particularly in that of ladies, he a son, and produced him, too, from the seemed to "forget his poverty, and re- yeoman class the same class amid which member his misery no more." His soul expanded, his heart opened, his eye kindled, his rough voice softened into music, and the pent-up waters of wisdom, wit, tenderness, humour, and knowledge of human nature which were in him, "flowed amain." Hearts burned within them, eyes moistened, bosoms heaved, as he talked; laughter looked out through eyes that wept, or tears came and drowned laughter; many were agitated and shaken, and others, obeying the calmer and mightier spell of his genius, felt, as John Scott so finely says, "their minds touched with a strange joy, which they may recognise in more exalted stages of their being." And all this effect was produced, not by an elaborate artist playing bravuras, not through any assumption of oracular depth or dignity, not through any determination to be the chief speaker, but through the mere outpouring of a mighty soul, which had besides made conversation a study, found in it a fit element, and learned to spring up under the genial call of society into his fullest power, like the war-horse to the sound of the trumpet. How one wishes that Burke, the greatest talker then alive in England, had met and measured lances with Burns, the greatest talker in Scotland; and that Bozzy, who was still alive, had been subpoenaed to be present! They had been wonderfully well met; for in native genius and wealth of mind they were equal; and Burke's subtle reflection and profound learning would have found a counterpoise in the brilliant wit and robust manhood of the intellect of Burns. Shakspere in England lifted up his refulgent and many-sided head. He has stirred the patriotic flame; he has animated often the "glow o' weel-placed love;" he has once or twice even stirred the altar fires to a brighter and holier blaze. Need we nanie the "Cottar's Saturday Night?" He has even, too, in mo.e than one powerful strain, shown the deformity of vice. Need we name his "Epistle to a Young Friend?" He has excited, besides, in the peasantry a thirst for knowledge, an ambition for intellectual distinction, a proud and salutary consciousness of themselves and of the digninity of independent toil. What a contrast between the spirit of his song, "A man's a man for a' that," and the flunkeyism of many even in our day, who are so glad to get a little vulgar eclat reflected on public meetings from the presence of lords and literary baronets, although the life thus given is generally galvanic, the light discoloured, and the glory meretricious and evanescent! But there is another side to the picture. Burns has sometimes fanned the polluted fires of licentiousness and debaucheryhe has taught many to identify genius with vice-he has at times shed a rainbow lustre around mere animalism-he has not unfrequently insulted religion through its forms and its professors— and has here and there treated sacred things with undue levity. God forbid that we should say he has done this intentionally! We believe, on the contrary, that had he foreseen all the evil effects some of his writings were to produce in larger ones. "The Cottar's Saturday that "dear auld Scotland" which he loved Night" has probably done more good than so warmly, he would have burned them his worse productions have done ill; and, and his pen too. On the whole, his in- as we are loth to part from such a man fluence has been, we think, rather greater in anger, we may say, even in reviewing for good than for evil. The offences of his personal career, some of his minor poems may be considered counterbalanced by his better and "The glory dies not, and the grief is past: Peace, peace to his glorious dust!" LORD BYRON. AN objection may meet us on the thresh-excited audience, sweeping criticism away old of this, as well as on that of some before them, blotting out principles of art previous papers. It may seem that to from the memory of the severest judges, attempt a new estimate of a character whose hearts they stormed, whose passo thoroughly scrutinised and so widely sions they inflamed-at the same time appreciated as Byron's, is an attempt that they sometimes revolted their tastes, alike hopeless and presumptuous. And and sometimes insulted their understandif we did approach it with the desire of ings. At night there was intoxicationfinding or saying anything absolutely in the morning calm reflection came. new, we should feel the full force of But, in the meantime, the poet was the objection. But this is far from away; his song had become immortal, being our ambition. We have decided and the threatened arrows were quietly to sketch Lord Byron's genius for the returned to the quiver again. Then, following reasons:-] -First, a very minute Byron's life and story formed a running is never a very wide, a very particular is commentary upon his works, which tendseldom a very just, scrutiny or estimate. ed at once to excite and to bewilder his Second, the criticism of single works readers. His works have now illustrated pouring from the press, however acute editions: they did not require this while and admirable, is not equivalent to a he lived. Besides, his romantic history, review of those works taken as a whole. partially disclosed, and, therefore, more A judgment pronounced upon the first, effective in its interest his early, hapsecond, or third storeys of a building, as less love-his first unfortunate publicathey successively arise, does not forestall|tion—his Grecian travels—his resistless the opinion of one who can overlook the rush into fame-his miserable marriage completed structure. Of Byron's several his amours-the glorious backgrounds writings we have every variety of separate which he chose for his tragic attitudes, critiques-good, bad, and indifferent; of Switzerland and Italy - his personal his genius, as animating his whole works, beauty his very lameness - the odd we have little criticism, either indifferent, and yet unludicrous compound which he bad, or good. Third, the tumult which formed of Vulcan and Venus, of Apollo all Byron's productions instantly excited and Satyr, of favourite and football of the space they cleared and burned out destiny the mysterious spectacle he for themselves, falling like bombshells presented of a most miserable man, comamong the crowd-the strong passions posed of all the materials which make they awakened in their readers, through others happy-the quaint mixture of all that intense personality which marked opposites in his character, irreconcilable them all-rendered cool appreciation at till in the ruin of death-the cloak of the time impossible. They came upon mystery which he now carefully threw the public like powerful sermons on an over, and now pettishly withdrew from, his own character-the impossibility of caught in crystal and tinged with couleur either thoroughly hating, or loving, or de rose, like a foul winter stream shining laughing at him,-the unique and many- in ice and evening sunshine-and has sided puzzle which he thus made, had the many beautiful remarks about his poems; effect of maddening the public and of but neither abounds in original views, nor mystifying his critics. Hal is charged by gives, what its author could so admirably Falstaff with giving him medicines to make have given, a collection of common opihim love him. Byron gave men medicines nions on his entire genius and works, to educe toward himself a mixture of all forming a full-length portrait, ideally possible feelings-anger, envy, admira- like, vigorously distinct, and set, in his tion, love, pity, blame, horror, and, above own brilliant imagery and language, as in all, wonder as to what could be the con- a frame of gold. ceivable issue of a life so high and so low Our endeavour at present is to make —so earthly and so unearthly-so spiri- some small contribution towards a future tual and so sensual-so melancholy and likeness of Byron. And whatever may so mirthful, as he was notoriously lead-be the effect of our remarks upon the ing. This was the perpetual stimulus to public, and however they may or may not the readers of his works-this the face fail in starting from slumber the comand figure filling the margins of all his ing man" who shall criticise Byron as pages. This now is over. That strange Thomas Carlyle has criticised Jean Paul, life is lived that knot too hard and and Wilson, Burns: this, at least, shall twisted for man is away elsewhere to be be ours-we shall have expressed our hosolved that heart, so differently re- nest convictions-uttered an idea that ported of by different operators, has un- has long lain upon our minds—and redergone the stern analysis of death. His paid, in part, a debt of gratitude which works have now emerged from that fluc- we owe to Byron, as men owe to some tuating shadow of himself which seemed terrible teacher, who has at once roused to haunt and guard them all; and we and tortured their minds; as men owe to can now judge of them, though not apart the thunder-peal which has awakened from his personal history, yet undistract them, sweltering, at the hour when it ed by its perpetual protrusion. Next, behoved them to start on some journey Byron was the victim of two opposite of life and death. currents in the public feeling-one un- We propose to methodise our paper duly exalting, and the other unduly de- under the following outlines:-We would, pressing, his name, both of which have first, inquire into Byron's purpose; senow so far subsided, that we can judge condly, into the relation in which he has of him out of the immediate or overbear-stood to his age, and the influence he ing influence of either. And, in fine, as has exerted over it; thirdly, into the leadintimated already, no attempt has been ing features of his artistic execution; made, since his death, either to collect fourthly, speak of the materials on which the scattered flowers of former fugitive his genius fed; fifthly, glance at the more criticism, to be bound in one chaplet characteristic of his works; and, sixthly, round his pale and noble brow, or to try to settle his rank as a poet. We wreath for it fresh and independent would first ask at Byron the simple queslaurels. Moore's life is a long apology for tion, "What do you mean?" A simple his memory, such as a partial friend question truly, but significant as well, might be expected to make to a public and not always very easy to answer. then partial, and unwilling to be con- is always, however, our duty to ask it, victed of misplaced idolatry. Macaulay's and we have, in general, a right surely to critique is an elegant fasciculus of all the expect a reply. If a man come and make fine things which it had occurred to him us a speech, we are entitled to understand might be said on such a theme-exhibits, his language as well as to see his object. besides, the coarse current of Byron's life If a man administer to us a reproof, or VOL. I.-E It salute us with a sudden blow, we have the mere wringings of his heart. Who a double right to turn round and ask, can doubt that his brow, the index of "Why?" Nay, if a man come profess- the soul, darkened as he wrote that fearing to utter an oracular deliverance, even ful curse, the burden of which is "Forin this case we expect some glimmer of giveness?" The paper on which was definite meaning and object; and, if glim- written his farewell to Lady Byron is mer there be none, we are justified in still extant, and it is all blurred and concluding, that neither has there been blotted with his tears. His poem enany oracle. "Oracles speak:" oracles titled "The Dream" is as sincere as if it should also shine. Now, in Byron's case, had been penned in blood. And was he we have a man coming forward to utter not sincere in sleep, when he ground his speeches, to administer reproofs, to smite teeth to pieces in gnashing them? But the public on both cheeks-in the atti- his sincerity was not of that profound, tude of an accuser, impeaching man-of constant, and consistent kind which dea blasphemer, attacking God-of a pro- serves the stronger name of earnestness. phet-expressing himself, moreover, with It did not answer to the best description the clearness and the certainty of profound in poetry of the progress of such a spirit, and dogmatic conviction; and we have which goes on thus more than a threefold right to in"Like to the Pontick sea, quire, What is your drift? what would Whose icy current and compulsive course you have us to believe, or what to do? Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps right on Now here, precisely, we think, is Byron's To the Propontick and the Hellespont." fatal defect. He has no such clear, dis- It was a sincerity such as the falsest and tinct, and overpowering object, as were the most hollow of men must express worthy of securing, or as has secured, the when stung to the quick; for hath not complete concentration of his splendid he, as well as a Jew, "eyes, hands, orpowers. His object! what is it? Not gans, dimensions, senses, affections, pasto preach the duty of universal despair, sions? Is he not fed with the same or to inculcate the propriety of an "act food, and hurt by the same weapons? If of universal, simultaneous suicide;" else, you prick him, does he not bleed? If why did he not, first, set the example him- you tickle him, does he not laugh? If self, and from "Leucadia's rock," which "still o'erlooks the wave," or Etna's crater, precipitate himself, as a signal for the species to follow and why, second, did he profess such trust in schemes of political amelioration, and die in the act of leading on a revolutionary war? Not to teach, nor yet to impugn any system of religion: for, if one thing be more certain about him than another, it is, that he had no settled convictions on such subjects at all, and was only beginning to entertain a desire toward forming them when the "great teacher," Death, arrived. Nor was his purpose merely to display his own powers and passions in imposing aspects. Much of this desire, indeed, By gazing at its own exceeding light.” mingled with his ambition, but he was But the plain prose and English of it lay not altogether a vain attitudiniser. There in his union of intensity of power with is sterling truth in his taste and style of the want of intensity of purpose. He writing there is sincerity in his anguish was neither one thing nor yet another. -and his little pieces, particularly, are Life with him was neither, on the one you poison him, does he not die? And kind Had struck, methought, his eagle spirit blind |