'Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A' plump and strapping, in their teens;
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,

For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!'

"His bonnie Jean must have been sorely perplexed-but she was familiar with all his moods, and like a good wife left him to his cogitations. It is 'all made out of the builder's brain;' for the story that suggested it is no story at all, the dull lie of a drunkard dotard. From the poet's imagination it came forth a perfect poem, impregnated with the native spirit of Scottish superstition. Few or none of our old traditionary tales of witches are very appalling-they had not their origin in the depths of the people's heartthere is a meanness in their mysteries-the ludicrous mixes with the horrible much matter there is for the poetical, and more perhaps for the picturesque-but the pathetic is seldom found there—and never-for Shakspeare we fear was not a Scotsman-the sublime. Let no man therefore find fault with 'Tam o' Shanter,' because it strikes not a deeper chord. It strikes a chord that twangs strangely, and we know not well what it means. To vulgar eyes, too, were such unaccountable on-goings most often revealed of old, such seers were generally doited or dazed-half-born idiots or neerdoweels in drink. Had Milton's Satan shown his face in Scotland, folk either would not have known him, or thought him mad. The devil is much indebted to Burns for having raised his character without impairing his individuality."

One sample more from a criticism almost as extraordinary and entertaining as the poem itself:

"The question is what business? Was it a ball given on the anniversary of the Fall?

"There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast,;

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large

To gie them music was his charge :'

and pray who is to pay the piper? We fear that young witch Nannie! For Satan glower'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main :'

and this may be the nuptial night of the Prince-for that tyke is he-of the Fallen Angels!

"How was Tam able to stand the sight,' glorious and heroic' as he was, of the open presses?

"Coffins stood round like open presses,

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;

And by some devilish cantraip slight,

Each in its cauld hand held a light.'

Because, show a man some sight that is altogether miraculously dreadful, and he either faints or feels no fear. Or say rather, let a man stand the first glower at it, and he will make comparatively light of the details. There was Auld Nick himself, there was no mistaking him, and there

were

"Wither'd beldams, auld and droil,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping an' flinging-'

to such a dancing what cared Tam who held the candles?
villed, bewarlocked and bewitched, and therefore

'Able

To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns ;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape,

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ;
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled ;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft.'

He was bede

This collection has all the effect of a selection. The bodies were not placed there; but following each other's heels, they stretched themselves out of their own accord upon the haly table. They had received a summons to the festivals, which murderer and murdered must obey. But mind ye, Tam could not see what you see. Who told him that that garter had strangled a babe? That that was a parricide's knife? Nobody-and that is a flaw. For Tam looks with his bodily eyes only, and can know only what they show him; but Burns knew it, and believed Tam knew it too; and we know it for Burns tell us, and we believe Tam as wise as ourselves; for we turn Tam-the poet himself being the only real warlock of them all.

"You know why that haly table is so pleasant to the apples of all those evil eyes? They feed upon the dead, not merely because they love wickedness, but because they inspire it into the quick. Who ever murdered his father but at the instigation of that 'towzie tyke, black, grim and large?' Who but for him ever strangled her new-born child? Scimitars and tomahawks! Why, such weapons never were in use in Scotland. True. But they have long been in use in the wilderness of the western world, and among the orient cities of Mahoun, and his empire extends to the uttermost parts of the earth."

More words from us would be vain: therefore we close with two short passages from the tear-drawing, the joy-giving Essay. "We never think of the closing years of Burns's life without feeling what not many seem to have felt, that much more of their unhappiness is to be attributed to the mistaken notion he had unfortunately taken up, of there being something degrading in genius in writing

for money, than perhaps to all other causes put together, however unsuitable that may have been to a poet. By persisting in a line of conduct pursuant to that persuasion, he kept himself in perpetual poverty; and though it is not possible to blame him severely for such a fault, originating as it did in the generous enthusiasm of the poetical character, a most serious fault it was, and its consequences were most lamentable." "All the poetry, by which he was suddenly made so famous, had been written, as you know, without the thought of money having so much as flitted across his mind. The delight of embodying in verse the visions of his inspired fancy-of. awakening the sympathies of the few rustic auditors in his own narrow circle, whose hearts he well knew throbbed with the same emotions that are dearest to humanity all over the wide world—that had been at first all in all to him-the young poet exulting in his power and in the proof of his power-till as the assurance of his soul in its divine endowment waxed stronger and stronger, he beheld his country's muse with the holly-wreath in her hand, and bowed his head to receive the everlasting halo." These and other fragmentary sentences we have thrown into our larger type, knowing that they are worthy of being read in letters of gold; but at the same time knowing that they will be studied in whatever shape and size by many thousands and in many lands, heralding the ploughman bard with new acclamations, and embalming with sweetest incense his genius and character.

ART. XIV. The Mountains and Lakes of Switzerland, with Descriptive Sketches of other Parts of the Continent. By MRS. BRAY. 3 vols. London: Longman.

MRS. BRAV, the well-known author of a number of works, her husband, the worthy vicar of Tavistock, and her nephew, Mr. A. Kempe, made a continental tour in the summer of 1839. From London they proceeded to Ostend, the untravelled parson suffering dreadfully from sea-sickness, although his wife weathered the storm like an old sailor. From Ostend they made their way by railroad to Brussels, thence by diligence to Strasburg, where hiring a voiturier, they were conveyed through Switzerland, from Kehl, descending the Rhine. An excursion into Holland added to their tour.

Had any one asked us what we were to expect from such a summer journey, we should have said-Nothing that has not been told and written a thousand times before; and in one sense we would have been in the right; for as to the description of scenes and localities so often admired, what can be seen or fancied that has a particle of novelty in it? If Mrs. Bray had therefore asked us, would it be worth while for her to work up her memoranda into a series of letters, addressed to her brother, with the view of afterwards pub

lishing them, we should have said, decidedly, No, or that however interesting her descriptions might be to a family circle, or to her own relations and immediate friends, the world would not take them in such a kindly mood, especially when a great portion of the matter consists of egotistical gossip, domestic affairs, and mere family feelings and concerns. But in saying-No, we should have spoken rashly; for although we have sometimes yawned over the tedious and oft-recurring accounts of personal discomforts, and of my "husband's" or my "nephew's" proceedings, there is yet such a thorough honesty in the descriptions, such a confiding friendship in the sentiments, as if all who can or will read the work were on familiar terms with the writer, and such a piquancy in the egotism, even in the twaddle, that one not only is pleased with the book, but likes. the author of it the more, the further that he reads. The authors, we should have said; for the vicar's journal has contributed very considerably to the production, under the title of "First Impressions of a Sexagenarian," which are interspersed, these being not unworthy of his şex and of his station. Even in the lady's part of the work, however, there are solid things, as well as much that is lively, and sometimes what is new. Her antiquarianism is racy and rich; her criticisms are independent, although perhaps at times singular; while both husband and wife are distinctly seen and developed in what they say and think, the best of all evidences of the honesty and naïve simplicity of the parties; things always agreeable and worth looking upon. And then the parties are so thoroughly English, loving everything that is home-bred and that reminds them of home, and cherishing such an aversion of all that is foreign if their habitual modes are opposed or opinions departed from, that, whether it be mustachios or Catholic ceremonies, they must speak

out.

There are

There is thus reality in the work, as well as matter. many proofs of intelligence, of varied reading, of serious reflection, and on the part of the vicar, of classical learning. And that the writers think for themselves is abundantly shewn by the frequent departure from the rapture and enthusiasm which more commonplace and less competent tourists would indulge in. And be the singularity well or ill-founded, it is never affected. Mrs. Bray and the Sexagenarian are both too self-satisfied to be that.

We now pluck out a variety of specimens, beginning with some of the good-humoured and exceedingly self-complacent gossiping of the lady. The voyage to Ostend will furnish us with the first, during which good Mr. Bray was sorely prostrated :

And now be

"I was compelled to find a seat on one of the benches. gan what may truly be called the horrors of the passage. One after the other, every passenger on board, excepting a very few among the gentle-.

men, and myself amongst the ladies, became sick. Not only were the berths and sofas in the several cabins filled, but even the floors of those apartments were covered with the sick. My nephew, on first feeling ill, betook himself to his berth. My husband remained where he was, sitting by my side on the fixed bench on deck, but in such a state as to render all attempts on my part to give him the least assistance perfectly useless. lle was so ill, he seemed more dead than alive, and to be quite indifferent to the spray of the sea, which, as the weather grew worse towards sun-down, increased upon us, and came in such showers, that had not the captain, who complimented me on being the best sailor he had amongst the passengers, lent me a watch-coat, as thick and rough as a bear's hide, I must have been wet through. But for the illness of Mr. Bray, I should, notwithstanding all this, have enjoyed the closing in of the day, amid such a wild waste of waters, a scene of such utter desolation as that which presented itself on every side when we lost sight of land. But his illness made me wish for nothing but the port at Ostend; for though I wrapped him up, and chafed his hands, he continued as cold as death; and, I fancied, to a certain extent, stupefied; for, although he every now and then raised his head, as well as he could, and looked at so fine a sight as that presented, by the waves (as they rolled on dashing themselves against the sides of the steamer, in a sheet of boiling foam, and, receding, left us in the very hollow they had made), yet he seemed scarcely excited by the spectacle; and only some slight remark, uttered in so feeble a tone I could scarcely hear it, escaped his lips."

Let us next have a morsel of the Vicar's experience as communicated by his own pleasant pen. His sleepings and beddings concerned him considerably :-

"My passport describes me truly as six pieds Anglais de taille: now most of the beds I have been in on the Continent are, I believe, an inch or two short of it. It is supposed that, by the relaxation of the nerves and sinews, we measure more asleep than when awake; judge, therefore, how little I could be at ease in a bed of such dimensions. The only chance of lying at my full length was by putting myself in a diagonal direction. It is true that, by the elevation of the bolster and a large square pillow, the body may be placed in a kind of recumbent posture, as that of Theseus in the Elgin marbles; but it is not to be expected that every Englishman will take lessons of a French posture-master, or that, if he did, his body would be so supple as that of his neighbour's. As thus I lay, I could only compare myself to an Egyptiam figure cut in granite, equally stiff and immoveable. The bed at Ostend, indeed, was more like an Egyptian sarcophagus than it was like what we call a bed in England; and the super-structure had no small resemblance to a pyramid, though by no means of so durable a nature. My wife says that, when she first visited France, she happened to seat herself upon one of the curtains, and drew down upon her head the pole, canopy, and all together. In a posture less easy than that of an armed Templar, my toes were at right angles with my heels; and as this is the attitude in which I am sometimes forced to place myself, in order to get rid of the cramp, it reminded me but too frequently (did I but occasionally forget it) of my