a journey take a glass for the body's sake; at setting out take another for courage sake." At length we began our march, each of our Laplanders with his load of baggage, one of them taking the lead, and the rest following one by one in a single file. This was the first time, during our whole journey, that we had travelled in this manner, and we were wonderfully delighted with the singular appearance which our caravan made. We kept in the rear of the line of march, in order that we might see that no part of our baggage was dropped or lost, and moreover to observe the conduct of those that went before. The pleasure we had in reviewing this procession was destroyed by the intolerable stench which these filthy Laplanders left behind them, when they began to perspire: it was beyond what I am able to describe; and were I ever so equal to the task, I am sure the reader would not thank me for the perusal of so ill-savoured a composition.

"The degree of heat was 29 in the shade, and 45 in the sun. The ground burned our feet; and the few shrubs we met with in our way afforded us little or no shelter. We were almost suffocated with heat: and to add to our sufferings, we were under the necessity of wearing a dress of thick woollen cloth, as a security from the insecte, and to cover our faces with a veil, which in a great measure prevented our drawing breath. This extraordinary degree of heat soon operated most powerfully upon our Laplanders, who had already swallowed three glasses of brandy each. They laid themselves down to rest at every short distance, and were calling out every moment for more brandy. We soon discovered

that we had no longer to do with the Finlanders, who are a sober, robust, and hardy race of people; we had now to deal with a set of wretches, who cared only for fermented liquors, and were unwilling to work. In this manner we went on for six miles from the beginning of our journey, in which distance they stopped to take rest about fifty times, and as many times each of them asked for brandy. If we had not come to the resolution to deny them when they asked, we should have made no progress that day. They were dying with thirst, and the first spring they came to they dipped their heads in like so many pigs, and drank full as large draughts. We were at very considerable trouble throughout the whole of this journey, both in making our Laplanders go on, and in keeping them from straggling. When one tumbled down, the whole line of march was stopped; when the word halt was given, all the caravan threw itself on the ground, and it was not without much entreaty that we could get the individuals of it to raise themselves again on their legs. We were nearly six hours in going six miles; at length we reached the borders of a small lake called Kevijervi, on the right of which a chain of mountains extends itself, and forms the boundarics of Finmark, or Norwegian Lapland, and Swedish Lapland. On the borders of this lake we found two boats, which were in a most shattered condition, full of leaks, with oars that were split, and of unequal lengths. These boats were built by the Laplanders, and left in the place mentioned, buried in snow, during the winter, and exposed to all weathers. Such were the boats in which we were now to cross this lake, about a mile over,

and

and the only conveyance that could possibly be procured for the purpose. Two Laplanders rowed, and two more scooped out the water, which flowed in at several leaks as fast as they could throw it out; and had they ceased baling, the boats would have filled in a short space of time, and we should all have gone to the bottom. Yet, notwithstanding that we were all placed in this perilous situation, we observed, not without great indignation, that our Lapland rowers plied their oars, and pulled as leisurely, and with as much phlegmatic calmness, as if there had not been the least occasion for their exertion."

At length, after encountering many perils and difficulties, which he seems to have surmounted with equal presence of mind and perseverance, Mr. Acerbi arrived at the great object of his pains and research, the North Cape, which he thus describes in a strain of eloquence almost worthy of the sublimity of the awful scene which seems so forcibly to have affected him, and with which we shall close our account of this very interesting work, satisfied that, however copious we may have been in our extracts, they will well repay our reader for his trouble in perusing them, by the information and amusement they will have afforded on subjects so little known to the Englishman, or only known from the comparatively meagre descriptions of Schoeffer, Regnard, or Conзett.

"The North Cape is an enormous rock, which, projecting far into the ocean, and being exposed to all the fury of the waves, and the outrage of tempests, crumbles every year more and more into ruins. Here every thing is solitary, every thing

2

is steril, every thing sad and despondent. The shadowy forest no longer adorns the brow of the mountain; the singing of the birds, which enlivened even the woods of Lapland, is no longer heard in this scene of desolation; the ruggedness of the dark gray rock is not covered by a single shrub; the only music is the hoarse murmuring of the waves ever and anon renewing their assaults on the huge masses that oppose them. The northern sun creeping at midnight at the distance of five diameters along the horizon, and the immeasurable ocean in apparent contact with the skies, form the grand outlines in the sublime picture presented to the astonished spectator. The incessant cares and pursuits of anxious mortals are recollected as a dream; the various forms and energies of animated nature are forgotten; and the earth is contemplated only in its elements, and as consti tuting a part of the solar system."

The Pleasures of Hope, with other Poems. By Thos. Campbell, Esq. 7th edition, 4to.

ON

N the merits of the Pleasures of Hope, public opinion has long since decided; and, were we to enter into a critical examination of that work, we should only acquiesce in a judgment which has assigned to it an exalted rank in the scale of English poetry. Stronger marks of poetic genius, or a greater variety of powers, have seldom been displayed in any poem. Indeed, considering this as a first production of a youthful bard, we certainly know of none in which the features of excellence are as strikingly combined. It is with real satisfaction we announce to our readers, that the

poems

poems now published along with the Pleasures of Hope, will all sustain, and some of them even add to, the author's former reputation. The narrowness of our limits unfortunately prevents us from conveying any, save a very imperfect, idea of their respective merits.

In the "Lines written on vifiting a Scene in Argyleshire," the melancholy feelings excited by contemplating the ravages of time on such a spot, are beautifully delineated. The second stanza is particularly happy, and marked by the characteristic traits of genius. The author is describing the now deserted bower, where the home of his forefathers stood.

with a performance which would claim an honourable station among the productions of the great master of defcriptive poetry.

"The Beech Tree's Petition," which immediately follows, affords, by contrast, a striking illustration of the author's variety of powers. It is simple and beautiful.

The different effects of music and painting, in reviving the memory of departed friends, are described with equal truth and pathos in the "Stanzas on Painting." We are inclined to think, however, that the author has amplified too much in the latter parts; and, though exhibiting many poetical beauties, has failed to heighten the force of the preceding passages.

"The Soldier's Dream," and "The German Drinking Song," we lection. Surrounded as they are here should have praised in any other colby superior attractions, we can only notice them.

It is impossible to read "the Exile of Erin," without acknowledging the author's powerful command over the affections. The remembrance of former days of happiness and endearment, rushing on the memory. of a forlorn exile, is pictured in a manner that would awaken sympathy in the coldest bosom. And the poem admirably concludes with this glowing effusion of amor patriæ:

Yet all its sad recollection suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can

draw:

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavournen Erin-go-braugh*!

To communicate to our readers a just conception of "The Battle of Hohenlinden," we should be com

pelled to copy the whole poem. It conveys, in grand and fiery language, the sublimest circumstances of a modern battle. The scene itself seems to pass before our eyes in reading the two incomparable stanzas.

Tis morn! but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens !-on ye brave! That rush to glory, or the grave, Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry.

Highly as we regard the several excellencies of the foregoing poems, we cannot but acknowledge that "Lochiel's Warning" rises superior to them all. And chiefly, with respect to it, do we severely feel the restraint imposed upon us by our limits. It is not doing it justice to praise it in general terms. A poem of so rare a merit has higher pretensions, and lays claim to that admira. tion which can only result from the detailed exposition of its various beauties; and we believe we are only anticipating the decision of the public when we say, that the bard of Gray has at length, perhaps, found

a rival.

The sublimity of the following passage, in which the wizard, taunted by Lochiel for dissuading him from venturing to the field of Culloden, foretels his danger, will en-. able every reader to judge for him

self.

more

more poetical account of the second sight than has been ever conceived in prose or poetry, when the gifted seer exclaims,

'Tis the sun-set of life gives me mystical lore,

And coming events cast their shadows before.

On the whole, these Poems are the productions of a very extraordinary young man. And, to use a phrase of the master-critic of our age, "If they be not poetry, we know not where poetry may be found."

CONTENTS.