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In looking back upon the opinions of Chatterton's contemporaries, we cannot help referring to those expressed by the literary giant of those days, Dr. Samuel Johnson. In his wholesome horror of precocious genius and juvenile prodigies, Johnson had ventured to declare his unmitigated contempt for the Bristol poet. "Don't talk to me of the powers of a vulgar, uneducated stripling,' he said to Boswell; "no man can coin guineas but in proportion as he has gold." Yet, when prevailed upon to look into the volume, he retracted his opinion in language equally characteristic: "This is the most extraordinary young man that has encountered my knowledge. It is wonderful how the whelp has written such things."

It is not our province to write a biography of Chatterton, or to linger on the "last scene of all, that ended that strange eventful history." It is enough to say that, having perished by his own hands, his corpse was

interred, with scanty honors, in the pauper burial-ground in Shoe-lane. Mr. Chalmers, in his notice of Chatterton, in the Biographical Dictionary, remarks, that "there could not be a more decisive proof of the little regard he attracted in London, than the secrecy and silence that accompanied his death. This event, although so extraordinary-for young suicides are surely not common-is not even mentioned in any shape in the Gentleman's Magazine, the Annual Register, the Saint James' or London Chronicle, nor in any of the respectable publications of the day." Notwithstanding the indifference of contemporary journalists, and the silence of the "respectable publications," the life and death of Thomas Chatterton, his career of misfortune, and death of ignominy, have since become world-celebrated, and the creator of Rowley is ranked with names that the world will not willingly let die.

From Blackwood's Magazine.

THE COVENANTERS' NIGHT-HYMN.

BY DELTA.

of worshipping God according to the dictates of conscience. They sincerely believed that the principles which they maintained were right; and their adherence to these with unalterable constancy, through good report and through bad report; in the hour of privation and suffering, of danger and death; in the silence of the prison-cell, not less than in the excitement of the battle-field; by the bloodstained hearth, on the scaffold, and at the stake-forms a noble chapter in the history of the human mind--of man as an accountable creature.

MAKING all allowances for the many over-, nobling arts of architecture, sculpture, and colored pictures, nay, often one-sided state- painting, as adjuncts of idol-worship--still it ments of such apologetic chroniclers as Knox, is to be remembered, that the aggression Melville, Calderwood, and Row, it is yet emanated not from them; and that the rights difficult to divest the mind of a strong leaning they contended for were the most sacred and towards the old Presbyterians and champi-invaluable that man can possess the freedom ons of the Covenant-probably because we believe them to have been sincere, and know them to have been persecuted and oppressed. Nevertheless, the liking is as often allied to sympathy as to approbation; for a sifting of motives exhibits, in but too many instances, a sad commixture of the chaff of selfishness with the grain of principle-an exhibition of the over and over again played game, by which the gullible many are made the tools of the crafty and designing few. Be it allowed that, both in their preachings from the pulpit and their teachings example, the Covenanters frequently proceeded more in the spirit of fanaticism than of sober religious feeling; and that, in their antagonistic ardor, they did not hesitate to carry the persecutions of which they themselves so justly complained into the camp of the adversarysacrificing in their mistaken zeal even the en

Be it remembered, also, that these religious persecutions were not mere things of a day, but were continued through at least three entire generations. They extended from the accession of James VI. to the English throne, (testibus the rhymes of Sir David Lyndsay, and the classic prose of Buchanan,) down to

the Revolution of 1688-almost a century, during which many thousands tyrannically perished, without in the least degree loosening that tenacity of purpose, or subduing that perfervidum ingenium, which, according to Thuanus, have been national characteristics.

As in almost all similar cases, the cause of the Covenanters, so strenuously and unflinchingly maintained, ultimately resulted in the victory of Protestantism-that victory, the fruits of which we have seemed of late years so readily inclined to throw away; and, in its rural districts more especially, of nothing are the people more justly proud than

"the tales

Of persecution and the Covenant, Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour." So says Wordsworth. These traditions have been emblazoned by the pens of Scott, M'Crie, Galt, Hogg, Wilson, Grahame, and Pollok, and by the pencils of Wilkie, Harvey and Duncan, each regarding them with the eye of his peculiar genius.

In reference to the following stanzas, it should be remembered that, during the holding of their conventicles, which frequently, in the more troublous times, took place amid mountain solitudes, and during the night, a sentinel was stationed on some commanding height in the neighborhood, to give warning of the approach of danger.

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BY MARTIN F. TUPPER, AUTHOR OF "PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY," ETC.

WHOEVER I am, wherever my lot,

Whatever I happen to be,

Contentment and Duty shall hallow the spot
That Providence orders for me;

No covetous straining and striving to gain

One feverish step in advance

I know my own place, and you tempt me in vain To hazard a change and a chance!

I care for no riches that are not my right,

No honor that is not my due;

But stand in my station, by day or by night,
The will of my Master to do:
He lent me my lot, be it humble or high,
And set me my business here,

And whether I live in His service, or die,
My heart shall be found in my sphere!

If wealthy, I stand as the steward of my King,
If poor, as the friend of my Lord,

If feeble, my prayers and my praises I bring,
If stalwart, my pen or my sword;

If wisdom be mine, I will cherish His gift,
If simpleness, bask in His love,

If sorrow, His hope shall my spirit uplift,
If joy, I will throne it above!

The good that it pleases my God to bestow, I gratefully gather and prize;

The evil-it can be no evil, I know,

But only a good in disguise;

And whether my station be lowly or great,
No duty can ever be mean,
The factory-cripple is fixed in his fate
As well as a King or a Queen!

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If "better" were better indeed, and not " worse,"
I might go ahead with the rest,

But many a gain and a joy is a curse,
And many a grief for the best:

No!-duties are all the "advantage" I use;

I pine not for praise or for pelf,

And as to ambition, I care not to choose
My better or worse for myself!

I will not, I dare not, I cannot !—I stand
Where God has ordained me to be,
An honest mechanic--or lord in the land-
He fitted my calling for me:
Whatever my state, be it weak, be it strong,
With honor, or sweat, on my face,

This, this is my glory, my strength, and my song,
I stand, like a star, in MY PLACE.

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From Tait's Magazine.

POEMS BY THOMAS AIRD.

BY GEORGE GILFILLAN.

WE have rarely felt more at a loss than in criticising this volume of genuine and transcendent poetry; because, in the first place, almost all the enthusiastic minds of Scotland are long and intimately acquainted with a great part of its contents; and yet, in the second place, the general mind of the country knows little, and is disposed to believe less, of the merit, power, originality, and genius of the author. In such a case, it becomes somewhat difficult to adjust our phrases of commendation so as not to offend some party, either by what seems depreciation or by exaggeration.

Mr. Aird's most striking qualities are originality, truth to nature, richness of imagery, and power of language. He possesses an eye of his own, a forging mint of his own, a spirit and a style of his own. You never trace him in the track of any other author. He is no echo, but a native voice. He has been most minute in his observations of nature; and not Thomson in his "Seasons," nor Cowper in his "Task," has given more faithful, literal, yet ideal transcripts of scenery. His "Summer's Day," his "Winter's Day," and his "Mother's Blessing," remind you of first-rate daguerrotypes; every feature of the sly old dame's expressive countenance is caught, and caught with perfect ease and mastery. Mr. Aird, along with a poet's love, retains a boy's love for nature. knows more birds' nests than any boy in Dumfries, and prizes the fascination which dwells in a bush of broom or furze, laden with its golden crop. Notwithstanding the slight snow which years have shed upon his head, his heart is all burning with boyhood; his tastes, enthusiasms, and joys, are all young. The scenery of Scotland has never had a more devoted worshipper, a keener observer, or a more faithful describer. There are passages, both in in his Poems and in his "Old Bachelor," which rank with such descriptions as that in "Halloween" of the burnie, in perfect correctness, blended with ideal beauty, or with the finer pictures in the Waverley Novels.

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Besides this power of minute, knotty, and picturesque description, Mr. Aird has a higher and rarer gift, that of imaginative combination. We find this creative quality best exhibited in his "Devil's Dream on Mount Aksbeck," his "Demoniac," and his "Nebuchadnezzar." Than the first of these, the English language possesses no more unique, sustained, and singular flight of imagination. So such critics as Wilson, Delta, De Quincey, and Samuel Brown, have agreed. We shall never forget the pleasure we had and gave, in introducing this marvellous poem, at different times, to the two last mentioned. "That man should write poetry," was De Quincey's emphatic comment. There are three lines in it, any one of which is enough to make the poem immortal. One is the picture of the sky of hell:

"Till, like a red bewildered map, the sky was scribbled o'er."

The second is:

"The silent magnanimity of Nature and her God." The third:

"And thou shalt summer high in bliss upon the hills of God."

though far inferior in original genius, when A poet more popular than Mr. Aird, pressed recently with the "Dream," if it was not a powerful poem, asked, "But where is 'Mount Aksbeck?' And where, Mr. A. is Coleridge's Silent Sea?' and where the Wood of his Hermit? and where Bunyan's us where 'Mount Prejudice' is ?" 'Mount Marvel?' Perhaps, too, you can tell

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The "Demoniac" is another beautiful, in parts powerful, and, throughout, melting ballad. What can be finer than the following description of the entrance of the Demon

into his victim?

"The Fiend! the Fiend! hush,' Herman cried, 'he left me here at noon,

Hungry and sick among the brakes, and comes he then so soon?'

Up from the shores of the Dead Sea came a dull | gotten his " Belshazzar," or his "Mother's booming sound;

The leaves shook on the trees; thin winds went wailing all around.

Then laughter shook the sullen air. To reach his mother's hand

The young man grasped, but back was thrown convulsed upon the sand.

No time was there for Miriam's love. He rose; a smothered gleam

Was on his brow; with fierce motes rolled his eye's distempered beam.

He smiled-'twas as the lightning of a hope about to die

Grave?" No one can read this last without tears. Since Cowper's "Mother's Picture,' nothing so pathetic has been written in rhyme.

Having mentioned Cowper, we may take this opportunity of apprising the public that an ardent admirer of his genius and Christian character is organizing a subscription for the erection of a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey. We hail the motion with gladness. So long as he has no memo

For ever from the furrowed brows of Hell's eter-rial there, it is a vital blank in that magnifinity.

Like sun-warmed snakes, rose on his head a storm
of golden hair,
Tangled; and thus on Miriam fell hot breathings
of despair-
'Perish the breasts that gave me milk; yea, in
thy mouldering heart

Good thrifty roots I'll plant, to stay, next time, my
hunger's smart.

Red-veined derived apples I shall eat with savage haste,

cent pile. No name nearly so great and good is there omitted. We call upon every reader of the "Task" to come forward in this cause. It is the cause of all his admirers; and who, except Charles Dickens, is not? We happen to know that the movement has attracted the peculiar interest, and is under the special patronage, of William Wordsworth. Mr. Adam White, of the British Museum, Bloomsbury, London, will

And see thy life-blood blushing through, and glory supply all other information required.*

in the taste.' "

Where can this amiable poet have overheard and retained, as he has here reproduced, the red Alphabet of Hell? Why the "Devil's Dream" has not been generally popular, can be easily explained. It is guarded and fenced from common apprehension and appreciation by the thick burs of beauty and grandeur which surround it. It is inscrutable as an elf-knot-mysterious as a meteoric stone. It bears for inscription"to those whom it may concern." But why "Nebuchadnezzar" has not gained a wider acceptance we cannot understand. It has, besides its peculiar originality, all the externals of a popular poem. It is clear as crystal, and, as crystal, faultless. It has an interesting story, a burnished classical polish; and, since Byron's "Corsair," or "Lara," the heroic rhyme never was more gracefully handled, nor ever moved to more heroic sentiment. One sickens to absolute nausea at the thought of the popularity of Silent Love"-of many of Mrs. Hemans' poemsof L. E. L.'s musical maudlin, while such manly and powerful strains as Dr. Croly's Cataline," Browning's "Paracelsus," and Aird's "Nebuchadnezzar," are overgrown by the rank nettles of neglect.

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Besides these, Mr. Aird has written certain poems-some longer and some shorter-of great merit. Among the former are, "The Captive of Fez," "Othuriel," the Christian Bride;" and, among the latter, who has for

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To return to Mr. Aird-he has, in this present edition, adventured a tragedy entitled the "House of Wold." It is certainly a very bold, peculiar, and powerful effort. The characters and incidents are amazingly numerous and diversified; rich and poetical passages are not so much inserted as rained down from a profound source. Fate sits visibly holding all the reins of the funeral car; and, as if her silent presence were not enough, a singular being, named Afra, appears ever and anon, like a bird of night, singing of approaching doom, and gives a dark choral unity to the play. The canvas chosen is of the broadest, and the execution of the boldest. Mr. Aird has had in his eye the great tragedy of " Lear," where the wide stream of the passion sucks into itself a

*We saw, when in London the other day, a letter of Mr. Dickens to the gentleman referred to, refusing to contribute to this object-1st, because there were many greater than Cowper to whom no monuments had been erected; and 2ndly, because he could countenance no such proposal as long as the public were not gratuitously admitted to the Abbey. Now, this is very contemptible, because, in the first place, the public are gratuitously admitted to the Poet's Corand, secondly, who are the poets excluded greater ner, where, of course, the monument would be placed; than Cowper, except Coleridge and Byron? And we all know why Byron has no place. No matter. The "Task" will outlive the "Haunted Man." Dickens

is but a "Cricket on the Hearth." Cowper was an Eagle of God, and his memory shall be cherished, and his poems read, after the "Pickwick Papers" are forgotten.

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