Lawson and Daniel Wilson might be added | to this category. In a recent number of the Witness we noticed a flourish of trumpets, apropos of St. Bernard's Crescent and its origin. It stated that the avenue of elms, which Wilkie had rendered illustrious by admiring, and Raeburn by encasing in a palisade of stone columns, had renewed its glory by having become the abode of literary genius-no less illustrious a personage than Mr. Leitch Ritchie, author of Schinderhannes, the Robber of the Rhine," having dignified it with his local habitation and his name; whilst Miss Rigby, whose particular literary distinctions we lamentably forget at this moment, and Colonel Mitchell, the translator of "Wallenstein," conspired, along with the aforesaid author of the "Magician," to form a literary coruscation on the banks of the Water of Leith. There is somehow a literary Will o' the Wisp atmosphere about the morass of St. Bernard's Crescent. Many others of the minor literati live about the spot-in Carlton street, Danube street, and Ann street, and may be seen imbibing inspiration at the Temple of Health, in the adjoining valley by daylight any of these holiday mornings, along with the cream of the morning papers. It is no disparagement to "the party" we have just mentioned, that it is led off by a lord. Yet we must own that the facility of the honorable author of "Leaves from a Journal," and "Gleams of Thought," is more fatal than that of octosyllabic verse with which every one is familiar. Lord Robertson is no longer "a double-barrelled gun-one barrel charged with law and another charged with fun-" for one of his barrels is now charged with matter far more explosive. How his lordship, with Judge Blackmore's "Farewell to the Muse" before his eyes, has adventured up the rugged steep of Parnassus, is more than we can tell. His lordship is a poet of "larger growth," and has essayed a sort of agricultural explanation of the phenome non "Myself I dare not call a poet sown By Nature's hand; or if there be a germ In the train of the senator follow other members of the College of Justice-Professor Ayton, with his "Lays of the Cavaliers," and Theodore Martin, or, as he is better known, Bon Gualtier, another balladist, who give a fruitful promise of the tribe. Bon Gualtier's ballads are far more of the troubadour cast than those of his brother bard, who nevertheless is alleged to have borrowed from him "The Great Glenmutchkin," a story of the Railway Mania, which, in its day, was a lucky hit; but the author has not yet gone and done the like again. Ayton's ballads are eminently descriptive of the passing events and sensations of a point of history, wound up with a piece of moralizing, generally of a transcendental character, and, like a rocket or a comet, leaving the trail of poetic light mostly in the tail, or (technically) "the tag" of the piece. Not so Martin; his ballads are of a uniform equability throughout, and betray the hand of an adept in the joyous science; although destroyed by a levity which might do for Punch, and which, from other efforts of the author's extant, we are persuaded has less affinity to his true poetic vein than Ayton's pathos has to his style. This class of writers most fitly ushers in the ladies, and we are glad to place them under the escort of the cavaliers. Mrs. Johnstone, Mrs. Crowe, Mrs. J. R. Stoddart, Miss Catherine Sinclair, and Miss Frances Brown, represent the Edinburgh galaxy of female talent at this moment. Not but there are others who might be named, though some, we suspect, had rather not; and indeed their writing anonymously is sufficient cause for not directing the eyes of inquirers their way. The fame of Mrs. Johnstone is long and well established. No female author of the present day has earned a high literary reputation so well, yet borne it so unobtrusively. At present she is not resident in Edinburgh. Mrs. Crowe aspires to be the leader of literary coteries; and unquestionably succeeds. The habitues of the Queen Street Hall attend her; she has all the lions of the den growling round her in their varied and interesting styles. But the authoress of "Susan Hopley," "Lilly Dawson," and, last not least, "The Nightside of Nature," queens it admirably over the zoological group. Sir Walter Scott, we think it is, who avers that all the good ghost stories are unfounded, and the stupid ones only genuine. So far, then, Mrs. Crowe's chance of teaching that "there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy," was but a poor one. She has, however, contrived to tell all the good ghost stories she could, and to sink the stupid ones; so that she has left truth completely at the bottom of the well. No matter-ghost stories are all the better for being a little incredible; and Mrs. Crowe would have but spoiled her book by improving their veracity. Mrs. J. R. Stoddart, the lady of the W. S., has a literary reputation on the strength of a translation-"the Life of Albert Durer "--an artist's love tale, and a fiction of more power than purpose. As for Miss Catherine Sinclair, we really think this lady a most sensible, sedate, and sober genius. No one else could contrive to throw so much brilliant commonplace into a conversation, or to exhibit the fashions and frivolities of life in Edinburgh in a more faithful form. The "serious world," to which she professes more especially to belong, is most unmercifully shown up in more ways than one; but chiefly, unconsciously, in the original remarks and observations that stud the pages of "Modern Accomplishments," Modern Society,' The Journey of Life," &c., &c. Of all her productions we like the descriptive ones the best, as "Hill and Valley," "Scotland and the Scotch," Shetland and the Shetlanders;" and although we know not what Miss Sinclair had to do with the "Lives of the Cæsars," we believe that a high rank in the order of merit must be assigned, with all her faults and absurdities, to a lady who has written so well, and published so much. Miss Frances Brown has not resided long in Edinburgh. Her story, from its peculiarity, is best told in her own words: 99 66 on "I was born," she says, 66 the 16th of January, 1816, at Stranorlar, a small village in the county of Donegal. My father was then, and still continues to be, the postmaster of the village. I was the seventh child in a family of twelve; and my infancy was, I believe, as promising as that of most people. But at the age of eighteen months, not having received the benefit of Jenner's discovery, I had the misfortune to lose my sight by the small-pox, which was then prevalent in our neighborhood. This, however, I do not remember, and indeed recollect very little of my infant years. I never received any regular education, but very early felt the want of it; and the first time I remember to have experienced this feeling strongly, was about the beginning of my seventh year, when I heard our pastor (my parents being members of the Presbyterian Church) preach for the first time. On the occasion alluded to, I was particularly struck by many words in the sermon, which, though in common use, I did not then understand; and from that time adopted a plan for acquiring information on this subject. When a word unintelligible to me happened to reach my ear, I was careful to ask its meaning from any person whom I thought likely to inform me-a habit which was probably troublesome enough to the friends and acquaintances of my childhood: stock of words; and when further advanced in but by this method I soon acquired a considerable life, enlarged it still more by listening attentively to my young brothers and sisters reading over the tasks required at the village school. They were generally obliged to commit to memory a certain portion of the dictionary and English grammar each day; and by hearing them read it aloud, frequently for that purpose, as my memory was sity,) I learned the task much sooner than they, better than theirs, (perhaps rendered so by necesand frequently heard them repeat it. first acquaintance with books was necessarily My formed amongst those which are most common in country villages. Susan Gray, The Negro Servant, The Gentle Shepherd, Mungo Park's Travels,' and, of course, Robinson Crusoe,' were the first of my literary friends; for I often to have taken a strange delight in them, when I heard them read by my relatives, and remember am sure they were not half understood. Books have been always scarce in our remote neighborhocd, and were much more so in my childhood; but the craving for knowledge which then combooks of my own in those days, my only resource menced grew with my growth; and as I had no was borrowing from the acquaintances I had-to some of whom I owe obligations of the kind that will never be forgotten. 6 among "In this way I obtained the reading of many valuable works, though generally old ones; but it was a great day for me when the first of Sir The Heart of Mid-Lothian,' and was lent me by Walter Scott's works fell into my hands. It was a friend whose family were rather better provided with books than most in our neighborhood. "My delight in the work was very great, even then; and I contrived, by means of borrowing, to get acquainted in a very short time with the greater part of the books of its illustrious author; for works of fiction, about this time, occupied all my thoughts. I had a curious mode of impressing on my memory what had been read, namely, lying awake in the silence of the night, and repeating it all over to myself. To that habit I probably owe the extreme tenacity of memory I now possess. But, like all other good things, it had its attendant whilst I never forgot any scrap of knowledge colevil, for I have often thought it curious that, lected, however small, yet the common events of daily life slip from my memory so quickly that I can scarcely find anything again which I have once laid aside. But this misfortune has been useful to me in teaching me habits of order." Commencing with "Baines' History of the French Wars," advancing through "Hume's History of England," and the "Universal History," Miss Brown dates her historical information from her thirteenth year. was succeeded by geography, in regard to which she says: This "In order to acquire a more perfect knowledge of the relative situations of distant places, I some times requested a friend who could trace maps, to|ments that appertain to these genuine naplace my fingers upon some well-known spot, the tional volumes; albeit, the name of Mr. Balsituation of which I had exactly ascertained, and lantyne is more likely to descend to posterity then conduct the finger of the other hand from in connection with another order of art, since the points thus marked to any place on the map whose position I wished to know, at the same he is the principal decorator in stained glass time mentioning the places through which my of the magnificent Houses of Parliament now fingers passed. By this plan, having previously in progress of erection at Westminster. Both known how the cardinal points were placed, I was the "Wallet" and the "Miller" contain enabled to form a tolerably correct idea, not only healthy scraps of poetry, with many of of the boundaries and magnitude of various counwhich the public is otherwise familiar, in tries, but also of the course of rivers and moun"Whistle Binkie" and "Nursery Rhymes;" tain chains." but we question if in pure chrysolite beauty any gem of the Ballantyne diadem, "We ragged laddie" inclusive, equals the author's latest and most exquisite effusion, published with the music, Poetry, and attempts at original compositions--imitations of everything she knewfrom the Psalms to Gray's Elegy, followed, until she first made acquaintance with the Iliad, through the medium of Pope. The perusal of this work induced her to burn her first MSS.; and Childe Harold, when she afterwards met with it, induced her to resolve against making verses for the future. Soon afterwards, however, she wrote the little story of La Perouse, contained in her first published volume; and from contributing to the Irish Penny Journal, aspired to the London Athenæum. Her published volumes are "The Star of Alteghei," published in London, by Moxon, in 1844, and "Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems," in Edinburgh, in 1847, by Sutherland and Knox. The latter collection is immeasurably superior to the former. Miss Brown is a psychological phenomenon; and the remarkable perseverance and ingenuity by which she has triumphed over one of the most severe privations of life, require to be known in order to comprehend the strange feeling that pervades her poems. The summary of Edinburgh Literary Society around this Christmas Log cannot better be summed up than by a phalanx of poets; in whom our ranks are at this time preëminently rich. Amongst them we have James Ballantyne, the fine doric author of "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and "The Miller of Deanhaugh," and all the songs and senti "Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.” Gilfillan (not "the gifted," but Robert Gilfillan of Leith) still toys felicitously with the the social muse; Mr. Vedder, the admirable lyrist; and Captain Charles Gray, the disciple and imitator of Burns, still occasionally appear on the literary horizon. But the hope of Edinburgh poetry centres in Mr. Robert Jamieson, a writer to the signet, and author of a highly dramatic poem-not, however, conceived in a dramatic form-" Nimrod." We always thought there was fervor about Mr. Jamieson, but hardly suspected it to be poetic, till "Nimrod" revealed it. This work is after an exalted order of poetry; and, with many subtle refinements, which it requires no mean power to depict and preserve throughout the shadowings and foreshadowings of a theme half prophetic of man's unfolding nature and final destiny, a little more decision, and a little more strength, would have stamped "Nimrod" as the poem of the age. As it is, Mr. Jamieson, when he tries again, will equal Browning, and eclipse Tennyson, for he is disfigured with the mannerism of neither. From the Metropolitan. THE “FRIEDHOF," OR COURT OF PEACE.* "SWEET sister, come, and let us roam away o'er the fine arched bridge, The court of peace, where the lindens grow." "Come, come, let us hie to the free broad road--the folks are all passing that way, With cheerful voices and gayly decked-for you know it is festival day. ¡ The harps are twanging beneath the trees, and there's nothing save joy and singing; And we shall hear, o'er the valley lone, all the bells so merrily ringing." "No," said the girl with the golden hair, Whose blue eyes spake of Heaven and prayer; The court of peace, where the lindens grow." "There are whispering leaves down this green lane amid the old crofts and trees; It is long and winding, but sweet accents float to allure the good honey-bees; It leads to the solemn, cloistered pile, and over the beautiful plains Whose blue eyes spake of Heaven and prayer; The court of peace, where the lindens grow." This brother and sister were parted wide; but when fleeting years rolled by, 'Mid the chequered scenes of a roving life-in hut or 'neath gorgeous dome, The court of peace, where the lindens grow." Home of the prodigal! rest for the weary! the path of the just below Hath pleasures in store for returning sons that wanderers never can know : 'Mid the vain world's show, and will onward lead to the court of Heaven at last. The court of peace, where the lindens grow." * Or "burial-place," in German. From Hogg's Instructor. THE LATE REV. ARCHIBALD ALISON, LL.B. BY GEORGE GILFILLAN. "Oh lady, we receive but what we give! THIS late distinguished divine has left two separate claims to reputation-first, as a speculator on the beautiful, and, secondly, as Ours is the wedding-garment-ours the shroud." a writer of sermons. In the former field, that he is entirely original no one can believe As to Wordsworth, association is the grand who remembers Akenside's exclamation-key to much of his poetry, which without this ""Tis mind alone, bear witness earth and heaven;" an exclamation containing in it the essence of his theory, that beauty, namely, consists in trains of thought and feeling suggested more or less directly and vividly by external objects. It seems now, too, to be generally admitted, that from the kindling love of his own views he has carried them too far, and left too little room for those quick instinctive perceptions of the beautiful which arise so early, and break forth so suddenly, as hardly to come within the strict limits of his theory. Let us grant, too, that Lord Jeffrey, if not so minute and copious, has been more eloquent, and more distinct, guarded, succinct, and memorable in his exposition of the view. But to Alison be the praise of first announcing, in a popular form, the astonishing conceptions, which had passed before for the reveries of half-insane poets and philosophers, that the universe is a great mirror to the mind of man-that the star must, stooping, increase its lustre at the soul -that the sun is but half-lit till the human eye mirror it, and the human spirit breathe on it—and that, in contemplating the fairest scenes, we are ourselves half-creating their loveliness. To the first broaching of such views of the beautiful we owe not merely the illustrations they have received from the pens of the prose philosophers, who have explained, modified, or defended them-the Dugald Stewarts, Browns, and Jeffreys-but also the account to which they have been turned by the poets. Who has forgotten the fine letter addressed by Burns to Alison? Coleridge has wrought the leading thought of the system into the well-known lines were a spring shut up and a fountain sealed. |