virtue, is true of him generally and absolutely. But genius comes and goes. It possesses the mind and leaves it. Hence, the life of the man is by no means conformed to the highest law of genius. In his highest acts of power he is lifted out of passion, to which he returns when the act is over. Thus the love of fame may be a strong passion of his life, though it cannot enter into his acts of power. It will be a strong passion of his life, for the same elements of his nature which constitute (in part at least) the power of his genius, demand and produce, as we have seen, the love of fame. They demand it not in the first place -but afterwards-after the genius is formed, and the power exerted. The love of fame, therefore, is a passion of secondary formation-it is the sequel to genius-and woe to him in whom it precedes genius, or bears an undue proportion to its power. The pure idea of good, like a good angel slighted, forsakes him. His sun, light, guardian, guide, is gone. He is a slave driven by blind and erring for ces. His human hopes, passions, and fears, come up into his acts of genius, bewildering and defeating them. He is subjected to the race whom he ought in his power to have uplifted. It is possible that, having begun life well and purely, he may come to this, if the sense of fame becoming an anxious, uneasy, fearful, painful passion, or if self-admiration, growing up, a monster, in his heart-oppress, disturb, and overpower genius, and bring up among its creations feelings that once had no place there.

Let me conclude with a suggestion, that in different ages, according to the different manners and characters of society, there will be a tendency to produce a difference upon genius-one age, namely, the simple and powerful favouring the sublime character of the love of fame, and another, namely, the more artificial and complex irritating it into uneasy, anxious, bitter, perni

cious action.

STORY OF AN APPARITION.

MR EDITOR,

N.

OBSERVING that you have frequently introduced into your Miscellany popular fables collected from various quarters, I send you the following, which I so

lemnly protest is no invention of mine, but a ghost-story of natural growth, which I heard in conversation. If you can find room for it, it will probably afford more amusement than the Welsh superstitions you published some time ago, which were rather heavy. I am, yours, &c. A. B.

About the fall of the leaf, in the year 1737, Colonel D. went to visit his friend Mr N. at his country seat in the north of England. As this country seat was the scene of a very singular adventure, it may be proper to mention its antiquity and solemnity, which were fitted to keep in countenance the most sombre events. following circumstances were known in the family, and are said to have been related by one of its members to a lady much celebrated in the literary world, but now deceased.

The

well

Upon arriving at the house of his friend, Colonel D. found there many guests, who had already got possession of almost all the apartments. The chillness of an October evening, and the somewhat mournful aspect of nature, at that season, collected them, at an early hour, round the blazing hearth, where they thought no better amusement could be found than the ancient and well approved one of story-telling, for which all mankind seem to have a relish. I do not mean the practice of circulating abominable slanders against one's friends, but the harmless, drowsy, and good-natured recreation of retailing wonderful narratives, in which, if any ill is spoken, it is generally against such as are well able to bear it, namely, the enemy of mankind, and persons who, having committed atrocious crimes, are supposed, after death, to haunt the same spots to which their deeds have attached dismal recollections.

While these tales went round, the evening darkened apace, and the windows ceased any longer to contrast the small glimmerings of external twilight with the bright blaze of the hearth. The rustling of withered leaves, casually stirred by the wind, is always a melancholy sound, and, on this occasion, lent its aid to the superstitious impressions which were gaining force by each successive recital of prodigies: One member of the family began to relate a certain tradition, but he was suddenly stopped by their host, who

exhibited signs of displeasure, and whispered something to him, at the same time turning his eyes upon Colonel D. The story was accordingly broken off, and the company went to supper with their hair standing on end; but so transitory are human impressions, that in a few minutes they had all recovered their gayety, except the Colonel, who was unable to comprehend why any tradition should be concealed from him in particular.

When they separated to go to sleep, he was led by Mr N. (as the reader will probably anticipate), to a chamber at a great distance from the other bed-rooms, and which bore evident marks of having been newly opened up, after remaining long unoccupied. In order to dissipate the confined air of the place, a large wooden fire had been lighted, and the gloomy bed-curtains were tucked stiffly up in festoons. I have not heard whether there was tapestry in the room or not; but one thing is certain, that the room looked as dreary as any tapestry could have made it, even if it had been worked on purpose by Mrs Ann Radcliffe herself. Romance writers generally decorate their imaginary walls with all the wisdom of Solomon; but, as I am unable to vouch for the truth of every particular mentioned in this story, I mean to relate the circumstances faithfully as they were told me, without calling in so wise a man to lend his countenance to them.

Mr N. made apologies to Colonel D. for putting him into an apartment which was somewhat uncomfortable, and which was now opened only because all the rest were already filled. With these excuses, and other suitable compliments, he bade his guest good night, and went away with a good deal of seriousness in his countenance, leaving the door a-jar behind him.

Colonel D, observing that the apartinent was large and cold, and that but a small part of the floor was covered with carpet, endeavoured to shut the door, but found he could only close it half way. Some obstacle in the hinges, or the weight of the door pressing upon the floor, opposed his efforts. Nevertheless, being seized with some absurd fancies, he took the candle, and looked out. When he saw nothing, except the long passage and the vacant apartments beyond, he went to bed, leaving the remains of

the fire still flickering upon the broad hearth, and gleaming now and then upon the door as it stood half open.

After the Colonel had lain for a long while, ruminating half asleep, and when the ashes were now nearly extinguished, he saw the figure of a woman glide in. No noise accompanied her steps. She advanced to the fire-place, and stood between him and the light, with her back towards him, so that he could not see her features. Upon observing her dress, he found that it exactly corresponded in appearance with the ancient silk robes represented in the pictures of English ladies of rank, painted three centuries ago. This circumstance filled him with a degree of terror which he had never experienced before. The stately garniture of times long past had a frightful meaning, when appearing, as it now did, not upon a canvass, but upon a moving shape, at midnight. Still endeavouring to shake off those impressions which benumbed him, he raised himself upon his arm, and faintly asked "who was there?" The phantom turned round-approached the bedand fixed her eyes upon him; so that he now beheld a countenance where some of the worst passions of the living were blended with the cadaverous appearance of the dead. In the midst of traits which indicated noble birth and station, was seen a look of cruelty and perfidy, accompanied with a certain smile which betrayed even baser feelings. The approach of such a face near his own, was more than Colonel D- could support; and when he rose next morning from a feverish and troubled sleep, he could not recollect how or when the accursed spectre had departed. When summoned to breakfast, he was asked how he had spent the night, and he endeavoured to conceal his agitation by a general answer, but took the first opportunity to inform his friend Mr N- -, that, having recollected a certain piece of business which waited him at London, he found it impossible to protract his visit a single night. Mr N ed surprised, and anxiously sought to discover whether any thing occurred to render him displeased with his reception; but finding that his guest was impenetrable, and that his remonstrances against his departure were in vain, he insisted upon shewing Colonel

seem

D- the beauties of his country residence, after which he would reluctantly bid him farewell. In walking round the mansion, Colonel Dwas shewn the outside of the tower where he had slept, and vowed, mentally, never to enter it again. He was next led to a gallery of pictures, where Mr N took much delight in displaying a complete series of family portraits, reaching back to a very remote era. Among the oldest, there was one of a lady. Colonel D had no sooner got a glimpse of it, than he cried out, "May I never leave this spot, if that is not she." Mr Nasked whom he meant? "The detestable phantom that stared me out of my senses last night;" and he related every particular that had occurred.

Mr N, overwhelmed with astonishment, confessed that, to the room where his guest had slept, there was attached a certain tradition, pointing it out as having been, at a remote period, the scene of murder and incest. It had long obtained the repute of being haunted by the spirit of the lady, whose picture was before him; but there were some circumstances in her history so atrocious, that her name was seldom mentioned in his family, and his ancestors had always endeavoured as much as possible to draw a veil over her memory.

OF A NATIONAL CHARACTER IN

LITERATURE.

It would appear, that the pleasure we receive from making ourselves acquainted with the literature of a people, and more especially with their literature of imagination, is intimately connected with an impression, that in their literature we see the picture of their minds. Every people has, to our conception, its own individual character; and in virtue of that character, is the interest inspired by their fortunes. Even that strong sympathy which waits upon the events of life, is not sufficient in itself entirely to attract us; and our interest in their history is imperfect, except when the distinct individual conception of their character as a people accompanies the relation. Whatever the nature of that interest may be which is thus demanded even

by our human sympathy, it is far more important towards constituting that peculiar power which a people hold over our imagination, or over our mind altogether. Every one who has applied himself with interest to the theory of a nation's literature, will, on looking back to the impressions with which he engaged in it, and to the feelings by which he was led on, recognise in himself the effect of such a persuasion. He will most probably remember, that in the works he then read, there seemed opening up to him, not the mind of a new author, but the mind of another nation; that he seemed to make himself acquainted with a people of whom he had heard, but whom he had not known; that his pleasure was more than belonged to the beauty,-as he could discern it,-of the works; that their interest and importance were far beyond what their intrinsic character and kind would justify. He will recollect, that besides the thoughts which were unfolded to his intelligence-and the appeal of feeling and passion to his sensibilities-besides the hold on his imagination which belonged to the events which he had read, and to the genius under which perhaps he was held captive-that beyond and above all these, there was a charm thrown over him-a new and strange feeling of visiting an unknown land, and of standing for the first time among an unknown people. What he then felt resembled that wild and delightful impression with which a traveller finds himself on a foreign shore, where all that he sees is alike strange-with one entire power subverts his previous associations, and violently, as it were, throws open his mind to a sense of new existence, and to the apprehension of a new world. In such a situation, there is something that so calls the imaginative faculty out of the mind into the midst of open realities, that even the ordinary life of men seems a scene of enchantment,-and thought, feeling, purpose, and desire, are all suspended in mere wondering sight. Something, faint indeed in comparison, yet assuredly of the same kind, accompanies the mind on its intellectual voyage, visiting and exploring a new people.

It is not the dignity-the beautythe importance of what it sees, that alone demands the interest and admiration of the delighted mind. That which is unimportant and common, is

invested with an indescribable charm, while that which is inherently great and beautiful, appears in a still more gorgeous light flung over it by our own imagination. It is the sense of treading in another region-of beholding and knowing another mighty race of mankind-that possesses the spirit, and throws into all their life, and over all its appearances, the same power with which nature has endowed the people, and the land which she has given to be their seat. That spell which holds the traveller-by which he walks in high imagination through the paths of common life, is granted to the still and solitary student when his mind goes forth on its adventurous speculation, ranging the records of men. To him new scenes are disclosed-a new people arise. He owns the power of their spirit-the very voice of their speech is in his ears-and his imagination fills itself from their life, from the emotions of their bosoms, from their whole world of existence. These feelings, in more or less force, according to the character of the mind, attend upon the communication and intercourse which, through their language, is opened up to us with another people. They are an essential part of the interest with which we pursue such studies, though frequently they are not so fully unfolded or developed, and almost rest in the mere strong general impression of communication held with another people.

In whatever way, however, such impression is made, it is very powerful. It is one independent altogether of literature, and belongs to the feelings with which, as men, we look upon

men.

In literature, it assumes a modification especial to the faculties that are there in play. It enters with deep power into the imagination, and blends itself in subtle combination with the subtlest workings of intelligence. The language itself the instrument-the express work and the mirror of the mind, invests itself, especially to the intellectual thought, with this character, and takes the interest of these feelings. It is so directly the voice of the mind-it so shapes its subtle being, and receives its colours from the very breath that gives it forth, that it cannot but speak to the mind of the mind from which it springs. Fine, shadowy, and evanescent, as the motions of apprehension are which accompany the flow of language through

the mind,-inapplicable perhaps to intellect, and scarcely to be retraced, even by imagination returning upon itself yet, these most faint, light, delicate arts of mind answering to mind, are all deeply impregnated with this great feeling of communion with another race. Let the thoughtful and feeling scholar tell-for he only knows

how curiously minute these impressions are in their blending with language. He knows, indeed, beyond what he can tell, how language has discovered to his thought its wonderful being; how intimately he has beheld its minute intricate structure,how, to intuitive and unconscious analysis, to apprehension that seemed almost fanciful in its exceeding subtlety, the properties, relations, and powers of language, its intense, complex, infinitely divided, and yet comprehensive significance of mind have been disclosed. He knows this far beyond what he can tell he knows it in degrees, which, if he were to attempt to speak of them, would appear quite illusory and fantastical. He knows, too, that with this extreme metaphysical division of the acts of mind in language, there exists the feeling, strong and entire, that this language is the language of the mind of another people.

If it be true, that even in these extreme abstractions of intellectual thought, there is no separation effected of this peculiar feeling from the perception of language, far less can it be separated from those stronger, fuller, more embodied acts of the mind, into which imagination enters in its own dimensions, into which sentiment and passion infuse their living blood,

those acts of the aroused, kindling, agitated intellect, those workings of the moved soul which attend upon the creations of the highest arts, and upon all the imaginative literature of a people, upon their eloquence, and their poetry.

The strong interest of this feeling of knowing and discerning the mind of another people, arises not merely out of a precedent knowledge of the greatness of that people-it is not the offspring of former associations-but it springs up at the moment, instinct with life of its own, from present discernment of their character. mind is not merely satisfying itself in acquiring new evidence of what it believed before: it is making discovery

The

of what it did not know-it is creating its knowledge by its own momentary acts it apprehends, discerns, reads the mind which it had never apprehended, contemplated, studied before. What is this feeling-this interest? What is the strong power by which, as human beings, we are held in the contemplation of individual character? Why are those qualities of the mind, which are visibly its own,-those virtues, powers, which seem to have their birth within itself, and to be the living inherent tendencies of its own nature, why are these so peculiarly beautiful? What is that charm of a native grace that is felt in them all? Why, in short, is every manifestation of the unforced, uncontrolled self-de

as in that which, from the dawning of life, has been blended with all the thoughts and feelings of our own.

If there be this power in native language and native literature, two questions seem to arise, which we may afterwards discuss at some length,first, What is it that gives such force to the principle in our nature now alluded to, our delight in our individual character? And, secondly, How are we to estimate the benefit to the literature of a people from the influx upon them of the literature of another, even though that other have far surpassed them in all intellectual cultivation ?

teresting? We all know, at least, that it is so. And we see, therefore, a principle in our nature sufficiently operative and powerful to explain (if the fact be so) the strong interest that is felt in discerning and considering the native character of a people in their native literature.

If what has now been advanced be true, in any thing like the extent to which we believe it to be true, we have a reason why no access can ever be obtained to the wealth of a people's literature in any language but their own. All argument for or against the cultivation of classical literature is vain and idle. If it be of importance that we should know who and what the Greeks and Romans were, and what they did, it is of importance that we know their language. Without that knowledge, all else that is worth being known is to us dark as night.

A reason also springs out of this speculation, much more essential than the mere difficulties of language, why the early study of language is often so repulsive to minds of imagination and sensibility? It is because they have not yet enough of acquired intelligence to discern in that language its characters of life. They afterwards come to possess that intelligence, and then the study of language changes to them its nature.

We also perceive a reason much deeper than lies in our clearer intelligence merely, why no language can ever exert over us the power of our own. In none can there be to us such deep consciousness and such subtle apprehension of the acts of another mind,

HISTORY OF RENFREWSHIRE, ON THE LETTER FROM MR J. R. TO SIR HENRY STEUART OF ALLANTON, BART.

MR EDITOR,

By a letter in your Magazine for July last, addressed to Sir Henry Steuart, Bart. and subscribed J. R., I find that that gentleman is much "surprised" that I should presume to publish (without first asking his permission, I suppose), in my account of the house of Steuart, a genealogical deduction of the Steuarts of Allanton, Coltness, Goodtrees, Allanbank, and others, a subject, it seems, which he has thought fit to interdict to all writers except himself. This no doubt is abundantly dictatorial. But I, on the other hand, am surprised that he should not have written directly to myself, who am alone responsible for my publication, instead of addressing a gentleman who has nothing to do with it, although he undoubtedly assisted, along with others, in furnishing me with the materials from which the article is drawn up. Moreover, I am surprised, that, when Mr J. R. did write, he did not do it with greater accuracy, considering the lofty pretensions which he makes to that necessary qualification in a genealogist.

On inquiring of the Honourable Baronet, to whom the letter is addressed, whether he meant to reply to it, he said, Certainly not that about twenty years ago he had a genealogical dispute with a gentleman now deceased-that he had then resolved never to have another, and having ever since