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. 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." 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. He 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 have shed upon 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 "Olding description of the entrance of the Demon years his 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. 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 'Mount Marvel?' Perhaps, too, you can tell us where 'Mount Prejudice' is ?" The "Demoniac" is another beautiful, in ballad. What can be finer than the followparts powerful, and, throughout, melting into his victim? "The Fiend! the Fiend! bush,' Herman cried, Up from the shores of the Dead Sea came a dull | gotten his "Belshazzar," or his "Mother's booming sound; 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. about to die He smiled 'twas as the lightning of a hope For ever from the furrowed brows of Hell's eternity. 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, And see thy life-blood blushing through, and glory 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. 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 erection of a monument to his memory_in character is organizing a subscription for the with gladness. So long as he has no memoWestminster Abbey. We hail the motion rial there, it is a vital blank in that magnificent 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 supply all other information required.* 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 had been erected; and 2ndly, because he could counmany greater than Cowper to whom no monuments tenance 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 Haunted Man." Dickens "Task" will outlive the 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. thousand tributary rills of anguish, and, in one wild swollen wave, hurries at last over the precipice. Nevertheless, we do not think that he has been altogether successful. First, the play is by far too long. It is nearly as long as are the events described. Secondly, the characters are too numerous. It is a Trongate he has set before us, with hundreds of common figures moving upon it—not a quiet Edinburgh street, with a few noble men and women pacing quietly along, and yet with their steps tuned to the music of Destiny. Thirdly, the incidents are too thick and bustling. It is a succession of petty tragedies, rather than a single great one. Fourthly, there is too much death. It is a bloody bustle. He swims his Trongate in blood. All stab, and everybody dies. together, it is rather a glorious tumult of passion, warfare, force, and fate, than a great, stern, collected tragedy. In "Lear," every vein and artery points to the bruised and broken heart which is the centre of the convulsed framework. In "Wold," unity has evidently been sought for, but not so evidently attained. The author has indulged himself in superfluities of description, and luxuries of horror, which weaken the torrent Al of the tale, and blunt the axe of the tragedy, which falls, at last, dull and heavy. In proof of the poetical power scattered throughout, we quote the following words of Afra, the night-raven of the story-a girl, by the way, who had been injured and orphaned by the house of Wold: We are reluctant to part, after such a comparatively curt intercourse with one of the few really true, original, and great poets of our day-one who ranks with Bayly, Tennyson, Browning, and a few others, as a man of a cultured, yet independent vein owing to nature much, to popularity little, to clique or coterie nothing at all. He has "cast, his bread upon the waters, and will find it after many days." This book of his may be long have the hardihood to break through the a hermit-stream, only known to those who embowering branches and thick brushwood. which surround its waters, but must by-andby, as its meek yet strong current flows forward, shine forth into the light of universal appreciation. PAUL JONES. AN advertisement has appeared in the London papers for the heirs of the celebrated Paul Jones. He died in Paris in 1792; and the administrator of his estate in America, where Paul Jones was Commodore of the navy, now calls upon his heirs to transmit their claims for adjudication, that they may participate in a late decision of Congress, granting 50,000 dollars to the heirs of Paul Jones. The Chevalier, as he is called, left | The no children, but in his will consigned (says the Dumfries Standard) all his property to his two sisters and their children. widow of one of these sisters' sons now resides in America, and there are numerous descendants of the other sister, many of whom reside in this district. These are, no doubt, the legal heirs of Paul Jones, and we understand they have lodged their claims accordingly. ! From the British Quarterly Review. T. B. MACAULAY-HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 1. The History of England, from the Accession of James II. By T. B. MACAULAY. Vols. 1 and 2. London, 1848. 2. Essays contributed to the Edinburgh Review. By T. B. MACAULAY. 3 vols. MACAULAY has a great name in contemporary literature. He has the rare privilege of a popularity which in no respect derogates from his dignity as a serious writer. Captivating young ladies, amusing stupid officers in a club-room, setting young critics on the hopeless task of imitating him, he preserves all the while the character of a dignified writer appealing to the most cultivated audience. He has made his reputation by reviews; and this reputation is as extensive as if he had been a popular novelist. Nor have these reviews owed their celebrity to the piquancy of politics, or to the fierce partisanship of polemics. Their value is not factitious. He has not lampooned the government; nor has he alarmed the church. Historical and biographical essays, treated purely as matters of literature, have won for him his spurs. It becomes an interesting subject of inquiry to ascertain by what qualities this success has been achieved, and to assign, if possible, the positive value of these writings. If you examine closely, you will observe that this brilliant and fascinating writer has in a very small degree the qualities which usually distinguish great writers, although he undoubt edly possesses a rare combination of qualities. No one can say that he is endowed with a lofty imagination; with remarkable humor or wit; with dramatic power; with deep thought, or close and pressing logic. He is not a poet, nor a wit, nor a thinker. What is he, then? A rhetorician. The rhetoricians do not take the highest rank; but Macaulay takes the highest rank among rhetoricians. He has imagination enough, wit enough, and logic enough, to make a rare expositor of other men's thoughts-to paint striking pictures-to popularize a truth -and to leave a question clearer in every mind. The clearness of his exposition and the charm of his style are unrivalled. But, after all, it is only exposition and style; it is not discovery, it is not addition to our knowledge that we are called upon to admire. Let us hope that our endeavor to characterize his writings will not be misunderstood. Our object is critical, not polemical; we do not wish to depreciate, but to analyze. If the term rhetorician carries with it some contemptuous associations, we disclaim them here. We would employ another term, if another term would as well express our meaning. Our admiration for Macaulay is hearty and unfeigned; but, because we attempt to explain it, let no one say "C'est médire avec art, C'est avec respect enfoncer le poignard." A lark is admired for its own qualities, not for the predatory qualities of an eagle; to say that it cannot sweep the sky with untiring wing, gaze upon the sun, or carry off a lamb in its talons, is not to throw a slur on its capacities. Had Macaulay come before us in the character of a poet or a philosopher, there would have been contempt in styling him a rhetorician; but, making his appearance as an expositor, there can be no contempt in saying that the kind of exposition he adopts is the rhetorical kind. Let us examine these writings. The first thing we remark is the absence of new ideas. Not only has he brought no addition to our stock, but he has not even revived old principles fallen into undeserved neglect, and which might still serve as guiding lights. In one word, there is nothing in these essays which marks out the writer as a teacher. Not a new fact, not a discovery, not even an intimation of where discoveries are to be made, will you detect in these brilliant pages. He is an expositor, not a seeker. His learning is vast, incalculable; few men have read so much, and fewer remember so well what they have read. But the strength of his memory absorbs the vital powers of his brain: it is either the cause or the effect of his want of original power; the cause, if its activity keeps down the activity of other faculties; the effect, if the indolence of other faculties admits of its activity being uncontrolled. Explain it how you will, there can be no dispute as to the fact of his mind being occupied with arranging the materials gleaned from books, rather than with furnishing the materials of which books are made. Connected with this is the deficiency of speculative power which we have next to notice. There is no trace here of a mind which has wrestled with doubt-of a mind which has striven with eagerness and sincerity to penetrate the mysterious problems which have from all time pressed themselves upon the attention of mankind. We do not blame him for not being a metaphysician, for not having published theological speculations, and added his erroneous system to the errors of thousands. Every writer is not bound to be a philosopher; even a thoughtful writer is not bound to propose a definite system. But no man can be a great writer who is not a thinker—who has not in his time profoundly meditated on those problems which are of all time. No man speaking to men can exercise any durable influence over them unless he has like them doubted, like them struggled, and like them believed. Do we not all live encompassed by mysteries which we know we cannot penetrate, and which irresistibly call upon us to penetrate them? Do we not acknowledge the profound words of Göthe, that man is not born to solve the mystery of existence; but he must nevertheless attempt it, in order that he may learn how to keep within the limits of the knowable? These struggles leave their traces even on the serenest minds, and are reflected in the clearest style. Where shall we seek a better instance than Göthe, who certainly avoided anything like dogmatic exposition, but whose slightest writings give intimations of "a soul that speaketh from the everlasting deeps." No man who has thought, writes without suggesting thought. The style of a boy or of a woman who has had little experience of life is not more distinct from that of a man whom experience has modified, than is the style of ordinary men from those who have yielded up their souls to patient meditation. Macaulay's mind seems constitutionally unfit for meditation. Mystery is to him mere darkness. All sense of the infinite is deficient in him. That which is finite, visible, and palpable he can understand and can occupy himself about; that, and that only. Abstract questions, when they do not excite his scorn, are at the best too remote from him to admit of his turning his mind in their direction. His mind is eminently concrete. Things group themselves before it into pictures, thoughts consolidate themselves into axioms. All that is wavering, indeterminate, and refuses to group itself in this distinct way, is to him as if it were not. Beyond the Pillars of Hercules his mental geography places chaos: the undiscovered, undiscoverable, consequently uninteresting, bourne. This is so remarkable a trait in his mind that we were led to examine his earliest efforts, to see if in them no traces of youthful speculation could be found. His first articles appeared in 1824. Charles Knight established a magazine (Knight's Quarterly Magazine) to which Mackworth Praed, Moultrie, Barry St. Leger, M. D. Hill, and other young and able writers, contributed. Macaulay's contributions were his famous songs of the Huguenots and songs of the civil war, together with prose essays on Mitford's Greece, the Athenian Orators, Dante, Petrarch, and a Conversation between Milton and Cowley on the Civil War. The subjects, no less than their treatment, are indicative of the future historical essayist. Not a trace of the thinker is visible. Just free from college, forming his opinions at a time when the great questions would be most likely to vex his mind, at a time when the future statesman and the future merchant are troubled with misgivings which seldom revisit them in the turmoil of after-life, we see Macaulay as calm and untroubled-as comfortable in his immunity from doubt-as if he had already (to use the language of Sartor Resartus) passed through the everlasting Nay into the everlasting Yea. Macaulay has read the writings of numerous philosophers-what has he not read?— but he has never thought them. A more signal proof of incapacity for scientific or philosophic speculation was never given by so able a man, than he gave in his brilliant article on Bacon. We do not allude to its looseness of reasoning--for all men reason loosely at times; nor to the particular mistakes--for the most accurate writers fall into strange errors;-we allude to the tone of the whole article, and its radical miscon |