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by his vanity—that he does not possess one liberal accomplishment—and that he is nearly as imbecile as Buonaparte! Mr Wordsworth's friends should not allow him to expose himself in this way. He has unquestionably written some fine verses in his day; but, with the exception of some poetical genius, he is, in all respects, immeasurably inferior, as an intellectual being, to the distinguished person whom he so foolishly libels.
We wish to have done with this lyrical ballad-monger. But before taking our leave of him, we beg to point out a passage in the very Critique which he has abused;—a passage which we cannot help thinking he may have seen, though he never reads reviews, and of which we fear we may say, "Hinc illæ lachrymæ."
"Our other remark is of a more limited application, and is addressed chiefly to the followers and patrons of that new school of poetry, against which we have thought it our duty to neglect no opportunity of testifying. Those gentlemen are outrageous for simplicity; and we beg leave to recommend to them the simplicity of Burns. He has copied the spoken language of passion and affection, with infinitely more fidelity than they have ever done, on all occasions which properly admitted of such adaptation; but he has not rejected the helps of elevated language and habitual associations, nor debased his composition by an affectation of babyish interjections, and all the puling expletives of an old nursery-maid's vocabulary. They may look long enough among his nervous and manly lines, before they find any 'Good lacks!'—'Dear hearts!'—or 'As a body may say,' in them; or any stuff about dancing daffodils and sister Emmelines. Let them think, with what infinite contempt the powerful mind of Burns would have perused the story of Alice Fell and her duffle cloak,—of Andrew Jones and the half-crown,—or of Little Dan without breeches, and his thievish grandfather: Let them contrast their own fantastical personages of hysterical schoolmasters and sententious leech-gatherers with the authentic rustics of Burns' Cotter's Saturday Night, and his inimitable songs; and reflect on the different reception which these personifications have met with from the public. Though they will not be reclaimed from their puny affectations by the example of their learned predecessors, they may perhaps submit to be admonished by a self-taught and illiterate poet, who drew from Nature far more directly than they can do, and produced something so much liker the admired copies of the masters whom they have abjured."
The reader will, from this quotation, judge with what propriety Mr Wordsworth accuses the Edinburgh Reviewer[1] of injustice to Burns. It appears that the Reviewer thinks much more highly of Burns than Mr Wordsworth does, for we see that he places him far above the author of the Excursion.
In conclusion, one word to all those gentlemen who are now so idly bestirring themselves in the revival of an obsolete subject. The world are agreed about the character and genius of Burns. None but the most narrowminded bigots think of his errors and frailties but with sympathy and indulgence; none but the blindest enthusiasts can deny their existence. It is very possible that his biographers and critics may have occasionally used epithets and expressions too peremptory and decisive,—for why should Messrs Wordsworth and Peterkin claim a monopoly of error?—but, on the whole, the character of the bard has had ample justice. There is no need for us to say what Burns was,—or what he was not: This he has himself told us in immortal language; and the following most pathetic and sublime stanza ought to silence both his friends and his enemies—if enemies there can indeed be to a man so nobly endowed. For while, with all the proud consciousness of genius and virtue, he had bestowed on him, there too does there glories in the gifts which God he, "with compunctious visitings of nature," own, in prostration of spirit, that the light which led him astray was not always "light from Heaven."
Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And aft had felt the kindly glow,
And safter flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name."
INTRODUCTION TO A MEDICAL REPORT OF EDINBURGH.
The city of Edinburgh, situated upon an eminence consisting of three parallel ridges, about two miles distant from the Frith of Forth, and about 250 feet above its level, bounded on the west by its venerable Castle built on a high and precipitous rock, and overhung on the east by Arthur Seat and its crags, and by the Calton Hill,—forms, from every part of the
- ↑ Edin. Review, No 26, p. 276.