makes up his mind to write, to the editor of the nearest treated accordingly in all society. Moreover, it has afnewspaper, a letter couched in these terms:-"Sir, should forded you an opportunity of putting your sentiments and the following lines be deemed worthy of a place in your feelings upon record, and it has accordingly widely exinvaluable paper, their insertion will confer a lasting ob- tended the sphere of your sympathies, and recommended ligation upon, sir, your obedt. servant, X, Y, Z." With you to all those, many of whom you may have never a beating heart he waits the awful fiat of the editor, and seen, whose sentiments and feelings are similar to your scarcely dares to glance over his columns on the succeed- own. In all this flattering belief, there may be much ing day of publication. But how does his eye brighten delusion; but, nevertheless, you may say with Cicero,— into rapture when the identical lines by "X, Y, Z," meet" Si erro, libenter erro." To be well deceived, constitutes his gaze! A new world opens upon him; he is now before the public; his thoughts are esteemed worthy of being submitted to the consideration of his fellow-men; the outer gate is passed, how far may he not penetrate into the inner glories of the temple?

Time rolls on, and he is now a regular contributor to the "Poet's Corner" of the newspapers, and occasionally one or two of his happiest efforts have found their way into magazines. But "increase of appetite grows with what it feeds on." He begins to think, that to be an anonymous writer in periodicals is at best but a mongrel species of reputation;-his genius is hid under a bushel, and the brilliancy of his effusions may be overlooked amidst the mass of dulness with which they are too often surrounded. He wonders what the expense and risk of publishing a small volume would be. At first he almost starts at his own wonder, and shrinks from the vastness of the idea; but after the query has once occurred to his mind, he is uneasy until it be answered. He calls upon a bookseller, and in a round-about, and what appears to him a particularly ingenious manner, endeavours to worm the information out of him. The bookseller sees at once that he has to deal with a young aspirant for the honours of the muses, and informs him that he will be happy to publish a work of the nature described, provided the author takes all the risk, and allows him (the bookseller) the usual charge of twenty-five per cent. Then come the discovery that the risk will vary from about £60 to £100; the reflections upon the existing state of his finances, and the consultations with friends; the assurances he receives from them-that is to say, from about ten or fifteen people that they will all purchase copies of the work; his increased confidence; his belief that the editor of the newspaper will give him a favourable review; his palpitations-his hesitations-his determinations. The die is cast,-he will print ;-Byron would never have been heard of unless he had printed.

Now comes the tug of war;-the revising of manuscript and arranging it for the printer, the sending it to that functionary, the proofsheets, with all their errors on their head-errors enough to drive a poet mad-the loss of time at press, the fixing of the day of publication, then its postponement, the curiosity of friends, the flurry of the author's spirits, the dawning of the important day, the advertisement in all the papers-"This day is published," the astonishing quietness with which this day, and the next, and the next, passes over, the luke-warmness of all common acquaintances, the total apathy of the public at large, the strange inattention of the really candid critics, and the spiteful cavillings of those whose opinions show that they have a personal dislike to the author. All this, and much more, must the writer of "the small volume of miscellaneous poems" endure; and the only question that remains is—are there no counterbalancing advantages that make people willing to endure all these evils?

We believe that the most which can be said on this side of the question is, that pleasure always accompanies the gratification of vanity; and the vanity of seeing oneself in print is of a prevalent, and, in general, a very absorbing kind. One may easily flatter oneself, that to be in print implies an immense deal. It may imply that you are read, and that you are admired,—that you convey instruction, and open up new trains of thought. It may imply that you are now much superior to the common herd, who never were in print, and that you will be

one-half the happiness of most men, and almost all the happiness of a poet. Besides, there is pleasure, independent of all external things, in the indulgence of a poetical temperament, however far that temperament may be distant from the high imaginative and intellectual vigour in which the Delphic god rejoices. Why should not the amiable writer of small miscellaneous verses be allowed to amuse himself, by bundling them up into a book? There is something gentle and benevolent about every man who is fond of rhyme, and though there are only a few of its votaries in whom we would encourage lofty hopes, we should be the last needlessly to torture an ingenious poetaster. Why pluck the wings off a blue-bottle, though they be not so rich and beautiful as those of the golden butterfly? In the most mild humour, therefore, we proceed, after this long introduction, to say a few words of the books whose titles we have copied above.

We are inclined to think" Domestic Life, and other Poems," the production of a lady. "Domestic Life" is a poem in heroic verse, after the manner of Rogers. It treats, of course, of all the delights of "Home, sweet home," and though it never rises into a very high strain of poetry, it contains a good number of smooth and pretty passages. Of the miscellaneous poems, we cannot speak very highly-we select, however, as a specimen, that which appears to us the cleverest :

The breeze steals through the shade, like one
A lover's vow who keeps;

The bee to dream of sweets has gone-
In yonder rose he sleeps.

"It is the hour when love-breathed thoughts,
Like angel lays, are heard ;

When all of heaven our earth denotes,
By love may be conferred;

When lovers' hearts throb fast and wild,
And lovers' eyes are bright;
When woman smiles as beauty smiled,
When first she woke to light."

Under the title of a "Dramatic Portrait," Mr Anderson presents us with some lines, which we like, both because they are good in themselves, and because the sentiments they contain are just, and also because they are commemorative of a lady for whose vocal talents we have We subjoin the long entertained the highest respect.

poem :

MISS NOEL,

(Now Mrs Dr Bushe, of New York,)

AS CLARI, IN THE MAID OF MILAN.
"Hark! 'tis the voice I love to hear,
And thoughts are thronging in my breast,
Whene'er these notes are on my ear,
As if by inspiration blest.-

That song again!-A Peri's voice
Could never make my heart rejoice,

With more triumphant bliss than thine,
So soft, so dulcet, so divine.
Sweet Clari, I did weep with thee
In all thy sorrows, when the thought
Came o'er thy heart, like agony,
With bitterness of feeling fraught,

That he thou loved, with bland deceit,

Had lured thee from thy home so sweet,
To ruin with insidious art,

And blight thy beauty and thy heart.

Then, when the thought of home came o'er thee,

With feelings of delight and pain,

Where all did cherish and adore thee,

And would, if thou wert there again ;

Then didst thou warble forth thy song,

To soothe thee as thou strayed along;

It peopled all the solitude,

Where silence long had loved to brood,
With melody that floated round,
And echo syllabled the sound;

The zephyr, as it murmur'd by,

Did pause to listen and to die;

For oh! thy song, upon the mountains,
Was sweeter than its own,

When sighing o'er the summer fountains,
With light melodious tone.

Thy heart was heavy-like the leaves
With Autumn's dewdrops-full of care,
As one without a hope who grieves,
But wanders home to find it there.
And I did hear thy song again,
With much of bliss, and much of pain,
That thou so sweetly sung'st thy woes,
Like the soft south-wind on the wing;
Yet then my sorrow too arose,

That thou hadst grief and care to sing.-
I've heard the night-bird's plaintive cry,
When welcoming the moon on high;
I've heard its warblings of farewell,
And still its tones all sweetly fell;
But softer, sweeter, dearer far,
Thy voice's notes to Memory are:
Noel! thy music has enshrined

The name of Clari in my mind;

My heart has heard thee, for a heart can hear, When melody like thine is breathed upon the ear." "Exodus, or the Curse of Egypt," is the production of a young author, who unquestionably possesses a considerable portion of genius, but who, on the present occasion, has been very unfortunate in the choice of his subjects. He soars too daring a flight in his “ Exodus," and the consequence is, that his strength not unfrequently expands into bombast,

or sinks into weakness. Every here and there, powerful
lines occur; but it is a sore thing to struggle with the seven
plagues of Egypt, and makes the verse smell too much of
Golgotha. The continuation of the "Lament of the
Wandering Jew," which we formerly noticed, by the same
author, is not so good as the first part. What "T. B. J."
His images
has principally to guard against, is bad taste.

and expressions continually show that he has not suffi-
ciently cultivated this faculty. He is frequently original,
both in his feelings and thoughts; but to be original, he
From the
does not scruple to be harsh, and even coarse.
minor poems we select, as a favourable specimen of the
author's talents, the following

STANZAS.

"I sing as gaily as of old,

I smile as glad as I have done,

Though cheeks that glow'd with mine are cold,
And they who loved my lay are gone.

I dance as light as e'er I did,

I laugh where roar and riot flow;-
Though she who join'd the dance is dead,
And lips that kiss'd my cup are low.

"But, oh! when I am cold and clay,
Will I as quickly be forgot?

Will friends sport on, and smile as gay
As now they do, when I am not?
And will affection cease to move

The finer chords it moved,
The hearts I used to bless and love,
That made me blessed and beloved?

"Alas! they will-the game of life

Will still be play'd-its idle toys
Will woo mankind, when, free from strife,
I cannot hear nor heed their voice.
Corruption is my mother dread,

The worms my sisters-chilling thought!
But, O, most sad to leave when dead-

A worthless name-a blank-a blot."

We should also have quoted the poem, entitled "The Weepers," but it has already appeared in the Literary Journal. We take, instead, the

SONG OF AN EXILE.

"I should not like to die
Upon a foreign strand;

I should not like to lie

Far from my father-land :

"I love my native Isle,

Its blue hills, its wild glades;
Its heaven's sunny smile,
Its merry mountain maids.
"O! I would wish to have
Some one o'er me to weep,
I wish my grassy grave
Where all my fathers sleep.

"It must be sad to pass
Away from life alone,-
As in the wilderness

A leaf-unseen, unknown.
"The wild birds cease to roam
At eve-their wanderings past;
So would I seek my home,
To dwell and die at last.

by any of the usual adventitious modes. It contains a number of pretty unpretending verses, evincing that the author's heart is in the right place, and that he loves his friends and his country. On the whole, we think the poems in the Scottish dialect the most successful, and two of these we shall quote. They are both songs:

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THE FRIENDS FAR AWA. "Here's a health to the friends far awa!

Whose absence this moment we mourn;

in the early part of the reign of Henry VIII., and consequently at the time when the chivalrous spirit in Europe was in its full blossom. The virtue and the daring of the earlier chivalrous ages had taken a brighter colouring from the gradual diffusion of arts and knowledge. Our author culls with a judicious hand from the rich stores of the period, and hurries us through a succession of dazzling pictures and striking incidents, seasoning his narrative with an occasional dash of sentiment, or more

And we'll pray with our offering that fair be their fa', frequently with playful and good-humoured raillery.

And speedy their welcome return! Then, oh! for the sake o' langsyne,

We'll hae a blithe night-maybe twa;

And if this were water, as, thank God! it's wine,
Here's a health to the friends far awa!

The various characters introduced are dashed off with a hasty, but spirited pencil. The high-souled Lady Constance Grey contrasts finely with the volatile and fascinating Catherine Bulmer. The merry yeoman Richard Heartley, the honest Dutch merchant William Hans, are good and honest fellows. The Kings of France and England, Wolsey, Sir Pagan Wileston, and the Astrologer, are more ambitious, and by no means unsuccessful, portraits. We are not aware that the author has anywhere evinced great power, but he exhibits in every page a spirit of buoyant humour, and a delicacy of sentiment which is never allowed to become cloying. We end where we began, by saying we have seldom met with a more pleasing work of the kind.

Adventures of an Irish Gentleman. In three volumes.
London. Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley. 1830.

THE leading features of this book are heartlessness and vulgarity. The author possesses a sort of coarse cleverness, and expects it to atone for the absence of all the better qualities of a novel. It is disgusting enough, under any circumstances, to be hauled through a long series of low intrigues and black-leg adventures; but to us this becomes altogether intolerable, when the hero of the whole is a half-bred Irishman. We like the Irish,-we like the genuine Paddies, whether in town or country,—we like an Irish lady, and we also like an Irish gentleman; but there is a kind of mongrel Irishman, who pretends to be a gentleman, though one may see at the first glance that he is no such thing, and him we invariably detest. A more odious creature does not walk the earth,-unpolished and impudent in his manners, gross in his language, obstreperous in his mirth, quarrelsome in his conviviality, capricious in his likings, brutal in his tastes, and blackguard in his principles, a fellow whose only mode of putting himself upon a level with you is to force you into a duel; and who, in the company of women, mistakes rakish familiarity for gallantry. We have met with such an animal, and are glad now to chronicle our contempt for him. We do not say that the hero of the book before us is exactly his counterpart, but simply that he has a leaning that way. He gets into all sorts of society, except good society,-forms liaisons with all sorts of women,— breaks them off in all sorts of ways,—and fancies himself a dashing fellow, who "knows life," though, in point of fact, he knows much more of the London chop-houses

and Parisian caffés. There are some who may have a taste for this kind of writing, and may think the whole thing done capitally; but we beg to except ourselves from the number.

A Manual of the Economy of the Human Body, in Health and Disease, containing a Brief View of its Structure and Functions, and the Diseases to which it is Liable; with ample Directions for the Regulation of Diet and Regimen, from Infancy to Old Age. For the Use of General Readers. Edinburgh. D. Lizars. 8vo. 1830.

MEDICAL works, published for "General Readers," ought to be received by the public with very great caution; because the diseases to which the human body is liable have so insidious an origin, and are frequently so complicated, that it is often difficult even for the experienced

Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country. No. I.
February 1830. London. James Fraser. Edinburgh.
John Boyd.

physician to trace the symptoms that may present themselves to their proper causes. Very improbable, therefore, is it, that any book can be published, wherein the whole science can be reduced to so simple a form, that the treatment and cure of the Protean maladies which assail the THIS is a new Magazine, of respectable appearance, constitution may be comprised in a series of general di- the writers in which are apparently determined to do rections and universally applicable prescriptions. It has their best to obtain a due proportion of elbow-room in the been truly said, that "medicines differ from poisons only literary arena which they have entered. The first article in their doses ;" and it is no less true, that the victim of is entitled "Our Confession of Faith." It is respectpain is always too ready to become the victim of credu- ably, but not very powerfully written. In politics the lity, and fly to any remedy which popular caprice, or in- conductors declare themselves to be “not of liberal prindividual prejudice, may extol into a promised charm. A ciples,"-in literary matters they are determined to be knowledge of the structure and functions of the different "fearless and fair,"-and in the ordinary sources of inparts of the human body, in their healthy state, is indis- formation "no pains shall be spared to make their Mapensable to those who would wish to understand their gazine equal to its contemporaries." They further recondition in disease. Without this previous information, quest that they may not be judged by the first Number, all attempts to restore the body to its natural condition "although it is written by the first writers in England, must be empirical, and may prove not only unavailing, Scotland, and Ireland." Of the articles which follow this but aggravate or provoke the accession of some new and introductory one, we pronounce briefly as follows:more grievous affliction. The author of the present work, that which is entitled "American Poetry," is superficial; convinced of this fact, has given a very brief and clear "The Philosophy of Catholicism" is laboured, but obscure, view of the structure and economy of the human body, and not very satisfactory; the translation of "Richter's -the knowledge of which must at all times prove useful, Review of Madame de Stael's Allemagné” is interestand may almost be regarded as indispensable to every well ing; Captain Basil Hall's paper on Mechanics' Institutes educated and enlightened man. He has next adverted to has already appeared in print; "A Legend of Macalister the management of children,—the regulation of regimen More" is pretty good; "On Poetical Genius" is pompand diet in after life,-cold and warm bathing,-exercise, ous and rather common-place; "On Architectural Deand other matters; all of which he has treated with very sign and Decoration" is by a man who understands his considerable skill. The chapter on climate is also deser-subject, and is one of the best essays in the number; ving of particular attention. We do not think it neces"Hora Gallica, No. I." is pretty well; "The Hurons, sary to give any extracts from this work, but conscien- a Canadian Tale," by Galt, is ditto; "West Indian tiously recommend it to the attention of our readers. Sketches, No. I." ditto; the review of Mr Robert Montgomery's "Satan" is spirited and good; the review of Mr Hamilton's "Annals of the Peninsular Campaign" is also good, and takes nearly the same view of the work as that which we ourselves entertain; the "Remarkable Vision of Charles XI. of Sweden" is assez bien ; the concluding paper, "On Dramatic Taste," is poor. original poetry is only respectable. On the whole, there is cleverness in the work, but not enough of it. However, we never make up our mind on a first number.

The Gairloch Heresy Tried, in a Letter to the Rev. J. M.
Campbell of Row; and a Sermon, &c. By the Rev.
Robert Burns, D.D., Minister of St George's, Paisley.
Paisley. 1830. Pp. 82.

serves.

THE ROW Heresy, as it is somewhat affectedly called, has, we think, already received more attention than it deThe doctrines, whether new or old, of universal pardon, unconditional freeness, and absolute assurance, though sufficiently detestable, are not very likely to become popular in this country; and certainly no cause, except that of self-evident truth, could hope to prosper in the hands of such feeble advocates as Mr Erskine and the Rev. Mr Campbell. We think, therefore, that Dr Thomson, Dr Burns, and other respectable clergymen of our church, might employ their time and their talents more profitably to their flocks, than by amusing the idle, and gratifying the curious, with philippics against this silly heresy. If the minister of Row really holds—and we are convinced he does-doctrines inconsistent with those of the church which claims his fealty, and at the same time wants the common honesty to resign the charge committed to him by that church, then let him be ejected, as a matter of course, and let his bishoprick be given to a more orthodox divine, and a more honest man.

At the same time, we are aware that there are some who take a deeper interest in this controversy, and apprehend greater danger from the new doctrines than we do. To such, we commend Dr Burns's little pamphlet. The Letter is well written, and the Sermon is still better; the reasoning in both is perspicuous, and often forcible; the texts quoted from Scripture are numerous, but they are generally apposite, and quite conclusive against the Gairloch doctrines; they ought to convince every reasonable being who admits Scripture to be the rule of faith. But we think Dr Burns is wrong, if he expects that reasoning, however just and unanswerable, will dissipate the delusion of the self-righteous gentlemen, who have boldly plunged into mysticism, and wrapped themselves comfortably in the mantle of unqualified assurance.

The

Parochial Psalmody; a New Collection of the most approved Psalm Tunes from the most eminent Composers. Including several Original Tunes, composed expressly for this Work. By J. P. Clark. Glasgow. John Cunningham. 1830.

THE schoolmaster is abroad, and why not in music as well as in mechanics, or any other of the arts and sciences? The march of improvement in music, however, has not kept pace with the march of mind. This may be said more particularly of sacred music; for whilst years are devoted to the study and practice of secular music, and hundreds of pounds expended on tuition and instruments, in almost every family of respectability, sacred music seems to be quite overlooked. Now, that sacred is by far the finest and most sublime music we hope few will deny; and to us it appears a paradox that people otherwise of cultivated and liberal minds, should seem to set themselves against its study and improvement. The state of music in our churches, at the present day, shows plainly the neglect under which it has fallen;-to a person of musical taste, the exhibitions there are more calculated to excite languor, if not contempt, than inspire devotional feelings. What should be done in order to remedy this defect, is a question easier asked than answered. But we are glad to see the attempts made by individuals, from time to time, to call the attention of the public to the subject, and the contributions that are occasionally made to the slender stores we already possess.

Under this impression, we feel pleasure in the appearance of a new Collection of Psalm Tunes, by a person who seems to understand the subject. The "Parochial