While

On

He was about this time placed on two | finished, the author was dead. commissions, the first for reforming the the "History of Scotland" was entering on grammars used in parish schools, and the the platform of the public to be hailed second for remodelling the system of edu- with loud applause, the soul of the histocation in the universities, in both of which rian was stepping into a grander theatre he proved of essential service. In 1579 to receive, let us trust, a Crown of Life, he published his tractate, entitled "De which shall never fade away. At five in Jure Regni apud Scotos," a treatise which the morning on the 28th of September, Brutus would have worshipped for its he expired. One of his last questions to noble freedom of political doctrine, and his servant was, if there were money Quinctilian admired for the exquisite La- enough in his coffers to bury him. tinity of its style. hearing there was not enough, he told Buchanan had long projected and even him to give what there was to the poor, begun writing a History of Scotland, but and that, as for his body he cared not, was retarded in his progress by his wan- they might suffer him to lie where he dering and unsettled life at one period, was, or throw out his corpse where they and afterwards by the overwhelming pres- pleased. He was buried, however, in the sure of public business. At last, how- Greyfriars, at the expense of the city of ever, notwithstanding the load of years Edinburgh. No tombstone was erected and the attack of various diseases, he over his dust, but long afterwards_au pushed it forward to a conclusion. It obelisk, 103 feet in height, was erected to appeared almost at the very moment of his memory in his native parish of Kilhis death. Its dedication to the king is learn. dated August 29th, 1582, and he died on Friday the 28th of September following. As the end drew near, Andrew Melvin, James Melvin, and his cousin Thomas Buchanan, visited the old Titan, and found him teaching a young man the hornbook. "I perceive, sir," said A. Melvin, "that you are not idle."Better this," replied he, "than stealing sheep, or sitting idle, which is as bad." He showed them his dedication to the king, and said he could make it no better, having a higher business to attend to. They asked what that was. "To die," was the solemn answer. They went thence to the printing-office, to glance over the sheets of his History. Finding an unguarded passage in reference to Rizzio's funeral, they hurried ment political partisans, powerful proseback to remonstrate with the author, whom they found now in bed. They told him the expressions he used would anger the king, and perhaps lead him to suppress the whole work. "Tell me, man," said Buchanan, "if I have told the truth." -"Undoubtedly, sir," replied his cousin. Then," rejoined he, "I will abide his feud and all his kin's." There spoke the spirit of an ancient Gael, and of one who, like John Knox, never feared the face of man! By the time the printing was

Our space in this article has been limited, and our general remarks at the close must be few. We have called Buchanan the Johnson of Scotland; and so he was, in his combination of strong imagination and acute intellect; in his preference for, and proficiency in, the Latin tongue; in his lively, although coarse, humour; in his conversational powers; in his decision of character and daring of speech; in his rough manners, disguising a warm and generous heart. All Dr Johnson wanted to constitute him a Buchanan, were activity of character and liberality of view; and Buchanan unfortunately, on the other hand, had no Boswell! Both were "good haters," vehe

writers, elegant, if not very original, poets; both had been excellent dominies in their day, and were truehearted, honest Christian men, if not always consistent in their conduct, or guarded in their language. Buchanan's versatility, as we hinted above, was extraordinary, and yet has, perhaps, detracted from the general impression of the depth of his powers. It is not willingly believed by an envious world-a world, too, which has some excuse for its envy, from the frequency with which it

has been deceived that a man playing fully written, displays in the beginning many parts can be perfect in all. And much of the descriptive power and the yet in what field has Buchanan not ex- rich flowing garb of style which distincelled? We have seen him already as a guished Livy; and toward the close, is good dramatist, a first-rate satirist, a animated with all that spirit of subliworthy translator of the highest and ho- mated partisanship, and all that force liest poetry, and an eloquent expounder and fervour of moral indignation, which of the principles of civil and religious mark the pages of Tacitus, and, in a liberty. But he was, besides, a lyric and subordinate degree, of Sallust. elegiac poet of no ordinary merit. His Altogether, when we consider Buchaode on the First of May is of that high nan's almost universal genius and colossal order of the beautiful, which, as if by na- claims, we are forced keenly to regret tural process, buds into the sublime. His that we have not had time to do greater elegies, with less tenderness than their justice to his merits; that we cannot, in name would import, are singularly finished supply of our necessary lack of service, and felicitous. Even his juvenile produc- refer our readers to any better life of him tions, highly coloured as they are, and than that of Irving, which, though full of too redolent of joy and youth, are full of facts, has little true insight, and less elopoetry. And his history-although not quence or enthusiasm; and that the lanprobably what it might have been had he guage in which he has written his best written it at his leisure amidst academic works is likely long to form a "false mebowers, or possessed a profounder insight dium" between the Scottish public and into the principles of historical composi- one of the very greatest of their men of tion-besides being throughout beauti-genius.

SHAKSPERE.-A LECTURE.*

Ir a clergyman, thirty years ago, had niality, breadth, and power, in the midst announced a lecture on Shakspere, he of our society and literature. He is might, as a postscript, have announced among us like an unseen ghost, colourthe resignation of his charge, if not the ing our language, controlling our impresabandonment of his office. Times are sions, if not our thoughts, swaying our now changed, and men are changed along imaginations, sweetening our tempers, with them. The late Dr Hamilton of refining our tastes, purifying our manLeeds, one of the most pious and learned ners, and effecting all this by the simple clergymen in England, has left, in his magic of his genius, and through a me"Nugæ Literariæ," a genial paper on dium-that of dramatic writing and reShakspere, and was never, so far as I presentation-originally the humblest, know, challenged thereanent. And if you ask me one reason of this curious change, I answer, it is the long-continued presence of the spirit of Shakspere, in all its ge

and not yet the highest, form in which poetry and passion have chosen to exhibit themselves. Waiving, at present, the consideration of Shakspere in his formthe dramatist, let us look at him now in his essence-the poet. But, first, does any one ask, What is a poet? What is the ideal of the somewhat indefinite, but large and swelling term-poet? I answer, the greatest poet is the man who most roundly, clearly, easily, and strikingly reflects, represents, and reproduces, in an

does not divide and analyse his light— but simply shows him as he appears to her in the full crown-royal of his beams. It follows still farther, that the attitude of the true poet is exceedingly simple and sublime. He is not an inquirer, asking curious questions at the universe-not a tyrant speculator, applying to it the splendid torture of investigation; his attitude is that of admiration, reception, and praise. He loves, looks, is enlightened, and shines even as a planet receives and renders back the light of his parent sun.

imaginative form, his own sight or obser- former tries to trace things to their causes, vation, his own heart or feeling, his own and to see them as a great naked abstract history or experience, his own memory or scheme, poetry catches them as they are, knowledge, his own imagination or dream in the concrete, and with all their verdure -sight, heart, history, memory, and ima- and flush about them; for even philosogination, which, so far as they are faith-phical truths, ere poetry will reflect them, fully represented from his consciousness, must be personified into life, and thus do also reflect the consciousness of gene- fitted to stand before her mirror. The ral humanity. The poet is more a mir- ocean does not act as a prism to the sun ror than a maker; he may, indeed, unite with his reflective power others, such as that of forming, infusing into his song, and thereby glorifying a particular creed or scheme of speculation; but, just as surely as a rainbow, rising between two opposing countries or armies, is no bulwark, so the real power of poetry is not in conserving, nor in resisting, nor in supporting, nor in destroying, but in meekly and fully reflecting, and yet re-creating and beautifying all things. Poetry, said Aristotle, is imitation; this celebrated aphorism is only true in one acceptation. If, then, the greatest poet be the widIf it mean that poetry is in the first in- est, simplest, and clearest reflector of nastance prompted by a conscious imitation ture and man, surely we may claim this of the beautiful, which gradually blossoms high honour for Shakspere the eighth into the higher shape of unconscious re- wonder of the world. "Of all men," says semblance, we demur. But if by imita- Dryden, "he had the largest and most tion is meant the process by which love comprehensive soul!" You find everyfor the beautiful in art or nature, at first thing included in him, just as you find silent and despairing as the child's af- that the blue sky folds around all things, fection for the star, strengthens, and and after every new discovery made in strengthens still, till the admired quality her boundless domains, seems to retire is transfused into the very being of the quietly back into her own greatness, like admirer, who then pours it back in elo- a queen, and to say, "I am richer than quence or in song, so sweetly and melodiously, that it seems to be flowing from an original fountain in his own breast; if this be the meaning of the sage when he says that poetry is imitation, he is surely right. Poetry is just the saying Amen, with a full heart and a clear voice, to the varied symphonies of nature, as they echo through the vaulted and solemn aisles of the poet's own soul.

It follows, from this notion of poetry, that in it there is no such thing as absolute origination or creation; its Be-Light simply evolves the element which already has existed amidst the darkness-it does not call it into existence. It follows, again, that the grand distinction between philosophy and poetry is, that while the

all my possessions." Shakspere never suggests the thought of being exhausted, any more than the sigh of an Eolian lyre, as the breeze is spent, intimates that the mighty billows of the air shall surge no more. Responsive as such a lyre to all the sweet or strong influences of nature, she must cease to speak, ere he can cease to respond. I can never think of that great brow of his, but as a clear lake-looking-glass, on which, when you gaze, you see all passions, persons, and hearts: here, suicides striking their own breasts, there, sailors staggering upon drunken shores; here, kings sitting in purple, and there, clowns making mouths behind their backs; here, demons in the shape of men, and there, angels in the

form of women; here, heroes bending | though it had not yet, like him, mounted their mighty bows, and there, hangmen its chariot of general circulation, and been adjusting their greasy ropes; here, witches carried in triumphal progress through the picking poisons, and culling infernal sim- land. The copies of the Scriptures, for ples for their caldron, and there, joiners the most part, were confined to the liand weavers enacting their piece of very braries of the learned, or else chained in tragical mirth, amid the moonlight of the churches. Conceive the impetus given to Midsummer Night's Dream;" here, the poetical genius of the country, by the statesmen uttering their "ancient saws," sudden discovery of this spring of loftiest and there, watchmen, finding "modern poetry-conceive it by supposing that instances" amid the belated revellers of Shakspere's works had been buried for the streets; here, misanthropes cursing ages, and been dug up now. Literature their day, and there, pedlars making in general had revived; and the soul of merry with the lasses and lads of the vil- man, like an eagle newly fledged, and lage fair; here, Mooncalfs, like Caliban, looking from the verge of her nest, was throwing forth eloquent curses and blas- smelling from afar many a land of prophemy, and there, maidens like Miranda, mise, and many a field of victory. Add "sole-sitting" by summer seas, beautiful to this, that a New World had recently as foam-bells of the deep; here, fairies been discovered; and if California and dancing like motes of glory across the Australia have come over us like a sumstage, and there, hush! it is the grave mer's (golden) cloud, and made not only that has yawned, and, lo! the buried ma- the dim eye of the old miser gleam with jesty of Denmark has joined the motley joy, and his hand, perhaps, relax its hold throng, which pauses for a moment to of present, in the view of prospective gold, tremble at his presence. Such the spec- but made many a young bosom, too, leap tacle presented on that great mirror! at the thought of adventure upon those How busy it is, and yet how still! How marvellous shores, and woven, as it were, melancholy, and yet how mirthful! Ma- a girdle of virgin gold round the solid gical as a dream, and yet sharp and dis-globe-what must have been the impulse tinct as a picture! How fluctuating, and the thrill, when first the bars of yet how fixed! "It trembles, but it ocean were broken up, when all customcannot pass away." It is the world-ary landmarks fled away, like the islands the world of every age-the miniature of of the Apocalyptic vision, and when in the universe!

their room a thousand lovely dreams The Times of Shakspere require a mi- seemed retiring, and beckoning as they nute's notice in our hour's analysis of his retired, toward isles of palms, and valleys genius. They were times of a vast up- of enchantment, and mountains ribbed heaving in the public mind. Protestan- with gold, and seas of perfect peace and tism, that strong man-child, had newly sparkling silver, and in the distance imbeen born on the Continent, and was measurable savannahs and forests hid by making wild work in his cradle. Popery, the glowing west; and when, month after the ten-horned monster, was dying, but month, travellers and sailors were returndying hard; while over England there ing to testify by their tales of wonder lay what might be called a "dim religious that such dreams were true, must not light"-being neither the gross darkness such an ocean of imaginative influence of medieval Catholicism, nor the naked have deposited a rich residuum of genius? glare of Nonconformity—a light highly And that verily it did, the names of four favourable to the exercise of imagination men belonging to this period are enough -in which dreams seemed realised, and to prove: these are, need I say? Edmund in which realities were softened with the Spenser, Walter Raleigh, Francis Bacon, haze of dreams. The Book of God had and William Shakspere. been brought forth, like Joseph from his dungeon, freed from prison attire, al

The Life of Shakspere I do not seek to write, and do not profess to understand,

imaginative form, his own sight or obser- | former tries to trace things to their causes, vation, his own heart or feeling, his own and to see them as a great naked abstract history or experience, his own memory or scheme, poetry catches them as they are, knowledge, his own imagination or dream in the concrete, and with all their verdure —sight, heart, history, memory, and ima- and flush about them; for even philosogination, which, so far as they are faith-phical truths, ere poetry will reflect them, fully represented from his consciousness, must be personified into life, and thus do also reflect the consciousness of gene- fitted to stand before her mirror. The ral humanity. The poet is more a mir- ocean does not act as a prism to the sun ror than a maker; he may, indeed, unite-does not divide and analyse his lightwith his reflective power others, such as but simply shows him as he appears to that of forming, infusing into his song, her in the full crown-royal of his beams. and thereby glorifying a particular creed It follows still farther, that the attitude or scheme of speculation; but, just as of the true poet is exceedingly simple and surely as a rainbow, rising between two sublime. He is not an inquirer, asking opposing countries or armies, is no bul- curious questions at the universe-not a wark, so the real power of poetry is not tyrant speculator, applying to it the splenin conserving, nor in resisting, nor in sup- did torture of investigation; his attitude porting, nor in destroying, but in meekly is that of admiration, reception, and praise. and fully reflecting, and yet re-creating He loves, looks, is enlightened, and shines and beautifying all things. Poetry, said—even as a planet receives and renders Aristotle, is imitation; this celebrated back the light of his parent sun. aphorism is only true in one acceptation. If, then, the greatest poet be the widIf it mean that poetry is in the first in- est, simplest, and clearest reflector of nastance prompted by a conscious imitation ture and man, surely we may claim this of the beautiful, which gradually blossoms high honour for Shakspere-the eighth into the higher shape of unconscious re- wonder of the world. "Of all men," says semblance, we demur. But if by imita- Dryden, "he had the largest and most tion is meant the process by which love comprehensive soul!" You find everyfor the beautiful in art or nature, at first thing included in him, just as you find silent and despairing as the child's af- that the blue sky folds around all things, fection for the star, strengthens, and and after every new discovery made in strengthens still, till the admired quality her boundless domains, seems to retire is transfused into the very being of the quietly back into her own greatness, like admirer, who then pours it back in elo- a queen, and to say, "I am richer than quence or in song, so sweetly and melo- all my possessions." Shakspere never diously, that it seems to be flowing from an original fountain in his own breast; if this be the meaning of the sage when he says that poetry is imitation, he is surely right. Poetry is just the saying Amen, with a full heart and a clear voice, to the varied symphonies of nature, as they echo through the vaulted and solemn aisles of the poet's own soul.

It follows, from this notion of poetry, that in it there is no such thing as absolute origination or creation; its Be-Light simply evolves the element which already has existed amidst the darkness-it does not call it into existence. It follows, again, that the grand distinction between philosophy and poetry is, that while the

suggests the thought of being exhausted, any more than the sigh of an Æolian lyre, as the breeze is spent, intimates that the mighty billows of the air shall surge no more. Responsive as such a lyre to all the sweet or strong influences of nature, she must cease to speak, ere he can cease to respond. I can never think of that great brow of his, but as a clear lake-looking-glass, on which, when you gaze, you see all passions, persons, and hearts: here, suicides striking their own breasts, there, sailors staggering upon drunken shores; here, kings sitting in purple, and there, clowns making mouths behind their backs; here, demons in the shape of men, and there, angels in the