observed, "that in the course of a short life he had acquired a degree of knowledge which the ordinary faculties of man, if they were blest with antediluvian longevity, could scarcely hope to surpass. His learning threw light on the laws of Greece and India -on the general literature of Asia, and on the history of the family of nations." The character of Dr Leyden was, in too many respects, the very reverse of this. He had a strong passion for knowledge; but that passion was, unluckily, too much mixed with a fondness for display, and he could not fully enjoy his knowledge, unless he could get all the world to admire it. This restless love of distinction drove him from one study to another, as if he were afraid of being reckoned ignorant of any thing; and he had scarcely entered on one pursuit, till he darted away with feverish impatience into another. He seems to have prosecuted his studies on no regular system-to have devoured and gorged every thing that came in his way, without fear of indigestion. The consequence was, that the growth of his mind was not in proportion to the vast quantity of victuals which it con sumed. It cannot be denied, and it ought to be acknowledged, that Leyden often affected to know much more than he did; and that he sometimes committed such gross and ludicrous blunders, as overwhelmed with confusion every body but himself. He possessed but a very imperfect knowledge, indeed, of any of the languages of modern Europe; and though he talked of “passing muster with Dr Parr," all who knew Leyden were aware that he was no Grecian. Now, people are apt to feel some suspicion of a vain and blundering man; and they who know how imperfect and superficial a scholar Leyden was in those languages, with which all men of education have some acquaintance, may be pardoned for withholding their full faith from that almost miraculous gift of tongues which descended upon him in the East. His genius for the acquisition of languages was no doubt very extraordinary; and, as he finally relinquished every thing for the study of oriental literature, history, and laws, had he lived, it is likely that he might have thrown considerable light on the dark ness in which they still lie enveloped. But Leyden never could have become a sure guide; for it was the radical defect of his intellect, that it was satisfied with glimpses of truth-with partial openings in the darkness, instead of the cloudless lustre of the disencumbered sky-as if he had believed that the fields of knowledge were to be taken and kept possession of by sudden and transitory inroads. We are well aware, that by these general observations, we may be offending the admirers of this most enthusiastic and meritorious person; and no doubt it would require more room than we can now spare, to prove that our observations are just. Yet though we may be accused of under-rating the literary character of Leyden, in denying that he was a wonderful scholar at all, we are not afraid that any competent judge will blame us for exposing the absurd injustice which they shew to the memory of the acute, dashing, headlong, and fearless Borderer,-who are so grossly ignorant both of his merits and demerits-his knowledge and his ignorance-as to set him up in rivalry with perhaps the greatest scholar that the world ever produced. Had Leyden lived for ever, he had not a mind sufficiently accurate and comprehensive to master the knowledge acquired by Sir William Jones. Of the poetical genius of Leyden, it is not possible for us to speak in terms of very high praise. He wrote verses because it was necessary that a man of talents should be able to do every thing. It has been attempted to place him among the poets of Scotland; but, though not acknowledged, it seems to be very generally felt that he was not a poet. No one ever heard a line of his quoted, except perhaps by some affectionate friend of his youth; and has a dwelling-place in the heart of no fancy or feeling in his versifications his country! he had no imagination-and no profound feeling. He gives long and laboured descriptions of the days of chivalry; and we feel indeed that the days of chivalry are gone, not to be restored by such a minstrel. The inspiration of a poet is one thing, and the animation of a moss-trooper is another. No doubt Leyden was a genuine Borderer, and consciously proud of the heroic character of old Border chiefs. But he would have handled a pike much better than a harp, and fought a battle better than he has ever described one. He could write a tolerable ballad; for even in the olden time, goodish ballads were, we suspect, occasionally written by very unpoetical personages; but with all the pains he took, and these were not small, John Leyden never made any near approach to the character of a true poet. The Scenes of Infancy," is one of the heaviest descriptive poems in our language, and that is saying much. -It is impossible to know whether the poet is on the right or left bank of the Teviot-whether he is walking up or down the banks of that celebrated stream. And then, though minutely local as any Minister in the Statistical History of Scotland, his muse is ever and anon expanding her wings, and flying to the uttermost parts of the earth. His great object seems to have been, to make the poem big enough-which it would have been had it consisted of one short part instead of four long ones. We have repeatedly looked through and through this poem for one fine passage but have met with none which seem to be of that character. In some passages, it is not easy to say what is wanting--for the versification is sonorous-and the imagery profuse. But certain it is, that the soul of poetry is not there-and without that, the pencil of Leyden may touch and retouch the canvass for ever, without a picture being created. Yet some descriptions there are which have been greatly admired, and these we shall select-happy if our readers, on perusing them, shall dissent from our critical opinions. "On such an eve as this, so mild and clear, I saw the thin-spread clouds of summer lie, In mournful murmurs o'er the warrior's grave. of fancifulness in all this passage to There seems to us to be just enough destroy utterly all natural pathos and truth, without kindling in their room any emotions of a higher character. To others it may seem beautiful. It is not possible to believe, that any true poet would thus have written of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray-yet the following cold and artificial description we have heard talked of with unbounded admiration. Two beauteous maids the dire infection shun, Where Dena's valley fronts the southern sun; While friendship sweet, and love's delight ful power, With fern and rushes thatch'd their summer-bower. When spring invites the sister-friends to stray, One graceful youth, companion of their way, Bars their retreat from each obtrusive eye, And bids the lonely hours unheeded fly, Leads their light steps beneath the hazel spray, Where moss-lin'd boughs exclude the blaze of day, And ancient rowans mix their berries red With nuts, that cluster brown above their head He, mid the writhing roots of elms, that lean O'er oozy rocks of ezlar, shagg'd and green, Collects pale cowslips for the faithful pair, And braids the chaplet round their flowing hair, And for the lovely maids alternate burns, As love and friendship take their sway by turns. Ah! hapless day, that from this blest retreat Their cheeks to his the grateful virgins raise, And only lives to hear their latest sigh. A veil of leaves the redbreast o'er them threw, Ere thrice their locks were wet with evening dew. There the blue ring-dove coos with ruffling wing, And sweeter there the throstle loves to sing; The woodlark breathes in softer strain the VOW; And love's soft burthen flies from bough to bough. Leyden wrote an historical essay on fairy superstition-but we cannot see much beauty in the following description of fairy-land. It wants the wild touches of the Ettrick Shepherd. By every thorn along the woodland damp, The tiny glow-worm lights her emerald lamp, Like the shot-star, whose yet unquenched light Studs with faint gleam the raven vest of night. The fairy ring-dance now round Eildon-tree, Moves to wild strains of elfin minstrelsy: On glancing step appears the fairy queen; The printed grass beneath springs soft and green Ah! could a mortal trust the fairy queen! In iron sleep the minstrel lies forlorn, His description of the spectre-ship, which has been praised by Walter Scott in his notes to Rokeby, but unluckily far surpassed by a picture of the same superstition in the poem itself, is perhaps the best thing Leyden ever wrote. It has two or three picturesque lines; yet, after all, the said but little different from one of his ship, with its crew of ghosts, seems Majesty's vessels with her usual compliment of men and boys. There is nothing of that spirit of superstitious fear thrown over it that attends the ship in which Coleridge's Ancient Mariner drives along through the snowstorm. Stout was the ship, from Benin's palmy shore That first the freight of barter'd captives bore: Bedimni'd with blood, the sun with shrink ing beams Beheld her bounding o'er the ocean-streams; But, ere the moon her silver horns had rear'd, Amid the crew the speckled plague appear'd. Faint and despairing on their watery bier, To every friendly shore the sailors steer; Repell'd from port to port they sue in vain, And track with slow unsteady sail the main. Where ne'er the bright and buoyant wave is seen To streak with wandering foam the sea weeds green, Towers the tall mast, a lone and leafless tree; Till, self-impell'd, amid the waveless sea, Where summer breezes ne'er were heard to Scenting the storm, the shadowy sailors guide The prow, with sails opposed to wind and tide. The spectre-ship, in livid glimpsing light, Glares baleful on the shuddering watch at night, Unblest of God and man!-Till time shall end, Its view strange horror to the storm shall lend. We hardly think that our readers would be greatly obliged to us for more extracts of this kind, so we refer them to the volume itself. Some of the miscellaneous verses seem better than any thing in the "Scenes of Infancy; and there is considerable sweetness and delicacy in the Ode to Scottish Music. TO JANTHE. Again, sweet syren! breathe again Whose melting tones of tender woe The Celtic warrior's parted shade: Ah! sure, as Hindú legends tell, Immur'd in mortal forms to mourn. Or if, as ancient sages ween, Can mingle with the mortal throng; "Tis when from heart to heart we roll The deep-ton'd music of the soul, That warbles in our Scottish song. I hear, I hear, with awful dread, They leave the amber fields of day: 'Now break,' she cries, 'ye fairy charms!' As round she sails with fond alarms, Now break, and set my true love free!' Lord Barnard is to greenwood gone, Where fair Gil Morrice sits alone, And careless combs his yellow hair. Ah! mourn the youth, untimely slain ! The meanest of Lord Barnard's train The hunter's mangled head must bear. Or, change these notes of deep despair For love's more soothing tender air; Sing how, beneath the greenwood tree, For any knight the fair could see. As slow she rais'd her languid eye. Like evening's dewy star her eye; White as the sca-mew's downy breast, Borne on the surge's foamy crest, Her graceful bosom heav'd the sigh. Remember'd like a morning dream, Along the banks of Teviot's stream. Sweet sounds! that oft have sooth'd to rest The sorrows of my guileless breast, Aud charm'd away mine infant tears: That in the wild the traveller hears. To visit Syria's date-crown'd shore, SKETCHES OF SCENERY IN SAVOY, SWITZERLAND, AND THE ALPS. Lake of Geneva. (Continued from Vol. IV. page 582.) "Ir the borders of this lake are not so beautiful as those of the Italian lakes, they are, upon the whole, much more deeply interesting; both from the unrivalled grandeur that is combined and contrasted with their beauty, and from the rich and inexhaustible world of associations that is con nected with and dependent upon them. "You will not expect, my dear C-, that I shall be able to write you any very sober, plodding, prose descriptions from such a place as this, surrounded and glorified as it is by all that is bright and beautiful, as well in imagination as reality; and the powers that it derives from these two distinct sources so bound and blended together, as to make it almost impossible that one who is open to the influence of both, should be able to give its due share to either. While I stand in the presence of these two powers, I find I can do little else but admire and exclaim; and now that I am sitting at my writing-table thinking of them and of you, I'm afraid I shall be able to do little more. "Here dwelt that mysterious being who was made up of all kinds of contradictions-that living paradox, Rousseau. A man who was formed for friendship, and yet never had or could have a friend;-whose soul was the very birth-place and cradle of love, and yet who never loved any thing but a shadow or a dream;-whose spirit could never taste of true happiness but when it was pouring itself forth into the bosom of another, and yet never once found a kindred or confident, till it was forced at last to make one of all the world collectively: the very worst it could have chosen; and this, too, at a time when the very best it could have found would have come too late-the purest, the sincerest, and most eloquent worshipper of nature, and of God, and yet at times-(I shrink from confessing it, and yet I must confess it)-at times the meanest and most paltry of mankind. Here he used to wander and meditate and dream. Here, at least, he was pure and peaceful, if not happy. And here it is that I delight to think of and watch and accompany him. The moment he sets his foot within the walls of a city I am obliged to quit him; for then his spirits sink, his heart shrinks inward to an obscure corner of his breast, his earthly blood begins to ferment, and poor, pitiful, bodily self steps forth, and with its soiled and misty mantle, covers and conceals all things; or so totally changes their forms and colours and sounds, that his eyes and ears can no longer do their office for him; and thus blind VOL. V. and helpless and miserable, he either lies at the mercy of those who have no mercy, or, in despair, plunges into the throng, and becomes as mean and as wicked as the rest. It must have been a most painful and affecting spectacle to have seen Rousseau when his course of life brought him in contact with the great world; for of all men that ever lived he was the least fitted to associate with it, and yet had the least power to leave it. He was "infirm of purpose," and had none of that proud strength of will which has enabled a celebrated countryman of of ours to contemn and trample on, and then quit, with a lofty disdain, a society of beings in whose passions and pursuits he found himself unable to feel a sympathy, or to take a share. However we may doubt the justice of this disdain, or call in question his right to entertain it, we cannot but acknowledge that there is something grand in the unhesitating expression of it. If we do not admire, we cannot despise, still less pity it. But Rousseau-the poor, frail, feeble, Rousseau,-struggling in the toils and yet totally unable to burst them-must have been, with all his faults, an object of the truest and deepest commiseration. There he lay-fettered and imprisoned-groaning beneath his bondage, without patience to bear or strength to break it—and every struggle fastening the chains still more closely about him-till at length the iron entered into his heart and brain, and corroding there, drove him to destraction-for such was undoubtedly his condition at last. "Here, however, in the presence of this beautiful water-floating upon its bosom, or climbing the mountains that line its shores-here he was wise and good, and (I must think it) happy. "I took little notice of Geneva, the birth-place of Rousseau; for we were not staying there, but at Secheron, about a mile from it. I did not even inquire for the house in which he was born; for there are no very pleasant associations connected with his earliest youth. But the left bank of the lake from Geneva seems, as it were, to belong to him, and to the imaginary beings with which he has every where peopled it. And fortunately they are imaginary ones, so that we do not see them, or even fancy that B |