parison with the Forum, the Public has all the sensitive delicacy of a pri vate person.

But lest I should be suspected of exaggeration who composed the select society of the Niddry Street Forum? Young grocers, redolent of cheese, comfits, and tallow-candles, who dealt out their small, greasy, fetid sentences, as if they were serving a penny customer across the counter with something odious in brown paper,-precocious apprentices, one of whom, in all proba bility, had made or mended the president's unpaid breeches,-occasional young men obviously of little or no profession, who rose, looked wildly round them, muttered, sunk, and were seen no more, now and then a blunt bluff but cher-like block-head,routing like a bull ona market-day in the Grass Market,stray students of medicine from the sis ter-island, booming like bitterns in the bog of Allen,-long-faced lads from Professor Paxton, dissenters from every thing intelligible among men,-laymen from Leeds, and Birmingham, Hull, and Halifax, inspired with their red port wines, and all stinking like foxes of the strong Henglish-accent, pert, prim, prating personages, who are seen going in, and coming out of the Parliament House, nobody knows why, or where fore,-mealy-mouthed middle-aged men, of miscellaneous information, masters of their matter, all cut and dry, distinguished as private pedagogues, great as grinders, and powerful in extemporaneous prayer, now and then a shrivelled mummy, apparently of the reign of George the II. with dry dusty leathern palate, seen joining in the debate,stickit ministers who have settled down into book-binders, compositors, or amanuenses to some gentlemen literarily disposed,-apothecaries deep in dog-latin, and tenderly attached to words of six or eight syllables, such as latitudinarianism,-a sprinkling of moist members from mason-lodges, drop ping in when the discussion is about half-seas-over, and finally, for there is no end to this, a few players and scene-shifters, (for on Friday night the theatre is shut,) assiduous in their noble endeavours to revive the study of Shakespeare, and making the Forum resound with screeds of blank verse, out of mouths as unmerciful as leaden spouts on a rainy day.

the Forum, where Hogg learned to feel the pulse, and gauge the swallow of the Edinburgh public. "Here it was, quoth the swineherd, "that the smallest departure from good taste was sure to draw down disapproval !!!!!!!!! !!!!!" No doubt, even in the Forum, it was possible to go too far, and Hogg was, I know, often hissed. It is said, that even among apes and monkeys, there are rules of good breeding, and that the better bred ones are often excessively irritated at the mews and chattering of their less decorous brethren of Ape kind.

But the truth is, that Hogg never could speak at all in the Forum. He used to read ribald rhymes about marriage and other absurdities, off whitybrown paper, stuck up on a niche, with a farthing candle on each side of him, which he used to snuff in great trepidation, with his finger and thumb instantly applied to his cooling mouth, in the midst of the most pathetic pas sages, cheered by shouts of derisive applause that startled Dugald M'Glashan and his cadies beneath the shadow of the Tron-Kirk. He has no more command of language than a Highlander had of breeches before the 45; and his chief figure of speech consisted in a twist of his mouth, which might certainly at times be called eloquent. He had recourse to this view of the subject, whenever he found himself fairly planted, so that a deaf spectator of the debate would have supposed him stuck up in a hole in the wall to make ugly faces, and would have called for a horse-collar. Was that a situation in which "the smallest deviation from good taste would have drawn down disapproval ?"

On the decline and fall of the Forum, James Hogg looked once more abroad over the world, and, his brilliant career of oratory being closed, Poetry once more opened her arms to receive his embrace, He wrote the Queen's Wake; and wishing to astonish some of his friends with a rehearsal, the following scene is described as taking place.

"Having some ballads or metrical tales I planned the Queen's Wake, in order past me, which I did not like to lose, that I might take these all in, and had it ready in a few months after it was first proposed. I was very anxious to read it to some person of taste, but no one would

save Grieve, who assured me it would do. As I lived at Deanhaugh then, I invited Mr and Mrs Gray to drink tea, and to read a part of it with me before offering it for publication. Unluckily, however, before I had read half a page, Mrs Gray objected to a word, which Grieve approved of and defended, and some high disputes arose ; other authors were appealed to, and notwithstanding my giving several very broad hints, I could not procure a hearing for another line of my new poem. Indeed, I was sorely disappointed, and told my friends so on going away; on which another day was appointed, and I brought my manuscript to Buccleuch Place. Mr Gray had not got through the third page, when he was told that an itinerant bard was come into the lobby, and repeating his poetry to the boarders. Mr Gray went out and joined them, leaving me alone wish a young lady, to read, or not, as we liked. In about half an hour, he sent a request for me likewise to come: on which I went, and heard a poor crazy beggar repeating such miserable

stuff as I had never heard before. I was terribly affronted; and putting my manuscript in my pocket, jogged my way home in very bad humour. Gray has sometimes tried to deny the truth of this anecdote, and to face me out of it, but it would not do. I never estimated him the less as a friend; but I did not forget it, in one point of view; for I never read any more new poems to him."

Some of the ballads in the Queen's Wake are tolerable imitations of Scott, and the old traditionary poetry of Scotland. But who the devil cares a jot for Mr Hogg's negociation about it with Constable, and Miller, and Murray, and Goldie, and Blackwood? All the world knows that booksellers are the most selfish and crafty of their sex; and that poor poets are the most ignorant, absurd, and unreasonable of theirs. Poetry is a drug; even goodish decent poetry wont sell; and therefore I blame no publisher for behaving as ill as possible to any poet. Of the publishers aforesaid, Constable seems to have been amused with the matchless stupidity and vanity of Hogg, but to have behaved to him, on the whole, with much good nature and due liberality. Miller seems to have intended to publish the Pilgrims of the Sun, but got frightened at Hogg's uncouth appearance, and the universal rumours of his incapacity. Murray seems to have awoke out of a dream, and on recovering his senses, to have cut the Shepherd in his easiest manner. Of Blackwood, it would be unbecoming me to speak with either praise

or censure in his own Magazine. But this I will say, that if he had offered, or will yet offer, to pay me as well as he has paid Hogg, I will become one of the best periodical writers in this

country.

But let us hear what he says further with regard to the Queen's Wake.

"This address gave me a little confidence, and 1 faced my acquaintances one by one; and every thing that I heard was laudatory. The first report of any work that goes abroad, be it good or bad, spreads like fire set to a hill of heather in a warm spring day, and no one knows where it will stop. From that day forward every one has spoken well of the work; and every review praised its general features, save the Electic, which, in the number for 1813, tried to hold it up to ridicule and contempt. Mr Jeffrey ventured not a word about it, either good or bad, himself, until the year after, when it had fairly got into a second and third edition. He then gave a very judicious and sensible review of it; but he committed a most horrible blunder, in classing MrTennant, the author of Anster Fair, and me together, as two self-taught geniuses; whereas there is not one point of resemblance Tennant being a better educated man than the reviewer himself, was not a little affronted at being classsed with me. From that day to this Mr Jeffrey has taken no notice of any thing that I have published, which I think can hardly be expected to do him any honour at the long run. should like the worst poem that I have with some that he has strained himself to since published, to stand a fair comparison bring forward. It is a pity that any literary connexion, which with the one party might be unavoidable, should ever prejudice one valued friend and acquaintance against another. In the heart-burnings of party-spirit, the failings of great minds are more exposed than in all other things in the world put together."

*

I

Now, Christopher, you, and two or three other men in Scotland are entitled to cut up Mr Jeffrey. He is a man of real wit and cleverness, and deserves to be cut up. But he ought not to be haggled with a blunt jocteleg in the hands of a clown. There is something most laughable in a vulgar rhymster accusing Mr Jeffrey of delay in reviewing his worthless trash.

All the world saw that the critic wished to do a good-natured thing to the swine-herd, and to give him a lift above the sneers of the town. "He then gave a very sensible and judicious review of it!!" It was neither sensible nor judicious, nor was it meant to be so. It was a mere piece

of charitable bam-of amiable humbug; and Mr Jeffrey is a great deal too kind, in my opinion, in bepraising the small fry of poetasters, while he sends his harpoon into the backs of the lar ger poets, and laughs at beholding them floundering about with a mile of rope coiled round them. I never could see any more wickedness in Frank Jeffrey than in Christopher North; and I believe you both to be a couple of admirable fellows,-no men's enemies but your own, a little deficient in prudence and worldly wisdom; but gradually improving by age and infirmity, and likely to turn out, after all, useful and respectable members of society. I could not let this favourable opportunity pass without paying you both a well deserved compliment. Pray, where lay "the horrible blunder," in classing Mr Tennant, the author of Anster Fair, with Mr Hogg. Mr Jeffrey had never heard of Mr Tennant when he reviewed his poem. He did not speak of him as an ignorant, but a selfeducated man. And though this was not altogether the case, there was no horrible blunder in saying so. Mr Hogg is simply a fool, when he talks of Mr Tennant being a better educated man than Mr Jeffrey. Mr Jeffrey's education was complete, and he is a most accomplished scholar, though not yet a professor at Dollar Academy.

Mr Hogg goes on to narrate to the world the circumstances under which he composed his Mador of the Moor, Poetic Mirror, Dramatic Tales, and

other volumes.

sion did he marry any of the girls; and Mr Hogg ought not thus to defend morality at the expence of historical truth. A poet, above all men, should always stick to facts; and this young woman, who, he says, carried her husband, is altogether an imaginary Jacobite relic.

The Poetic Mirror is now lying before me, and two of the imitations of Wordsworth are admirable. But Hogg never wrote one syllable of them. They were written by Lord Byron, with an immense stack of bread and butter before him, and a basin of weak tea. Mr Pringle's little poem is pretty enough, but all the rest of the volume is most inhuman and merciless trash. Does Hogg believe, that if he were to steal Lord Byron's breeches and coat, and so forth, and walk along the Rialto, that the Venetian ladies would mistake him for his lordship? It is easier to play the fool than the lord, and, therefore, in one or two of his imitations, the swine-herd is more lucky. That of himself, for example, is a true specimen of the stye-school of poetry. I request you, Christopher, to look again at page 65. "Risum teneatis, amice?" Read it aloud, and believe your ears.

"I know not what wicked genius put it into my head, but it was then, in an evil hour, when I had determined on the side I was to espouse, that I wrote the Chaldee Manuscript, and transmitted it to Mr Blackwood from Yarrow. On first reading it, he never thought of publishing

it; but some of the rascals to whom he showed it, after laughing at it, by their own accounts till they were sick, persuaded him, nay, almost forced him to insert it; for some of them went so far as to tell him, that if he did not admit that inimitable article, they would never speak to him again so long as they lived."

There is a bouncer!-The Chaldee manuscript !-Why, no more did he write the Chaldee Manuscript than the five books of Moses.-Prove he wrote it, and I undertake to prove the moon green cheese, and eat a slice of it every morning before breakfast. I presume that Mr Hogg is also the author of Waverley.-He may say so if he chooses, without contradiction,— and he may also assert that he, and not Lord Wellington, fought the battle of Waterloo,-that he communicated the steam-engine to MrWatt,and was the original inventor of Day and Martin's patent blacking. It must be a delightful thing to have such fanG

cies as these in one's noddle;-but, on the subject of the Chaldee manuscript, let me now speak the truth. You your self, Kit, were learned respecting that article; and myself, Blackwood, and a reverend gentleman of this city, alone know the perpetrator. The unfortunate man is now dead, but delicacy to his friends makes me withhold his name from the public. It was the same person who murdered Begbie! Like Mr Bowles and Ali Pacha, he was a mild man, of unassuming manners, a scholar and a gentleman. It is quite a vulgar error to suppose him a ruffian. He was sensibility itself, and would not hurt a fly. But it was a disease with him "to excite public emotion." Though he had an amiable wife, and a vast family, he never was happy, unless he saw the world gaping like a stuck pig. With respect to his murdering Begbie, as it is called, he knew the poor man well, and had frequently given him both small sums of money, and articles of wearing apparel. But all at once it entered his brain, that, by putting him to death in a sharp, and clever, and mysterious manner, and seeming also to rob him of an immense number of bank notes, the city of Edinburgh would be thrown into a ferment of consternation, and there would be no end of the "public emotion," to use his own constant phrase on occasions of this nature. The scheme succeeded to a miracle. He stabbed Begbie to the heart, robbed the dead body in a moment, and escaped. But he never used a single stiver of the money, and was always kind to the widow of the poor man, who was rather a gainer by her husband's death. I have reason to believe that he ultimately regretted the act; but there can be no doubt that his enjoyment was great for many years, hearing the murder canvassed in his own presence, and the many absurd theories broached on the subject, which he could have overthrown by a single

word.

Mr wrote the Chaldee Manuscript precisely on the same principle on which he murdered Begbie; and he used frequently to be tickled at hearing the author termed an assassin. "Very true, very true," he used to say on such occasions, shrugging his shoulders with delight, "he is an assassin, sir; he murdered Begbie:"-and this sober truth would pass, at the time,

for a mere jeu-d'esprit,-for my friend was a humourist, and was in the habit of saying good things. The Chaldee was the last work, of the kind of which I have been speaking, that he lived to finish. He confessed it and the murder, the day before he died, to the gentleman specified, and was sufficiently penitent; yet, with that inconsistency not unusual with dying men, almost his last words were, (indistinctly mumbled to himself,) "It ought not to have been left out of the other editions."

After this plain statement, Hogg must look extremely foolish. We shall next have him claiming the murder likewise, I suppose; but he is totally incapable of either.

Now for another confounded boun

cer!

"From the time I gave up The Spy,' I had been planning with my friends to commence the publication of a Magazine on a new plan; but for several years, we only conversed about the utility of such a work, without doing any thing farther. mention it to Mr Thomas Pringle; when At length, among others. I chanced to I found that he and his friends had a plan in contemplation of the same kind. We agreed to join our efforts, and try to set it a-going; but, as I declined the editorship on account of residing mostly on my farm at a distance from town, it became a puzling question who was the best qualified among our friends for that undertaking. We at length fixed on Mr Gray as the fittest person for a principal department, and I went and mentioned the plan to Mr found, had likewise long been cherishing a Blackwood, who, to my astonishment, I plan of the same kind. He said he knew nothing about Pringle, and always had his eye on me as a principal assistant; but he would not begin the undertaking, until he saw he could do it with effect. Finding him, however, disposed to encourage such a work, Pringle, at my suggestion, made out a plan in writing, with a list of his supporters, and sent it in a letter to me. I enclosed it in another, and sent it to Mr Pringle and he came to an arrangement Blackwood; and not long after that period, about commencing the work, while I was in the country. Thus I had the honour of being the beginner, and almost sole instigator of that celebrated work, BLACKwooD'S MAGAZINE."

Hogg here says, he declined the editorship of Blackwood's Magazine. This happened the same year that he declined the offer of the governor-generalship of India, and a seat in the cabinet. These refusals on his part

prevented his being requested to become leader in the House of Commons, to overawe Brougham and Macintosh. In short, Blackwood tells me, that all this story is a mere muddled misrepresentation. Ebony is no blockhead; and who but a supreme blockhead would make Hogg an editor!

This long letter will cost you double postage, my dear friend.-Look at page 66.

“That same year, I published the BROWNIE OF BODSBECK, and other Tales, in two volumes. I got injustice in the eyes of the world, with regard to that tale, which was looked on as an imitation of the tale of Old Mortality, and a counterpart to that; whereas it was written long ere the tale of Old Mortality was heard of, and I well remember my chagrin on finding the ground that I thought clear preoccupied, before I would appear publicly on it, and that by such a redoubted champion. It was wholly owing to Mr Blackwood, that the tale was not published a year sooner, which would effectually have freed me from the stigma of being an imitator, and brought in the author of the Tales of My Landlord as an imitator of me. That was the only ill turn that ever Mr Blackwood did me; and it ought to be a warning to authors never to intrust book sellers with their manuscripts."

"I was unlucky in the publication of my first novel, and what impeded me still farther, was the publication of Old Mortality; for, having made the redoubted Burly the hero of my tale, I was obliged to go over it again, and alter all the traits in the character of the principal personage, substituting John Brown of Caldwell for John Balfour of Burly, greatly to the detriment of my story. I tried also to take out Clavers, but I found this impossible. A better instance could not be given, of the good luck attached to one person, and the bad luck which attended the efforts of another."

The Brownie of Bodsbeck shall, God willing, never be read by me; but I have been forced to see bits of it in corners of the periodical works, and they are, indeed, cruelly ill-written. There are various other instances of" good and ill luck," as Mr Hogg calls it, in literary history, besides this one of Old Mortality and the Brownie. Milton, for example, has been somehow or other a much luckier writer than Sir Richard Blackmore. Homer made two choice hits in the Iliad and Odyssey, that have raised his name above that of Professor Wilkie, the unlucky author of the Epigoniad.

Adam Smith has perhaps been more fortunate on the whole than the Scotsman; and while you yourself, Christopher, haye, by the merest accident in the world, become the best of all imaginable editors, only think what must be the feelings of Taylor and Hessey, as they look on that luckless ass with the lion's head! It is the same in the fine arts. What a lucky dog was Raphael in his Transfiguraaccident that befel Mr Geddes in hand. tion; and who does not weep for the ling the Scottish regalia? In philosophy, by some casualty never to be satisfactorily explained, the fame of Lord Bacon has eclipsed that of the latest of his commentators. We indeed live in a strange world; but these things will be all rectified at last in a higher state of existence. There, Blackmore very possibly may get Milton to clean his shoes; Virgil may stand behind the chair of Dr Trapp; and Longinus gaze with admiration on William Hazlitt.

But I bridle in my struggling muse in vain, That longs to launch into a nobler stain. In page 75, you will observe a list of Hogg's works.

Now, if the man had absolutely written fifteen volumes in seven years, death would be infinitely too good for him; but his enormities, though numerous and great, do not amount nearly to fifteen volumes. The Hunting of Badlewe is reprinted in the Dramatic Tales,-therefore, strike off one volume for that. The Pilgrims of the Sun, and Mador of the Moor, may sleep in one bed very easily, and the Sacred Melodies and the Border Gar land may be thrown in to them. This most fortunately cuts off three volumes. The Poetic Mirror must, I fear, be allowed to stand very nearly as a sort of volume in its way. But, pray, did Mr Hogg write all the Jacobite relics