and a minute articulation. A lazy author would soon have lost such a characteristic.

None of Mr. Aird's admirers will class this biography with his previous productions. It is written in a style of charming simplicity, but lacks-except in a few passages-his stern grandeur of thought and diction. He was not sketching one of the mightiest sons of song, and his criticism had not to dilate itself in throwing measuring arms around the gentle Delta. Aird could only have found scope for his characteristic disquisitions on genius and poetry by pointing out the limits of Delta's powers; and friendship, all the more tender because broken off by death, seems to have forbidden such an ungracious task. When he has Professor Wilson's genius for his theme, how magnificent and sweeping, yet exquisite for discrimination, is the strain of his eulogy! But for Delta he has a genial tribute, compounded of little criticism, but of abundant affection and esteem. He rather drops flowers upon Delta's grave than hangs them upon his bust.

Whilst we have supposed that several readers will take up this 'Life' for the sake of the biographer, we doubt not that the overwhelming majority will be more interested in Delta, long and widely known as a tender poet, and the author of the delightful Mansie Wauch.' His was the soft lute-heard regularly during the pauses in the war-flourishes of the terrible orchestra of Blackwood.' Why he was there, sighing over faded roses and beauty, whilst Wilson and Lockhart were thundering against much good as well as much bad poetry, was a wonder to many; still the tenderness of the poetry gave him a large and constant audience. This sketch of the man will increase the general liking for his poetry; for whatever were the qualities of Dr. Moir's genius, it had no eccentricity either into habits or fits of immorality, dissipation, or improvidence. Not only did he not feel himself privileged to kick at religion, virtue, and prudence, but his whole character and conduct were imbued with their finest spirit. He did justice, loved mercy, and walked humbly with his God.

David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh, in the beginning of 1798, of respectable parents. His mother had a fine and well cultivated intellect, was able to encourage and advise him in his first poetical attempts, and lived long enough to rejoice in his fame. Precocious excellence generally disappoints promise, and withers down into common qualities; and bright boys become dull men-to have their doings in mature strength and on a large and open stage contrasted ludicrously with their achievements at school or college. Moir was no child-prodigy. In schoolboy days, healthy sport was his main occupation; and

down to the close of his life, he spoke fondly of flying kites, bowling at cricket, foot-ball, spinning peg-tops, and playing at marbles.' A lengthy and very interesting extract from a series of Delta's school-reminiscences is given by Mr. Aird; but a single sentence from Dr. Chalmers' similar recollections-published in the concluding volume of the Memoirs,' by Dr. Hannah-when visiting his old school, is far more vivid;-'I would just like to see the place where Lizzy Green's waterbucket used to stand'-the water-bucket to which, through Lizzy's kindness, the over-heated ball-players had enjoyed free access. That 'one touch of nature'-on the part of Chalmers is far more potent-than Delta's elaborate description-to 'make the whole world'-of men looking back upon their boyhood-kin.'

At the age of thirteen, young Moir was apprenticed to a medical practitioner in his native town. Two years later, he began the writing of poetry in his leisure moments, for then, as always afterwards, business first, literary recreation next, and poetry the prime of it.' In 1816, he got his diploma as a surgeon, and in the following year joined Dr. Brown, of Musselburgh, as partner in his very extensive and laborious practice. His father had just died; the support of his mother fell now upon him, and he entered bravely upon the discharge of his duties; yet even during that period of struggles, he did not neglect literature. His brother Charles says,- When the duties of the day were over, after supper the candle was lighted in his bed-room, and the work of the desk began. Having shared the same room with him for many years in my early life, the routine of those nights is as fresh in my mind as if it had been but yesterday. He used to persuade me to retire to rest; and many a time have I awoke, when the night was far spent, and wondered to find him still at his books and pen.'

So strict was his attention to professional duties, that, from 1817 to 1828, he did not sleep a night out of Musselburgh. In this interval, however, he had stepped out upon the bold arena of "Blackwood's Magazine," and was producing poetry both sentimental and comic. It now appears that some of the cleverest squibs for which Dr. Maginn long had credit came from Moir. His introduction to Professor Wilson is described by the biographer in the following graphic way :

This acquaintanceship with the professor gradually ripened into a friendship not to be dissolved but at the grave's mouth. În the multiform nature of Wilson, his mastery over the hearts of ingenuous youth is one of his finest characteristics. It is often won in this peculiar way. An essay is submitted to him as professor, editor, and friend, by some worthy young man. Mr. Wilson does not like it, and says so in general terms.

The youth is not satisfied, and in the tone of one rather injured, begs to know specific faults. The generous Aristarch, never dealing haughtily with a young worth, instantly sits down, and begins by conveying, in the most fearless terms of praise, his sense of that worth; but, this done, wo be to the luckless piece of prose or numerous verse! Down goes the scalpel with the most minute savagery of dissection, and the whole tissues and ramifications of fault are laid naked and bare. The young man is astonished, but his nature is of the right sort-he never forgets the lesson —and with bands of filial affection stronger than hooks of steel, he is knit for life to the man who has dealt with him thus. Many a young heart will recognise this peculiar style of the great nature I speak of. The severe service was once done to Delta; he was the young man to profit by it-the friendship was all the firmer.'-Vol. i.

Yet, though Mr. Aird does not say so, we should imagine that this friendship on Delta's side had more of reverence than of frankness, and that Galt and Macnish would be shaken more freely by the hand as familiar companions. The terms in which he repeatedly speaks of Wilson to his correspondents ('Met the Professor last night-he was bold as a lion and fierce as a tiger') indicate a feeling of awe, strong, though not unpleasant. If it be true that the men most likely to be warm friends on a full equality are those who could-if they chose-most effectively ridicule and mortify each other, and who, therefore, have a mutual apprehension under their affection, then Wilson should have been mated with Carlyle! How Carlyle could have scoffed at Wilson's exuberance of imagination and overflow of pastoral sentiment; and how Wilson's riotous humour would have dealt with Sartor' as with a common tailor, turning his immensities' into broad cloth! And then, after abusing each other, they would meet-the best of friends.

Lockhart, in his 'Matthew Wald,' makes a shrewd remark to the following effect, that whilst the clergyman sees, in exaggeration, the best, and the lawyer the worst features of human character, the doctor sees the real. He alone obtains a true view of men, for in his presence they are not tempted to a conscious display of greater virtue than they possess, nor to an unconscious manifestation of greater moral obliquity than commonly marks them; and he is privileged to notice and study them in their everyday lights and shades. His profession does not evoke the hypocrisy of goodness which greets the clergy when they make a call; nor does it tend to develop and harden the many repulsive forms of injustice with which lawyers become familiar, and on which they practise. On his appearance, he does not find faces lengthening as if they were yard-measures of the Ten Commandments; nor contracting and wrinkling as if they were legal quirks and snares; but they simply wear

their own natural expression. When he enters, a large Bible will not be ostentatiously open on the table, as it would be in expectation of a clerical visit; neither will he behold the disagreeable indications of a wish to gain by all means a causebe it right or wrong-with which a lawyer is but too familiar.

But how does it happen that the doctor, having the best opportunities of acquainting himself with the realities of character, should so very seldom have put these into a literary form; whilst, strangely enough, at the same time, both the clergyman and the lawyer, with the serious disadvantages to which we have referred, have become distinguished artists? It cannot be that realities are tame, unromantic, and incapable of being set in interesting sketches, or embodied in fine poetry. Be the cause what it may, it is certain that doctors have contributed little to literature. Moir, however, was an exception. In 1828, he republished from Blackwood, Mansie Wauch,' a tale written in Dutch-like illustration of Scottish humble life and simple manners; but differing as much from Galt's novels as from Scott's. It is singular that neither before nor since has the same class of characters been sketched, though the innumerable anecdotes which circulate in private conversation chiefly relate to such characters. Scottish villages are the museums in which odd characters are collected. Almost every villager is a character-a shape after no pattern; his individuality strongly indenting each line of resemblance to his neighbours. We regret that Delta, endowed with the requisite powers of observation, and humorous and kindly description, did not again and again address himself to sketches of village originals. For a few pieces like 'Mansie Wauch,' we could have wanted all his poems but 'Casa Wappy.' Of the hero, Mr. Aird says finely, 'What an exquisite compound of conceit, cowardice, gossipping silliness, pawkiness, candour, kindly affections, and good Christian principle-the whole amalgam with no violent contrasts, with no gross exaggerations, beautifully blent down into verisimilitude, presenting to us a unique hero, at once ludicrous and loveable. And how admirably in keeping with the central autobiographer are the characters and scenes which revolve around his needle!

In 1829, Moir was offered the editorship of the Quarterly Journal of Agriculture,' and recommended to settle as a medical practitioner in Edinburgh, where he was sure of a large and remunerative field; but both invitations he declined. In the summer of the same year he was married. In 1832, during the ravages of the cholera in Musselburgh, he fearlessly, and with extra professional zeal and charity, attended to the numerous patients, though he held the belief that cholera was

contagious. In 1838, he lost two of his children, whose death he bewailed in stanzas which for pathos have never been surpassed. Poetry from the soul of a mourning parent must be exquisite; though it requires the lapse of some interval ere the reality of grief can be suited for and transmuted into poetry. Dr. Johnson's objection to elegies has some elements of truth. A relation or friend will not, in the first troubled moment after the bereavement, think of pouring out his sorrows in melodious verse. So far we agree with the Doctor; but that that friend cannot afterwards, when the troubled soul is composed into a melancholy mood, bewail his loss in song, is egregiously un

He may produce the finest elegy without being exposed to the vile charge of counterfeiting grief. Who would doubt the sincerity of Milton's attachment to Lycidas? We should not expect a mother to plant a rose over her son's grave on the day of burial; but if some weeks afterwards she should do this, would she forfeit the character of being an affectionate mourner? The broken heart does not make melody, and under the immediate and crushing pressure of grief the harp is hung upon the willows. Then, the only vision which fills the soul is the cold face, as unsuggestive of poetry as a mask. Genius is altogether inactive beside the unburied, beloved dead. But when the grief is becoming calm-when it can be studied as well as felt-when the soul is set free from the death-chamber, suns itself in the past, and can go backwards gleaning fondly the memorials of the precious life which has been withdrawn, and forming an image to be cherished as the substitute of the lost one, when thus the process of imagination is being begun upon the anguish, then flows freely the exquisite poetry of grief. Moir's Domestic Verses' consist of such poetry. The simple, sobbing, wailing pathos of "Casa Wappy," says Mr. Aird, has drawn more tears of mothers than any other dirge of our day. Poem we are loath to call it: such things are not made by the brain; they are the spilth of the human heart.' The dirge over his infants is also triumphant with the best hope; for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.' Delta's grief does not wrong the small dust which rests in the most certain hope of a blessed resurrection.

In 1845, he was thrown out of a phaeton, which rendered him lame for life. He continued, however, to attend as conscientiously as before to his professional duties, though these were now more exhausting. In 1849 he went, for the sake of his health, to the Highlands, along with Professor Wilson, who stood, during some days, for eight hours up to the waist in water,' following his favourite sport of fishing. It is melancholy to think that, in less than three years, Wilson has become