to see their elegant minds mangled with madness!" After three years passed in this melancholy state, during which he dropt all correspondence even with the dearest of his friends, he breathed his last on the 18th of August, 1803, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. His remains were deposited, according to his own desire, close to those of his two sons, in the church-yard of St. Nicholas, at Aberdeen. The spot is marked by an elegant and classical description, written by his friend, Dr. James Gregory of Edinburgh.*

The character of Dr. Beattie is one not easily to be mistaken. It is a character, as Cowper has said, which "appears in every page of his writings," and never, perhaps, was there a writer whose life and writings were in stricter harmony. Purity in word and deed; great zeal for moral and religious truth; a thirst for fame through good done to society; were the grand features which marked his path in life. Among the minor or rather subordinate traits may be ranked his freedom from all self conceit; the generally perfect knowledge which he possessed of his own powers and attainments; and the skill and prudence by which, amid the numerous literary adventures which he made, he encountered only one instance of decisive failure.

The Essay on Truth, notwithstanding the great share which it had in contributing to his fame, may, with safety, be pronounced as among the least durable of his productions. The work was polemical, and there never yet was any thing polemical designed for immortality. As a piece of reasoning, it was more

confounding than persuasive; difficult to answer, yet abounding in incongruities; right in most of its fundamental positions, but often ambiguous and incorrect in their application. It had neither the precision of expression nor clearness of idea necessary to give it a lasting place among philosophical compositions. Beattie aimed, on a large view, at the same theory of common sense which Reid, with greater subtlety and penetration, traced correctly through all its ramifications; and to Reid the task of establishing that theory remained.

The miscellaneous "Essays" and "Dissertations," though of less pretension than the work on Truth, are probably possessed of quite as much real merit. There is something singularly pleasing in the style of remark which pervades them. The author has, in a supreme degree, the art of carrying his reader along with him; rarely perplexing or offending by any nice distinctions or bold paradoxes; and, at every step, making the fancy in love with some precious truth, by the elegance of dress with which it is adorned.

It is by the poem of the MINSTREL, however, that the name of Beattie is most certain of continuing to be admired through future ages. The favour in which it is universally held speaks more than volumes of criticism can do in its praise. To give specimens of what is in every one's hands would, indeed, be idle labour; but one quotation, at least, may be permitted for the sake of the criticism which it has called forth from one of the first of English bards.

O, how can thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields!
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields.

All that the general ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven;

O, how can'st thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!

In a criticism on the Minstrel, which Gray communicated to the author, he says of this passage, "This is true poetry; this is inspiration!"

Among the minor pieces in the first edition of Dr. Beattie's poems there is an Epitaph, which evidently appears to have been designed for himself. It cannot be said to be very characteristic; all the lines, except the last, being adapted to general nature; but it is a curiosity of its kind, and distinguished by no inconsiderable share of epigrammatic excellence.

EPITAPH.

Escap'd the gloom of mortal life, a soul
Here leaves its mould'ring tenement of clay;
Safe, where no cares their 'whelming billows roll,
No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.
Like thee I once have stemm'd the sea of life,
Like thee have languish'd after empty joys,
Like thee have labour'd in the stormy strife,
Been griev'd for trifles and amus'd with toys.
Yet for a while 'gainst passion's threatful blast
Let steady reason urge the struggling oar;
Till thro' the murky gloom the morn, at last,
Gives to the longing eye the blissful shore.
Forget my frailties, thou art also frail;

Forgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall;
Nor read, unmov'd, my artless tender tale;
I was a friend, O Man! to thee and all.

ROBERT BURNS.

SCOTLAND Owns no name of which it has greater reason to be proud than that of Robert Burns. He had no pretensions, by birth, beyond that of being the son of a poor, but honest, man. His father, William Burns, or rather Burnes, was a native of the north of Scotland, and the son of a farmer; but was thrown, by early misfortunes, on the world at large. He shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he sought occupation as a gardener, wrought hard when he could get work, and passed through many difficulties. From Edinburgh, he wandered into the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairly, and afterwards to Crawford of Doonside. Being, at length, desirous of settling in life, he took a perpetual lease of seven acres of land, situated about two miles from the town of Ayr, from Dr. Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the view of commencing nurseryman and public gardener; and having built a cottage of clay upon the spot with his own hands, married, in December, 1757, Agnes Brown. The first fruit of this marriage was the poet, Robert Burns, who was born on the 25th of January, 1759.

Before William Burns had made much progress in his nursery, his attention was withdrawn from it by an invitation from a Mr. Ferguson, who had recently become proprietor of the neighbouring estate of PART 1.1

P

Doonholm, to engage as his gardener and overseer. Although he entered into the service of Mr. Ferguson, he continued to live in his own house, and on the acres, once intended for the nursery ground, kept two or three milch cows, the produce of which his wife managed. In this state of unambitious content, the industrious pair continued for six or seven years; and had no change taken place, young Robert must probably have marched off to be one of the little underlings about a farm house; but it was William Burns's dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep his children under his own eye, until they could discern between good and evil; and, with the assistance of Mr. Ferguson, who behaved to him with generosity, he ventured, in the hope of increasing his means, to take a lease of a small farm on that gentleman's estate, called Mount Oliphant.

In his early years, young Robert was by no means a favorite with any body. He was noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in his disposition, and a contemplative, thoughtful, turn of mind. His ear was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable; it was long, indeed, before he could be got to distinguish one tune from another. The latent seeds of poetry, however, were taking deep root in his infant mind, and were, in no small degree, cherished by the fireside recitations of an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her credulity and superstition, and who was supposed to have the largest collection in the country of tales and songs, concerning fairies, witches, warlocks, apparitions, giants, dragons, and other agents of romantic fiction.