tiful, sunshiny day; but solitude and silence reigned supreme, broken only by the flight of vast flocks of black cock and grouse, sometimes intermingled, and at others, separate, but evidently packed, and as wild as hawks; and, by the sound of one of the earliest of God Almighty's creation, and one of the latest of man's inventions-the carrion crow and the steamwhistle, the long bridge of size and sighs, between them, being alternately composed of antediluvian, Assyrian, Egyptian, Grecian, Roman, Gothic, elliptical, and composite arches; which, with all the wondrous tales they could unfold, would require the genius of half a hundred Shaksperes, to concentrate, and to reduce to anything like compass and consistence then the kirk, manse, and village of Applegarth, adjoining; the spacious green about them, which contrasts so admirably with the wild moorlands beyond; the open hut at one end of the green, for the reception of Sir William Jardine's carriage on a Sunday; the latticed door of the den on the opposite side, close to the grave-yard, containing the conveyance, with its black nodding plumes, common to him and to all the other parishioners, who have passed, or may pass here, the threshold of mortality, their com

mon home close by-the world beyond the grave, the hopes, the fears, the follies of man.

But let us hear what the Edinburgh Review, in one of its better moods, says upon these all-absorbing topics (see vol. 31, page 325), being a critique on "Human Life; a Poem, by Samuel Rogers."

"These are sweet verses-the theme is human life; not only the subject of all verse, but the great centre and source of all interest, in the works of human beings, to which both prose and verse invariably bring us back, when they succeed in rivetting our attention and rousing our emotion; and which turns everything into poetry, to which its sensibilities can be ascribed, or by which its vicissitudes can be suggested; yet, it is not by any means to that, which in ordinary language, is termed the poetry, or the romance of human life, that the present work is directed: the life which it endeavours to set before us, is not life, diversified by strange adventures, embodied in extraordinary characters, or agitated with turbulent passions-not the life of warlike Paladins, or desperate lovers, or sublime ruffians, or piping shepherds, or sentimental savages, or bloody bigots, or preaching pedlars, or conquerors, poets, or any other species of

madmen-but the ordinary, practical, and amiable life, of social, intelligent, and affectionate men—such, in short, as multitudes may be seen living every day in this country-for the picture is entirely English— and, though not, perhaps, in the choice of every one, yet is open to the knowledge, and familiar to the sympathy of all. It contains, of course, no story, and no individual character; it is properly and peculiarly contemplative, and consists of a series of reflections on our mysterious nature and condition upon earth, and the marvellous, though unnoticed changes which the ordinary course of our existence is continually bringing about in our being. Its marking peculiarity in this respect, is, that it is free from the least alloy of acrimony or harsh judgment, and deals not at all, indeed, in any species of satirical or sarcastic remark.

"The poet looks on man, and teaches us to look on him, not merely with love, but with reverence; and mingling a sort of considerate pity for the shortness of his busy little career, and for the disappointments and weaknesses, with which it is beset, with a genuine admiration of the great capacities he unfolds, and the high destiny to which he seems to be reserved, works out a very beautiful and engaging

picture, both of the affections with which life is endeared, the trials to which it is exposed, and the pure and peaceful enjoyments with which it may often be filled.

"This, after all, we believe, is the tone of true wisdom and true virtue, and that to which all good natures draw nearer, as they approach the close of life, and come to act less, and to know, and to meditate more, on the varying and crowded scenes of human existence.

"When the inordinate hopes of early youth, which provoke their own disappointment, have been sobered down by longer experience and more extended views -when the keen contentions and eager rivalries, which employed our riper years, have expired or been abandoned—when we have seen, year after year, the objects of our fiercest hostilities, and of our fondest affections, lie down together in the hallowed peace of the grave-when ordinary pleasures and amusements begin to grow insipid, and the gay derision, which seasoned them, to appear flat and importunate-when we reflect how often we have mourned and been comforted—what opposite opinions we have successively maintained and abandoned-to what inconsis

tent habits we have gradually been formed-and how often the objects of our pride have proved the sources of our shame, we are naturally led to recur to the careless days of our childhood, and to retrace the whole of our career, and that of our contemporaries, with feelings of far greater humility and indulgence than those by which it had been accompanied, to think all vain but affection and honour-the simplest and cheapest pleasures, the truest and most precious -and generosity of sentiment, the only mental superiority, which ought to be either wished for, or admired."