What he streek't himsell i' the patients o' I say't to flee, but couldnac steer dead, Wi' mony a waesome main. I spurr'd my steed to tak the flude, But stude an' swat frae head to hufe, "I flang the renyie on his neck, Whill an inky clud fell doun on the wud, "I saw nac mare, for a' the air Grew black as black could be; Aa' bonnie Clyde, with its hills an' howms, Was tint afore mine ce. I' the mirk in a stound, wi rairan' sound, An' wi' swash an' swow, the angry jow, "I luikit richt, I luikit left, I luikit to the heavens hee, In a widdendreme, the thunder-leem An' shaw't the black waves coman' rowan down, Abreast, abune my head. "I tirn't me richt, I tirn't me left, The craigs war in a low; I tirn't me roun' the river doun, Saw nocht but an ugsome how. In a suddentie, on the firie-flaucht, "A stately stag-i' the spait he sank, He wav'd his han'-the lichtenins blan- And hou't through the wuds, and cloven Wi' weary waesome rair. "The knarlic aiks of a hunder years Cam doupan' to the grun', While the brainches an' beuchs o' frusher trees War scatter'd on the win'. Nae lichtenin' gleam't out through the Nor was heard the thunder's rair, "The mirk cam in gliffs-in gliffs the While I saw frae the craigs an' caves, Wi' mop an' mowr, an' glare an' glowr, Grim faces girn ower the waves. Frae the stanners wharon I stude; Whan the stalwart gome strade ower the "The dead blue licht skim't alang the black rufe, Whar draps hang raw on raw, The water-asks, sae cauld and saft, "An' tak my bride, my bonnie bonnie bride,' To the dwerch the wicht can say, "An' wash awa the changefu' life That lives in upper day; And dip her first in the Norroway sea, And dip her syne in the lammer-wine, "And dip her last in Tinto dew That fell on Beltan-day, Whan a thousand years are come an' gane She'll be my bonnie May. Like clattie fins war the dwerch's twae arms He laid them on my head, "A seikenan' grou cam ower my heart, An' feelless lay, while the laidlie droich I swarf't in the mirk wi' dule and pine; I swarf't in wae, a mortal may "I swarf't amid an ugsome den; "In luve an' lee-in game and glee- An we'll hauld our court 'mid the roaring lins, And daff in the lashan' tide. I big my halls o' the crystal clear, And the rufe o' the gowden mine; The stateliest courts o' the richest roys Are nocht compar'd to mine. "The cowdlan' bells on the weelan' flude Are the ships whilk we sail in, Alike scartfree on the pule are we, And in the swechan' lin. We beck oursells on the faimie heaps, Whan simmer suns are breem, Whan the year grown auld brings winter cauld We flee till our ha's sae queem. "A hunder knichts at my behecht, "Whan comes the landlash wi' rair an' swash, I cowd on the rowan' spait, And airt its way by bank an' brae Fulfillan' my luve or hate. The thochtless wicht wha scorns our micht, I visit in that hour, But the man I save frae the raging grave, Wha fears the marmen's power!" Notes. Carlin-stane. This is a huge rock standing in the middle of the river Clyde, about half a mile below the Stonebyres-lin. Some romantic traditions concerning it will be found in a former Magazine. It has ever been a favourite haunt of mermen and mermaids. The Gaun Weel is a deep whirlpool at a little distance from the Carlin-stane, concerning which many strange stories are told. In former times it was the chosen howf of a most malevolent water kelpie, who dragged many a youth to the bottom when bathing, till at length a sturdy peasant called Aiken Kent, from a huge oaken club which he always carried, resolved to encounter this dreadful fiend. He went one summer evening to the Clyde, tirlit aff his claes, as the country narrators express it, grippit his aiken kent an' ploungit into the Weel. He swam round and round, dived to the bottom, but the kelpie, wha, it seems, was awar o' the character o' the douker, was nae whar to be scen. Fatigued at length, Aiken Kent cam out o' the water, pat on himsell an' sat doun to rest, when he fell soun' asleep. He was suddenly wakenit by something pu'-pu'an' at his kent, which he had laid aneth his head, an' liftan' his cen saw through the gloamin' an austrous appear ance clad in mist, with a grousome beard bristling about his mou', an' his twa een shinan' with a dowie streamerlike licht. Richtlie judging this to be kelpe, Aiken Kent bangit fell upon the puir fiend wi' his club in sic a fury, that he sune garrit him cry out, "O Aiken Kent hae dune, I'll never mare come here, Ye may douk yoursell baith late an' sune, An' o' Kelpie hae nae fear." Ever since the Gaun Weel, except that it is dangerous to inexperienced bathers from its depth and swirling, is as safe as any other pool in Clyde. Stanza 10th. It is well known that nothing gave evil sprites so much power as imprecatory wishes upon one's self. See some illustrations of this opinion in a former Magazine. T. MISS BENGER is already advanta gcously known to the public as the interesting and agreeable biographer of Mrs Elizabeth Hamilton-a name of greater celebrity than the subject of the present volume. The life of Tobin, however, is far from being destitute of interest; he has claims to the rank of a British poet. His assiduous perseverance in pursuit of the great object of his ainbition, in spite of reiterated defeats, distinguishes his character from the greater number of the genus irritabile; and the melancholy circumstances of his premature death cannot fail to awaken sympathy in The selections from the poet's writevery breast of common sensibility. ings, which, together with the Memoirs of his Life, fill this volume, consist of an analysis of the Gypsey of Madrid, a Spanish drama, by Don Antonio de Solis; the fragment of a Tragedy; the Indians, a play, in five acts; and two operas, the one of which is entitled Your's or Mine, and the other the Fisherman's Hut. But, before we inquire into the merits of these productions, or into the manner in which the fair author has executed her task, it will be expedient to submit to the reader's consideration, from the materials which she has given us, a short sketch of the poet's life. ment. John Tobin, the son of a West India planter, was born at Salisbury, in January 1770. Both his parents, some years after his birth, having found it necessary to reside a considerable time in the West Indies, he and his brothers were placed at the very respectable school of Dr Mant of Southampton, and under the guardianship of Mr Webbe, their maternal grandfather. He was distinguished at school by an aptitude for learning, placidity of temper, and love of retireEven in childhood he had shown a decided passion for the drama; and, as it was the practice of his teacher to allow those of his pupils who excelled their companions occasionally to go to the theatre, as the reward of their merit, Tobin's diligence was prompted by this stimulus so powerfully as to destroy his equanimity of temper, and to betray him into expressions of impatience foreign to his character." Though he sometimes joined in the chace, he had no delight in active or noisy amusements, angling being his favourite recreation, in which he could indulge without interrupting the musings of imagination. At the end of the American war Tobin's father returned to England, settled in Bristol as a merchant, and had the pleasure of seeing his sons once more under his paternal inspection. The reunion was not, however, to be of long duration. James, the eldest son, was destined for the church, and, with the view of prosecuting his studies for that end, went to the university; and John, now in the seventeenth year of his age, was articled to a solicitor in Lincoln's Inn,-a profession which seemed well suited to his sedentary habits. Though he had no affection for a legal life, the natural pliancy of his temper made him calmly acquiesce in the arrangements made for the decision of his future pursuits; and, after he had been some time in London, we find him expressing himself very sensibly on the subject in a letter to an old school-fellow. "I begin by degrees to enter into the spirit of my business; and, though I meet with a great deal of what Shakespeare calls the insolence of office, I console myself with the reflection, that it is impossible to arrive at knowledge in any profession without being a slave to it." p. 10. VOL. VI. At this time he went to the theatre once or twice a-week at half price-a practice which enabled him to see all the new plays, and thereby to nourish his own predilection for dramatic composition. Much of his leisure time was also devoted to the study of the best English poets, especially the more celebrated writers of the older drama; and, at last, his partiality for theatrical amusements acquired the force of a ruling passion, which influenced his character and determined his pursuits. He is not, however, accused of having in any way neglect ed the duties of the office to which he belonged; and, when the term of his clerkship was completed, the generosity of his nature was displayed in re fusing to be admitted into partner ship with his master, unless a senior clerk, whom he supposed to have a prior claim, should also be included in the arrangement; and, at his suga gestion, a connection was formed, to the mutual satisfaction of all concern ed. Soon after he had thus commenced the business of a solicitor on his own account, we learn from one of his letters that he had an opera in the hands of Mr Harris, waiting for judgment; that he had composed a farce, which he had thoughts of try ing at Covent-Garden; that he had entirely completed a tragedy, in four acts; and that he had written the songs and part of the dialogue of another opera. He offered successively two operas to the managers of the theatres for representation, but had the mortification to have them both rejected. The In 1796, James Tobin, the poet's elder brother, who, in consequence of having nearly lost his sight, had re linquished his design of entering into the sacred office, came to London, and took up his residence with his brother. From this time Tobin's cham bers became the resort of a literary coterie, in which subjects of taste and science were freely discussed. elder brother encouraged the younger in his pursuits, and, from the period of his first settlement in the Temple, took a lively interest in the fate of the Faro Table, a comedy, recently composed. After encountering many dif ficulties, he obtained for this piece the perusal of Mr Sheridan, by whom it was approved, and introduced into the green-room, but was afterwards re3 H jected, because it was at last discovered to bear too close a resemblance to the School for Scandal. His second comedy, as it was disapproved by his brother, was not offered for acceptance. The Undertaker, a farce, had no better fortune with the managers than his comedies, though his biographer assures us it has always been admired by theatrical readers. After these defeats, he applied himself to the study of the older drama, in imitation of which he composed the play entitled the Curfew. This piece met the approbation of his literary friends, was submitted to the perusal of Mr Wroughton, the manager of Drury-Lane, was sent by him back to the author to be corrected for the stage, and then, after a long period of suspense, was, like its predecessors, finally rejected. Soon after this fresh repulse, the British theatre was inundated by the German drama; and Tobin, envying the success of Pizarro, had recourse to the composition of an American play. General Bowles, a native of Maryland, who had spent some time in the British service, and been dismissed from it for a misde meanour, had gone among the Creek pril 1803, but, though well received, was not repeated. His next drama was The HoneyMoon, which he in vain endeavoured to introduce to the stage at CoventGarden, but which, when offered at Drury-Lane, was referred to future consideration. In the mean time, however, ill health obliged the author to leave London, and to retire to Cornwall, where he seems to have applied himself to dramatic composition with the same ardour as he had been long in the habit of doing in town. Other literary designs, besides the manufacture of plays, were formed by him in his rural retreat, among which, as we learn from one of his letters to his brother, was his intention of publishing an edition of Shakespeare; and, in the same epistle, he expresses a very low opinion of the value of the commentaries on the text of our great dramatist, published from time to time by his numerous editors. "Steevens," he says, "has, perhaps, contributed more than all the rest put to gether to the illustration of Shakespeare's text. What he has done has been entirely by dint of study; and, being void both of taste and sagacity, he is wrong almost as often as he is right. Malone is more correct, has more taste, and has certainly done much. Warburton is, as a commentator on Shakespeare, a man whom too much learning has made mad: his explanations are, nine times out of ten, completely vi sionary. Johnson took no pains; does nothing but guess, and generally wrong. Farmer is allowed to be ingenious; but he has taken such liberties with his author, that his edition is now almost universally exploded. Theobald made some good hits; but he did little. The last editor of importance (a Mr Reed, who was appoint ed by Mr Steevens to the task) has published twenty volumes in very large octavo, the notes printed small. He has added but few notes of his own, though he ap pears a black-letter man. There are some ingenious notes from friend Douce, and some from Holt White. Our object will be to shorten the present edition considerwhich has no more to do with the illustra ably, by cutting out a vast deal of matter, tion of Shakespeare than any thing else, and to add our own notes, which will leave the work (I should hope) a third less bulky than it is at present." pp. 109-111. This, it must be allowed, is a very summary, and, withal, a pretty severe mode of estimating the merits of Shake speare's editors; but, whether Tobin's projected edition would have been more valuable, cannot be known, as this, as well as all his other designs, was very speedily frustrated by his premature death. The progress of his disease had made him resolve on a voyage to the West Indies, before he learned, by a letter from his brother in London, that the Honey-Moon was declared accepted. This great object of his ambition, however, though it had a visible effect upon his spirits, was too long in being attained to determine him to change his plan of going to the West Indies. According ly, with that view, he embarked at Bristol in November 1804. The voyage had commenced, but contrary winds obl, ed the ship to return to Cork. The weather was sufficiently boisterous to produce some confusion on board, amid which Tobin retired to his cabin, and dismissed his attendant. This person, on going again into the cabin, to offer his master some refreshment, found him dead in his bed, and, as no groan was heard, nor the least distortion appeared, it was presumed that the spark of life had expired in a peaceful slumber. He was interred at Cork, and, some years after the event, his grave was visited by his father, who caused a small tablet to be erected over it, inscribed with the following epitaph: "Sacred to the Memory of JOHN ToBIN, Esq. of Lincoln's Inn, whose Remains are deposited under the adjacent Turf. He died at Sea, near the entrance of this Harbour, in the month of December 1804, on a pas sage to a milder Climate in search of better Health, aged 35 years. That, with an excellent Heart, and a most amiable Disposition, he possessed a vigorous Imagination, and a cultivated Understanding, his Dramatic writings fully evince." Such is the outline of this affecting piece of biography, and we cannot but applaud the warm interest with which Miss Benger enters into her subject, and the ardent eloquence with which she carries us along, both in her observations on the drama in general, and on the particular merits of Mr Tobin. We object, however, to the manner in which she has interrupted her narrative, to introduce her criticisins on Tobin's productions in the order of their composition. A general critique at the end of the Memoirs would, in our opinion, have left her readers' attention free from distraction, while it would have tended, at the same time, to excite their sympathy, and to exercise their judgment, with more certainty and effect than on the plan she has adopted. Her hero has scarcely seated himself at his desk as a solicitor's clerk, than she palms upon her readers several pages of his juvenile poetry, which is maukish enough, in good sooth. Songs from his operas, and whole scenes from his plays, occur at short intervals throughout the Memoirs, accompanied, of course, with introductory notices, and concluding remarks, which; however good in themselves, are entirely out of place in the heart of the narrative of the poet's life. We apprehend, the history, not the merits, of an author's works properly belongs to the incidents of his life. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, and Campbell's Specimens of the British Poets, furnish many good examples of the way in which an author's life, character, and merits, ought to be written and estimated. Southey's Life and Remains of Kirke White may be pointed out likewise, as a model in this department of writing. We have no sympathy, we confess, with the fair biographer's reiterated regrets that the subject of her narrative should have been doomed "to a profession in which he discovered nothing to satisfy the mind or interest the heart." This statement is apparently gratuitous; for, in the next sentence, she tells us that "he was diligent and active in the details of business;" and it is a statement which, with others of a similar import, is calculated, in this scribbling age, to exert a very serious practical influence on multitudes of young persons of misguided imaginations. There are many, we fear, who, while they bewail with his biographer the hard fate of Tobin in being obliged to fulfil the duties of an useful profession, will be apt to include themselves in the lamentation, and to think, were it not for the drudgery and dull routine of official duty, they might themselves be most excellent poets. As an antidote fitted to counteract this poison, we beg leave to remind such discontented persons, that much of our |