Many a time have I seen the souls of both old and young sighed away with those sweet words quivering last on the lips. Now, really, I have not the face to quote the Tait and Brady lines against these, but they are well enough known to Mr Tennant, for often has he presented them two lines at a time, and sung them with the dying wives about Dollar; and I am sure, if he liked to tell the truth, he would confess that they gave every one of them the hiccup.

But turn to any thing pathetic, beautiful, or sublime in the whole psalmody, I care not where it be,-nay, let any person do it, however prejudiced, and say candidly, which is the most simply beautiful, and closest to the original. Remember there is a great deal lies in that; for is it not a glorious idea that we should be worshipping the same God, in the very same strains that were hymned to him by his chosen servants in the Tabernacle 3000 years ago? But in the modern English version I will defy any man to trace the same strain of thought that runs through the prose translation. In ours, they are literally the same. Therefore, the less that Messrs Brady and Tait (by the by, I do not know if that is the English way of spelling the latter gentleman's name—Is it, Mr Tennant? I know it is spelled that way in the song of "Jock Tait ;")—I say, I think the seldomer they measure weapons "wi auld Geordie Buchanan, young man," the better for them. Or if there is to be a modification, let the ancient and original spirit of ours be installed into theirs, which would be an incalculable advantage. As I said, read any truly poetical part of the psalms in both versions. Read the 8th, the 23d, the 84th, the 116th;* and in thus turning over my borrowed psalmody, I cannot help comparing the opening lines of each version of the latter sweet psalm :

"My soul with grateful thoughts of love
Entirely is possest,

Because the Lord vouchsafed to hear

The voice of my request.

Since he has now his ear inclined,

I never will despair,

But still in all the straits of life

To him address my pray'r."

That is very respectable, is it not, Mr Tennant? Is it really esteemed as a literal and energetic opening this at the Dollar Academy? Alas! hear how our antiquated reformer has it:

"I love the Lord, because my voice
And prayers he did hear;

I while I live will call on him,

Who bow'd to me his ear."

Now turn to the prose translation. The Scottish version is literal; it is the same, verbatim: the other is quite the reverse. Observe, Messrs Tait and Brady do not love the Lord because he has heard their prayer. But they have some grateful thoughts of loving him some time for doing it-nay, their souls are entirely possessed by this laudable resolve. There is no such idea expressed by the divine Psalmist, in "I love the Lord." And in the second verse, they say they are determined never more to despair, now that the Lord has once inclined his ear to them. Where did they pick up that sentiment about despair? Not from the words of the son of Jesse. And note farther. They are only going to address their prayers to him in the straits of life! no other time. Now, that is hardly fair in Dr Brady and Mr Tait, and quite abstract from the sentiments of gratitude expressed by David. But it is ever thus. The English versifier is constantly going about the bush, and, like a preacher who has very few ideas, wants to blow up the few he has with as many large swelling words as he can press into the sentence. In the same spirit every one must read

* Read also Psalm 73d, from the 24th verse,

the two openings of the 137th; the whole of the 139th; and, by the by, I wish you would read the 13th verse of this psalm over again, and tell me what the fellows mean by the threads in the loom there mentioned. What threads in what loom? Or where did they pick up the idea, far less the expression?

But enough of this carping and foolery, from which I have been unable to refrain; for my veneration of our ancient psalmody is such, that to see an innovation in it would almost break my heart. The venerable Principal Baird sent me a special invitation to his house one evening, many years ago, and in his own name, and those of his brethren, presented a request to me to new versify a part of the Psalms. I answered, that he might as well propose to me to burn my Bible, or renounce my religion. The reverend father looked astonished, and asked an explanation. I said, "it was because these verses, modelled as they were now, had long, long been the penates of Scotland. Every peasant in Scotland had them by heart, and could repeat any part by day or by night, as suited his or her family's circumstances. The shepherd recites them to his son on the lonely hill, the mother to the child in her boThey are the first springs of religion in the peasant's soul, mingled with all his thoughts and acts of devotion through life, and hymned on the cradle of death; and to make any innovation there, would be with a reckless hand to puddle and freeze up the pure springs of religion in the hearts of the most virtuous and most devout part of our community. No, no, Dr Baird; for the love of God and your fellow-men, have no hand in such an experiment! Our country communities would be less shocked, and their religious rites less degenerated, by the introduction of the liturgy at once, than by a new psalmody. I will versify as much of the other parts of Scripture as you want or desire, but never shall I alter, or consent to the alteration of, a single verse of our old psalmody, for they are hallowed round the shepherd's hearth."

som.

So say I to Mr Tennant. I respect him, nay, I love him as a brother; but, for the household gods of the Scottish peasant,

"As long as I can wield a sword,

I'll fight with heart and hand."

And if there is really to be an edition of the Psalms from Dollar, if you, my dear Editor, will grant me the first reviewing of them, they shall be an edition of dolour to somebody. I am, dear sir, yours ever,

JAMES HOGG.

SIR WILLIAM WALLACE AND
THE TORWOOD OAK.

We are always anxious to rescue from oblivion any circumstances connected with the ancient days and former glories of our native land. We are, therefore, happy to avail ourselves of some documents which have lately been placed in our hands, with the view of throwing light upon the history of that old and famous tree, which, not less entitled to our admiration than the Royal oak of Sherwood Forest, afforded shelter and protection to the good Sir William Wallace.

Trees are at all times objects of interest, and none more so than the majestic oak, which sees the growth and the decay of surrounding woods, and which is still flourishing and strong when the castle it beheld built in former centuries is now a mouldering ruin. Of all the oaks which Scotland has produced, not one ever attracted more attention than that which grew in Torwood, formerly an extensive forest in the parish of Dunipace, in Stirlingshire. This forest was a favourite haunt of Sir William Wallace when but a young man, and in his wanderings through it he formed an intimacy, if we may so speak, with one tree in particular, with which subsequent events indissolubly linked his name. This was an oak of a very venerable and striking character, the trunk of which,

even in its last days, measured in one place, forty-two feet in circumference, and in another was about twelve feet in diameter. There was in this oak an immense cavity, in which not only Wallace himself, but occasion, ally some of his friends, sought and found refuge from the pursuit of their enemies in the dangerous and troublous times in which they lived. That the openings in this tree were all hollow as far back as the twelfth century, proves it to have been of great age even then, and it was, indeed, generally believed to be a Druidical tree, and that it had been consecrated at a very remote period to religious purposes. This is rendered more probable by the fact, that some vestiges of stone-work were discernible, which surrounded it in a circular form. It stood upon a slight elevation, but upon swampy ground, and rude causeways were afterwards formed leading to it in different directions; for, associated as it was with the names of Wallace and of Freedom, it was visited in later times almost as a holy shrine, at which the Scottish peasant might re-animate his patriotism.

We regret to state, that although a part of the trunk of this venerable tree existed till about the end of the last century, no traces of it now remain. In the words of the Rev. Mr Stirling, in his edition of Nimmo's History of Stirlingshire," this august vegetable is now invisible." Its destruction was much precipitated by the pilgrims who resorted to it, all of whom were anxious to carry off pieces of the wood, which were afterwards converted into various memorials of Wallace. The oak, however, long survived all its less hardy brethren. "In this ancient Torwood," says Dr John Walker, in his Essays on Natural History," it stands in a manner alone; for there are no trees, nor any ruin of a tree, to be seen, that is nearly coeval. Compared to it, even the oldest of them is of a very modern date." Even after it had fallen into almost total decay, a peculiar sort of renovation, which sometimes occurs in an old tree, happened to this. In several places, a young bark shot upwards from the root, and formed one or two fresh branches towards the top of the old trunk. As late as the year 1789, the trunk was twenty-four feet in height, and was still in vegetation. The following vignette, which is from a drawing made in that year by the late Mr A. Kincaid, and which we know to be entirely authentic, conveys an accurate idea of the shape and appearance it then had :*

It will be observed, in the above cut, that the tree has separated in the middle, and that the one-half has mouldered almost entirely away. Yet, even in this condition, the wood was so hard as to admit of a high polish. To us, there is something more than commonly interesting in its antique and worn-out appearance, as if it still clung to its natale solum with a feeling of pride, and with a consciousness that it had been instrumental in protecting the liberties, and adding to the glories, of old Scotland. We believe it was blown down some years after this, for we cannot bring ourselves to suppose that any proprietor would voluntarily remove it. We are glad, also, to know, that although this patriarchal tree no longer exists, there

We are indebted for this cut to the Proprietors of Constable's Miscellany, who procured it for their forthcoming Life of Wallace, work likely to contain much curious and interesting information.

has grown up on the same spot a young oak, which is now about a foot in diameter, and, as if conscious of its hereditary honours, is already the tallest in the wood. We cannot, however, state that it grew out of the old stock; for such is the kingly nature of the oak, that one plant never assumes the ground that has been previously occu pied by another, until every part is consumed and displaced by the proper vegetable mould. Yet it is to be hoped that the new oak will not disgrace the reputation of its predecessor; and though it may never shelter a hero like Wallace, it may perhaps come to perform lesser feats, as its prototype did not disdain to do. It is, for example, a tradition of Stirlingshire, that nine queys having on one occasion gone amissing, all search proved fruitless, until they were at length accidentally discovered pleasantly pent up in the interior of the far-famed tree!

It is a curious circumstance, and deserving of notice, that in the year 1788, the iron head of an ancient Scottish spear was found in the Torwood, about a foot below the surface, and about thirty feet west from Wallace's Tree. It was presented, in the same year, to the Society of Antiquaries, in whose possession it now is, by Mr Alexander Kincaid, stationer. We have seen this relic of former days, and it is impossible to look at it, without allowing the imagination to form many fanciful conjectures as to its probable history and possessor. This is, indeed, the chief advantage enjoyed by the antiquarian, that pegs are continually presenting themselves to him upon which to hang a thousand conjectures. The spot upon which stood the Tree of Wallace, must for ever be sacred ground; and every thing that tends to throw light upon its localities, must be interesting in the eyes of a Scotchman.

REMINISCENCES OF THE LATE ROBERT
ANDERSON, M.D.

To the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. SIR, MY excellent friend, Robert Anderson, M.D. died on the 20th of February, at a quarter before four o'clock in the afternoon, having attained to the venerable age of eighty years. Few men will be more regretted among us. His amiable and gentlemanlike manners, his prodigious store of information, and the heartfelt willingness with which he imparted it, will ever be remembered by those who knew his worth, and enjoyed the pleasure of his conversation. He has been long known to the world as an author. His judgment and taste are happily displayed in his edition of the British Poets, a work which has now become scarce. He was more or less connected with various other publications; and among others I may mention the Bee, concerning which, and its excellent editor, the amiable Dr Blacklock thus speaks, in a poetical epistle addressed to Burns :

"Anon to my business I wish to proceed,

Dr Anderson guides, and provokes me to speed,

A man of integrity, genius, and worth,

Who soon a performance intends to set forth;
A work, miscellaneous, extensive, and free,
Which will weekly appear by the name of the Bee:
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan,

And hope you will give what assistance you can."

Literature owes to Dr Anderson much more than his own actual labours. His acute understanding first discovered and encouraged the genius of the author of " The Pleasures of Hope," and Mr Campbell, with great propriety, inscribed that splendid production to his friend. The ingenious and erudite author of " Anster Fair" long enjoyed the pleasure of his correspondence, previous to his personal acquaintance. In short, many of the most eminent men of our country were his friends. I may, in particular, mention, in reference to Burns, about whom so much has been said of late, that the Edinburgh public

the literature of this classic land,—critical reviews of the most important Italian works, as soon as they are published, and general intelligence, scientific and literary, from Rome, Florence, Naples, &c. After sixteen months' gestation, having, in the meantime, obtained about thirty subscribers, at a guinea each,-" parturiunt montes, nasci- | tur ridiculus mus," the long threatened performance was at length published a few days ago. It is about the size of the Literary Gazette, containing twelve pages of letterpress; but, from the large type and mode of printing, not more than half the quantity of matter either in that periodical or in the Edinburgh Literary Journal. The price of each number is 5 pauls, or 2s. 3d., though I question if it would sell for 3d. in England. There are only two original articles, which occupy nine or ten pages; the first is a spirited, well-written paper on the defective regulations relating to literary property in Italy, and the subject is treated with much ability by H. G. B.,* who resides at Pisa under a cloud, for this is not only a resort for English invalids, but also a refugium peccatorum. There is so great a similitude between Italy and Germany both divided into a number of different states, the same language being common to all-that it would appear natural, as far as literature is concerned, to consider them as one family, which might easily be done were the Italian princes to enter into an arrangement in order to prevent the introduction of surreptitious editions of the works of native authors into their respective states, similar to the agreement made by the consent of the German sovereigns at the Diet. The great disadvantage in Tuscany, for instance, is, that an author not only enjoys no copyright of his own works it may be granted as a matter of favour by the Grand Duke for a limited time-but at Turin, Milan, Venice, or any other city, his work may be reprinted by any bookseller who chooses to run the risk, thus depriving the unfortunate author of nearly all the profits of his labours, which every enterprising publisher may pocket. The remedy proposed by the writer is one which might easily be adopted, viz. that all the universi- | ties in Italy should make common cause, and petition their respective governments to effect a change so much required for the benefit of authors, and for the extension of literature in general.

The second article, by the editor himself, is a criticism on the review which appeared in a late number of the Foreign Quarterly of Rosini's interesting romance, "La Monaca di Monza." Some curious particulars are given, relating to the origin of this work, which is the production of the learned professor's leisure hours; but the tenor of the whole is too much in the style of a puff, totally uncalled for, in favour of a novel which passed through twelve editions in Pisa, Florence, and Turin, in the course of a few months. Our critic speaks of it in what he is pleased to term "his present discourse," as "above all condemnation."

To these two articles are added reviews of five new works-none of them of the slightest general interest, even in Italy-huddled into less than a couple of pages, without giving a single extract from any of them, except one stanza, I believe, of "Alcune rime di F. Sacchetto." Finally, the twelfth and last page of this periodical contains half-a-dozen advertisements of pictures and books for sale, and furnished lodgings to let, &c. &c. I doubt not you are heartily tired of this sorry attempt at an English literary journal abroad, and I shall be rather surprised if it proves more successful than the similar one started in Pisa some years ago by Leigh Hunt, called the "Liberal," which dropped after the third number, though he reckoned amongst his contributors Lord Byron and the unfortunate Shelley. Were this paper in good hands, it would be very gratifying to see it prosper; but if it gains no strength as it proceeds, the sooner so miserable a cari

This is, of course, not the H. G. B. of the Literary Journal, but, we believe, Mr H. Gray Bennet. The coincidence is curious.

cature on English criticism ceases the better; however, it is never likely to prove a public nuisance, for its readers will not probably extend much beyond its thirty subscribers, in the number of whom, I need not add, after what I have said, will never be comprised,-Your sincere friend, J. D. SINCLAIR. *

FINE ARTS.

THE FOURTH EXHIBITION OF THE SCOTTISH ACADEMY. (Concluding Notice.)

We propose to say a word or two this week of the most deserving artists among those whom we consider, either from their pursuing a false bent, or from their being yet too young in art, inadmissible into that class, upon the labours of whose members we rest our hopes of the suɛcess of painting in Scotland.

D. O. HILL. It was with considerable reluctance, and after careful reflection, that we excluded this artist from the highest class. He has evidently been working hard, and not without effect. His landscapes are among the best in the Exhibition. His "Sir William Worthy telling Patie's fortune," has much good matter in it. There is a rich, ladylike expression about Peggy, and her look towards the pretended fortune-teller is as of one whose deep love struggles to make her believe what her better sense rejects. Jenny's air of espiéglerie contrasts finely with the deeper feeling of her lovely companion. other figures are all respectable. Of Mr Hill's landscapes the best is No. 140-" The Musselcraig of the Antiquary." This artist is most to seek in the matter of true and simple colouring.

The

JAMES STARK has some pretty landscapes in his peculiar style. He seems to have been trained in the same school with the Nasmyths, but he has better and more massive foregrounds, a stronger body of colour, his trees are less dotty, and his distance more aerial.

Mr SELBY has two clever pictures in his department. We have long known this gentleman's talents as an accurate illustrator of zoological works, but this year he has gone beyond himself. There is the true feeling of an artist in " Hopes Destroyed." The malicious cock of the magpie's tail, and the gusto with which he slubbers up the egg, are highly characteristic. The impotent rage of the male bird, who puts his whole soul into his attack on the plunderer, and the helpless wailing of the mother, which we almost hear, are beautifully conceived and expressed. If Mr S. would give more truth to the colouring of his accessories, and choose more artist-like backgrounds, be would leave us nothing to wish in his little pieces.

ALEXANDER FRASER is scarcely himself this year. He has no such nice compact piece of painting as his “ Tinker,” exhibited last season. There is not one of his productions in which we could not point out something that is good, but there is not one that produces any effect as a whole. His drawing is execrable, as witness the Fisherman, in No. 117, and his Girl at the Pump, in No. 99.

ROBERTS has only one picture and it proves nothing but a great deal of wasted time and talent. What has set him a-copying Martin? He can paint, and Martin cannot. On the other hand, there is a passionate frenzied power about Martin, that gives an interest even to his worst productions, and of this Roberts has not a tittle. Back! back! within the lawful boundaries of art!

DANIEL MACNEE has a prettily drawn and coloured picture of a Girl, No. 297.

BONAR has some nice little things; but he had as good, if not better, last year.

ROBERT GIBB is a promising artist; but he must take care, for he is giving in to a meretricious style of colouring.

Author of the entertaining volume of Constable's Miscellany➡ entitled "An Autumn in Italy."