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not, I think, long entertained by them, and some of my successors have kept me in countenance, by leading you in like manner among the ancient worthies of England's poetic dynasty, in the assurance that the greatest works of modern poets will not be found to surpass in excellence these fruits of inspiration be. queathed to us by elder bards. Nevertheless, that I may escape all risk of being charged with an antiquated and dry old-fashioned taste, and with the desire, moreover, of following the good example of those whom I have now to look back upon as my predecessors, in endeavouring to secure for my evening's reign as much novelty and variety as any of them have succeeded in securing during their occupancy of this throne, I shall invite your attention to the Beauties of the more Modern Poets. The subject is one which cannot fail to furnish ample room and verge enough for every variety of taste. Year by year, indeed, we see old favourites pass away from us, to rank, according to their degree in the impartial judgment of posterity, among the great departed. Southey is at rest amid his old Cumberland hills, and Campbell "sleeps the sleep that knows no waking," among the noble and the mighty that lie side by side beneath the lofty aisles of Westminster Abbey. Mrs Hemans, too, is

laid at rest in the Green Isle, secure from all life's cares, and Miss Landon lies calm and undisturbed in her solitary and distant grave. But, while their works survive them, others are rising to take their places. Miss Barrett still pens her nervous and beautiful lines, full of masculine vigour and feminine delicacy of sympathy; and Baillie gives promise, in his 'Festus,' of poetic honours for the nineteenth century worthy to compare with the Elizabethan era, or with those of the great poet of the Commonwealth. From these then I invite your selection, with the assurance of gathering from their writings a treat no less delightful than those we have owed to older bards. Before proceeding, however, with this I shall endeavour to give you some little account of three of our greatest modern poets,-namely, Scott, Wordsworth, and Burns."

Scott.

Sir Walter Scott must be regarded as the great representative name in the department of the romantic ballad poetry of Scotland. Long before he was suspected of being the author of those wonderful romances, under the name of the "Waverley Novels," which took the world so much by surprise in the earlier part of the present century, his name was widely identified with the ballad poetry of his country. In his various works

of this sort he portrayed with singular felicity both the physical features and the social peculiarities of the Border people of Scotland, as well as of those who dwelt in the more inaccessible and mountainous districts. These works are now in every one's hands, and, although not of the highest order of poetry, are pervaded by a truthfulness to nature, and a romance of circumstance and action which must preserve their popularity for an indefinite period.

Like most great poets, Sir Walter Scott was possessed of deep and genuine humour,-a quality which appears most strikingly in the greater part of his novels. Who has not been delighted with this in such characters as Caleb Balderstone, Bailie Nicol Jarvie, Edie Ochiltree, the Laird of Dumbiedykes, and many others. In most of his novels, indeed, his humour flows more or less exuberantly, and constitutes one of their principal charms; and although this does not appear to such an extent in his poetry, even that is not without many touches of humour. His poem, in particular, "Sultaun Solimaun's Search after Happiness," is, from beginning to end, instinct with genuine humour, describing, as it does, with much subtilty of discrimination, the differential qualities and habits of the various countries through which the morose Sultan passes in his search; the whole pointing a moral which it would be of importance for both nations and individuals to lay to heart,-that

happiness is more within than without, and by no means so dependent on external circumstances as we are apt to suppose. Although born in Edinburgh, and closely connected with it all his days, his favourite residence was Abbotsford, on the banks of the Tweed. Melrose Abbey, Dryburgh Abbey (where his honoured dust reposes), and the beautiful localities adjacent, were his cherished haunts, and are for ever identified with his name. Beautifully picturesque in themselves, they have received an added charm from this circumstance, and will continue to be frequented by multitudes from every quarter while the English language exists, and genius is honoured among men.

When Abbotsford first became the property of Sir Walter Scott, in 1811, it possessed very little indeed to attract the eye,-the estate being a bleak and uninteresting tract of land, with only a small farm-house upon it, called Cartley Hole. As a mansion, it owed its existence to the taste and invention of its illustrious owner; and, as he proceeded after no very fixed plan, but added to it from time to time, and incorporated with it objects of vertu and of antiquarian interest as he happened to obtain them, it ultimately assumed a very bizarre and abnormal character-a "romance," as it has been called, "in stone and lime." It stands on a shelving piece of ground between the public road and the Tweed. The principal parts are, the Entrance Hall, the Armory,

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