resemblance to Burns in countenance. I do not believe it: they resembled each other only in the fervent and innate poetic feeling,only in the simple tastes and lowly origin. Nature, through his ancestry, endowed Allan Cunningham with a powerful, stalwart frame, -a body that would have borne armour with ease-a chest broad -an arm strong-limbs that seemed made for immortality, or at all events, for old age. I lived to see him lay his hand on that arm of iron, and say, with faltering voice-" My arm-I cannot use it now!" The In the essential characteristics of their minds, Burns and Cunningham differed entirely. Burns was a creature of self-indulgence -Allan, of principle, and consequent wholesome restraint. romance of Burns's fancy was fevered and sullied by passion. The purity of Cunningham was the same in the season of his youth as in the chastened period of his hallowed and respected age. In fact, although they have often absurdly been compared, there is no parallel to be drawn between these two men, either in character or in genius. In genius, indeed, Burns was one of the few-Cunningham of the many. Burns was of the few who are lent for a while to irradiate their century-to blaze, burn, expire. Allan, one of the many, endowed with high poetic taste, but not with the genius that rushes, like the torrent, over every point and pinnacle of craggy rocks, leaving such an impression on the mind as never dies. Cunningham was like the gentler Scottish burn, the streamlet whose clearness scarcely hides the green moss as it flows with a delicious sound, making the banks verdant as it passes, descends the miniature cascade, flows on, and is forgotten. To his powerful frame, a head of suitable proportions was Nature's gift to Cunningham. An ample forehead, deep-set, thoughtful eyes, that beamed with kindness when he spoke, broad, Scottish cheeks, homely, yet characteristic features, an unelevated nose, a mouth wide and smiling,-these were the lineaments of the poet. I have sometimes thought, as I looked at him from the length of a drawing-room, a crowd of London men with their canes and chapeaux, and of London bare shoulders and ringlets intervening, that he had the air of an old Covenanter, and might have emerged just then, and been in good-keeping with the place, from the Souter's Hole in Crickop Linn, the scene of Balfour of Burleighs' supposed escape, and the scene, too, of many a meeting, and many a preaching of the poor Covenanters, when they clung to the rocks, and were fired upon by English troopers. There, indeed, should Allan have been placed, his fine bald head, the locks combed down on either side, as he wore them, his form riding amid the dark crevices of those overgrown rocks, or bending above the winding stream, wearing its way into deep and tortuous channels as it wanders. There,-where Walter Scott, lead by the accomplished owner of the Linn, long mused, stood apart-noted the minutiae of the place in his mind, and again and again reviewed the singular windings of the Linn; and, finally, placed in the Souter's Hole, or seat, whence the Souter, or cobbler, preacher of the Covenanters, used to harangue his congregation, clothing the sides of the chasm-there he placed Balfour of Burleigh in his cavern. The very curved tree by which he climbed, bends still over the Linn,-for taste, the love of nature, the love of history, have preserved the Crickop Linn to the re membrance of Scott, of his Covenanters, of Balfour of Burleigh, and even of Allan Cunningham. For here, his footsteps must also have lingered. 'Tis not a day's journey, nor half a day's from Dumfries; and to such scenes, that form, and that face, and the mind which animated them, were far better adapted than the saloons of London. Do not mistake me: I mean not that Allan Cunningham did not grace the drawing-room-he did. Amid all that was frivolous, much that seemed like heartlessness, much that was over-fine, much that was tame, his calm countenance and imposing stature rose in wholesome contrast. It reminded you that something there was stable-that all was not folly. It was like viewing an ancient, wellbuilt tower, that had stood the work of time, and could stand the brunt of future ages, amid a crowd of gimcrack villas, every angle of which announced premature decay. In deportment, Allen was staid, dignified, and not without condescension. His was the manly bearing of conscious intellect. There was no assumption; there was no subserviency. I defy any man to have insulted, or looked him down,-any woman, even though she be of the halfaristocratic breed, which is ever insolent, to have said a pert thing to him. Nature had ennobled him: he was not merely a gentleman; at her bidding he was something more. I have seen him in the crowds of Kensington Palace, where the Duke of Sussex lent his royal grace to charm and to enliven even the dull and proud, stand like an isolated oak amid a thicket of saplings. I have detected the littleness of passing as a mere acquaintance, the helpmate of Chantrey; but he was not long isolated. "Come here, Allan,” said the Duke to him one evening, passing his arm through that of the poet: the crowd drew back-the Prince of the Blood and the son of the stone-cutter passed on: but Allan's calm and innate dignity received no shock. His eye glistened, as it ever did when a kind thing was said or done; but his Covenanter-looking head could carry the intoxicating draught of royal favour, and feel no ill effects. As we entered the The first time I saw Allan Cunningham was when I visited Chantrey's studio with two wilful cousins of mine, now grave mamas. They vowed they would be introduced to him; I washed my hands of the transaction. They declared that I should introduce them: I protested I could not-I had never seen him. They were young, handsome, and determined. What could I do? gallery, out spoke the elder to the attendant of the chamber, "Pray is not Allan Cunningham, the poet, here?" The man hesitated: after a moment's reflection, "Yes, ma'am, Mr. Cunningham. Do you wish to see him?” "Tell him," cried my younger torment, hanging on my left arm, some ladies from-whose name shall we say?" looking at me.-Oh!-from Mr. Wilkie,-wish to see him." Hereupon ensued a parley: "My dear, how can you? Suppose he should not know Mr. Wilkie; besides, I do not feel at liberty to use Wilkie's name." "Hush!" cried L, (I won't betray, even to her daughters, the grave matron who would be shocked if the very youngest of them were to do the like,) « Hush! Who is this grave man in a pinafore coming towards us?" Covered with a sort of apron, or pinafore, such as good, oldfashioned cooks used to put on while cooking, a small chisel in his hand, his face wearing a puzzled look, and emerging from behind a half-finished monument, came forth Allan Cunningham. There was that in his manner which rebuked assurance; but as I muttered, blushing for my own weakness, blushing for the effrontery of my fair cousins, the name of Wilkie, his countenance relaxed into a smile. "Ah! Wilkie? He's away to Scotland," was his answer. Possibly he might have been away to New Zealand-I had not seen him for these three months. "These ladies," I muttered in reply, were so desirous of seeing you, Mr. Cunningham;" he bowed his stately head slightly. "There are some very pretty things here," he returned in his broad Scotch-the broadest Scotch-a Scotch never diluted by the slightest approach to English-a Scotch just intelligible, and that is all. He led us, as he spoke, to some of the unfinished productions of Chantrey. As we conversed, and the enthusiasm of my companions broke forth; and as, inch by inch, we betrayed that we had gone partly, only, to see the sculpture, chiefly to see the poet, he warmed into friendliness. The fame of a poet was nearest to his heart. His occupation under Chantrey, by no means an uncongenial one, as I have understood, could not alienate the early rambler over the classic scenes of Ellisland from his true love. Exquisite are Cunningham's early productions; and when I knew him he was still a poet. The acquaintance thus fraudulently formed, became one of those which never languished, although often interrupted. Worthy of being born in Nithsdale, worthy of dwelling in the same country whence Lucy Countess of Nithsdale issued forth, the heroine of domestic life, at the peril of death, to rescue her lord, Cunningham had a steady, constant, Scottish heart. The English may be warmer than the Scotch, but they are more capricious. Cunningham was always the same-at least to me; his name is coupled in my memory with that of L. E. L., of Wilkie, and Chantrey, and many of less note, but of pleasant memory. One touch more; let me rub up my palettes for the last shades, and then let the memory of this good man rest, as far as my pen is concerned, unmolested. I have described his appearance; I have attempted to describe his expression of countenance: it is far more difficult to give any notion of his conversation. It was not brilliant, but emphatic and original; never overbearing in argument, yet he knew how to maintain his point with Scottish determination. He never said a discourteous thing; he never uttered a vulgar remark. Religion, virtue, sincerity were never outraged with impunity in his presence. I do not know that I ever felt quite easy with Allan Cunningham. Perhaps, to speak humanly, partly because he was so tall. I felt I was looked down upon. I always entertained a deep respect, not only for his intellect, but for his height. Conversation, like a shuttlecock, rebounds from battledore to battledore, when the players are well matched; but could not act upon a church steeple. Another drawback was, not only that Scotch accent, but that Scotch mind. Our North-o'-the-Tweedites have no notion themselves, good folk, how uncommonly unlike they are to English people. Beginning the world upon porridge, instead of bread and milk, the same dissimilarity goes on through life. They are endowed with extra powers to pronounce those hard names which drive one mad, and with ears framed to understand each other when they speak their head-cracking language. They are lovers of anecdote, and even of long stories; and it requires an apprenticeship to listen to them with effect. When I say, therefore, that Allan's discourse was peculiarly Scotch, I need no further describe it. The last time I saw him was in Chantrey's studio; we spoke of L. E. L. “I loved her," he said with emphasis; "Mrs. Cunningham had a vast respect for her too." His voice faltered, his speech was even then slightly impaired by a shock of that malady which laid that tall form low,—his arm, his left arm, was enfeebled. The axe was laid to the root of the tree-his days were numbered. “Puir lassie!" he said, the tears moistening his eyes "why did she go?" He uttered the words with that deep feeling with which her fate inspired all who were worthy of remembering her. The gallery was silent, the hour was early, there was something solemn in his tones. Little, to speak generally, was Allan Cunningham shaken by the attack which had paralysed his arm; his form was still erect. Wilkie was then living; he had heard from him ;—he was " well." In a year or more that gallery, so silent then, was still as death; for Death, pointing to the unfinished works, said, “Stop there !" Chantrey had been summoned by imperative decree; Wilkie was no more. Cunningham, ere yet the marbles had received their last touches from his hands, ere he had obeyed the behest of his friend that all should be completed, had yielded up his spirit at his Maker's call. SCORN NOT THE POOR MAN'S LOVE! BY WILLIAM JONES. SCORN not the poor man's love! That ease and wealth have never seen; Scorn not the poor man's love ! To cheer his hours of solitude! Scorn not the poor man's love! His shed, though lowly, knew no night; Scorn not the poor man's love! Ill suit the mien by beauty graced; Scorn not the poor man's love ! Scorn not the poor man's love! THE GAOL CHAPLAIN; OR, A DARK PAGE FROM LIFE'S VOLUME. CHAPTER LXII. A GHOST STORY. "If life be miserable, to live is painful; if happy, to die is terrible: they both come to the same thing."-BRUYÈRE. No school-boy on the eve of "long Midsummer holidays," was guilty of wilder and more extravagant exultation at making his farewell bow to a rigid tutor, than I at escaping, for a fortnight, from the gloom and horrors, the clank of bolts and bars, the distrustful air of suspicious turnkeys, and the habitual scowl of a growling gaoler-fixed features in a prison scene. To fair and fertile Devon, with its sunny hills and land-locked bays-glorious alike in climate and scenery-rich in orchards teeming with produce, and valleys smiling with verdure-did I hurry, an eager and well pleased wanderer. Rest would I-such was my firm resolve-for a few hours at Exeter to muse amid the sombre aisles of its time-honoured cathedral; revel in the measured chant of its unequalled choir; and note the havoc which time and change had wrought in a city so loyal and so fair. The "Capital of the West" was soon before me. There stood Northernhay, with its grateful shade; but where was Samuel Frederick Milford, Esq., with his elaborate harangues on "the expediency, and propriety, and necessity of its preservation ?" The hum of busy tongues still resounded from "The Grammar School;" but where was Dr. Bartholomew-the terror of truantswith his sonorous voice and portentous frown? and "Cy. Coombs," the unrivalled maker of "everlasting cricket-balls," bats that "never wore out," and hoops that never chipped? had he at length forded the stream, and gone to "the pleasant hunting-grounds" beyond it? The peal from the cathedral tower sounded full and musical on the breeze. The vergers, as of yore, preceded the dean; a little band of surpliced choristers, with their merry faces and heedless steps, followed, helter-skelter, after him: but the eye sought in vain for little Canon Heberden, with his thin, reedy, squeaking, penny-trumpet voice, which we godless school-boys made such vain attempts to mimic, and for jolly Precentor Bartlam, who used literally, not figuratively, to fill his stall, and look the while the very type and image of a well-fed, good-humoured, happy churchman. Old familiar faces, too, were missing. Fore Street was alive with the stir and hum of human life and human enterprise: but where was Cooke, the saddler, the loyal and the humorous-with his matchless "Bulletins," the spelling so original, the politics so ultra-tory-so devoted an adherent to my Lord Rolle-such an uncompromising antagonist to Lord Ebrington! And Flindell, of The Western Luminary, so cruelly forgotten by the party which he so faithfully served; as a public man so shrewd, severe, and keen; in private, so VOL. XVII. TT |