Mr Millman's works were all new to me at least I had seen only some extracts from his poetry in the Reviews and in your Magazine. I freely confess, that I think the able and eloquent critic who reviewed his Martyr of Antioch, in your work, was rather chary of his praise. I do not know which of his three Poems are the most beautiful. They are all classical, elegant, stately, and even magnificent compositions; and surely Oxford may well be proud of such a Professor of Poetry. His scholarship has not overlaid his native feeling, and his imagination moves without constraint in the fetters which he has imposed upon it. His lyrical strains are certainly very fine; their harmony, if not various, is deep and long-drawn out,-and where there is fine music of versification, there is almost always fine poetry too, as Coleridge, I think, has remarked somewhere among his multitudinous thoughts. It is scarcely fair to ask what Mr Millman has added to the stock of English poetry, as your critic does, for that question, taken in its largest meaning, would be a severe one to ask of any living poet, except perhaps Wordsworth and Scott. It seems to me, that a man who, like Mr Millman, has produced, before five-and-thirty, an excellent acting play like Fazio, full of the spirit of the ancient drama, a splendid though heavy narrative poem of the olden time (Samor,) and three such regularly constructed dramatic compositions, as the Fall of Jerusalem, Martyr of Antioch, and Belshazzar, is entitled to an honourable place among the best living poets of his country, and I do not know that either he himself or his friends ask for more. To be sure the British Critic is a little extravagant about Mr Millman, but why not? His poetry has a high, moral, and religious spirit, and Mr Millman is a clergyman. I there

fore like to see the British Critic, which is a work of sound principles, eulogize him warmly, and he deserves it. Öne of the Old Monthly reviewers has late ly got tipsy, and written about Mr Millman in his cups, which surprises me, for I thought the Monthly reviewers were sober men. He calls the Oxford Professor of Poetry "the sun of our poetical hemisphere" at present. If the old gentleman had just looked to his own candle, he would have seen a dozen suns all burning away, each as well entitled to that glowing appellation as Mr Millman. But the Professor is not to be cut up, because an old Rural Dean chooses to write an article over a jorum.

As to the "Fortunes of Nigel," I took up the three volumes, and placed the two last right before me on the table within grasp, so that no intruder should touch them; and the first I seized, as you would stick your fork into a how-towdy when dining alone at Ambrose's, and deposit it bodily on your own plate. I devoured it with greedy eyes, and, having begun my repast about 10 o'clock, A. M., I discussed all the three volumes, and reached the word "end" a little before 6 P. M. This is reading at about the rate of a mile a minute, and I deserve the name of the flying Childers. What life, spirit, animation, stir, bustle, rumpus, stramash, squabash, hullabaloo, and the devil-to-pay! I can give no sort of account of the book, nor do I know what all the characters were about, or driving after, by land or water. But such intriguing, and scheming, and mineing, and counter-mineing, and robbery, and murdering, sets all criticism at defiance. I had not only a headache when I was done with it, but felt as if I were black and blue, such a banging, and basting, and shaking, did I, the reader, seem to have received. It was glorious sport, and a

fox-chase is nothing to it. I have lent my copy to a fat old woman, who sits in an easy chair, with three immense pillows under her, and I am curious to see her set a-going on the pad. What would a Quaker think of such a book? By the way, the author should give us a Quaker. Did you ever see an Irish Quaker? Till you see and hear that, you have seen and heard nothing. Bracebridge Hall is, I think, a great improvement on the Sketch-Book. There is more manliness in it-more nerve-more variety-more humour, and it is far more truly English. Washington Irving is of the right sort. His heart is in its right place. Curse the Cockneys for pretending to admire him -and pinch his little finger if he ever be found admiring the Cockneys. He is a plain, simple, earnest, well-in formed, observant, amiable man of genius. He must be a very happy man. He has enjoyed the woods of his own America-he is proud of her character and destinies-not certainly with out reason, and yet he is tenderly and reverently attached to his old fatherland. There is nothing hard, coarse, or illiberal, in the American part of his nature. His John Bullism is absolutely gruff at times; and he is a citizen of the world, without losing any thing of the individuality of Washington Jonathan Irving. Washington is a noble name, and Irving is not a bad oneThe two together will last a long time. "The Stout gentleman" ought to be put into the Magazine, as one of the most pleasant of extravagancies. I like his humour better than his pure pathos. In the latter, he is far far inferior to the author of "Lights and Shadows." But his humour is exquisite so easy, natural, and amiable,and often so cunning and original.

The book is open before me at the description of two dogs;-which dogs are absolute fac-similes of two people we both know, who are in the absurd habit of abusing your Magazine. I cannot resist the temptation and pleasure of copying it now for your own private perusal." One is a fat spaniel, called Zephyr,-though heaven defend me from such a Zephyr. He is fed out of all shape and comfort; his eyes are nearly strained out of his head; he wheezes with corpulency, and cannot walk without great difficulty. The other is a little old graymuzzled curmudgeon, with an unhappy eye, (HOW PERFECTLY LIKE!) that kindles like a coal if you only look at him; his nose turns up; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to shew his teeth; in short, he has altogether the look of a dog far gone in misanthropy, and totally sick of the world. When he walks, he has his tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his feet from the ground; and he seldom makes use of more than three legs at a time, keeping the other drawn up as a reserve. This last wretch is called BEAUTY!!!”

The "Mohawks" was not cut up when you sent it to me, and I have not yet run my knife though it,—but from the first page, I fear the author is an ass, which I regret.

Pardon, my dear sir, all the nonsense of this long scrawl, which, if I were to read it over, I am sure I could not have the face to put into the postoffice. Once more accept my warmest thanks for your kindness-and believe me to be, my dear sir, yours very truly.

June, 16.

FRANCIS FREEMAN.

another into a pair of breeches, and tying one's neckcloth with a rose-like bud in front. I leave all such wild exploits to Parks and Parrys; and am satisfied to stroll away down at my leisure into the Gude Town of Peebles. I have been asleep for three hours. The moment I sat down in the Baillie's arm-chair, I felt the influence of the drowsy god. The Baillie himself is still fast and sound, on the opposite side of the chimney. The grate is filled with hawthorn, white as snow, and odorous as incense. What a profound face is the Baillie's! That man never injured a fly, who can thus sleep. It seems as if an idea, or a feeling, had never cast its light or shade over that face!" Dear God," as Mr Wordsworth says, "the very house seems asleep." "Come, Bailie, awake, arise, or be for ever fallen! Faillie, I say, it is near three. I hear the trout fizzing in the pan, down by yonder at the bridge." I must pull his nose. It won't do-off with his wig, and rub his pate with a towel-still he sleeps -tickle his nostrils with a feathernow with the nib of my pen-still he sleeps he opens his lack-lustre eyes, but they see me not, any more than a couple of oysters. Oh, Bailie, Bailie, must I arouse you with a rattling peal of thunder! The wife is routing below, as if she was mad. Hech sirs, man, give one great gant, and be done with it. Our friends are gone down the street; and Archy looked up with the tail of his e'e as he passed. He will have fastened on the trout before we arrive. Come, Bailie, look sharp."

Four hours have elapsed since I wrote the last paragraph, as you will perceive by the colour of the ink, and perhaps before I finish, by the hen-foot sorawl of my hand-writing. I confess that I am barely sober-but howcould I, after thirteen jugs between four of us? I am no epicure you know that-but SUCH A TROUT!!! It was done in the pan by itself not a single small fry was suffered to lie by its lordly bulk. How it sucked in the great dabs of rich fresh butter, that the scooping thumb of Girzzy ever and anon plumped into that pan! nearly a pound! a gentle fizzing, now deepening, now dying away, filled the whole house. Scarcely a word was spoken. We sat looking on each other's well-pleased faces, and listening the fiz-z-z-z-z-z-z-z. Now

and then one of us stole on tip-toe, as if afraid to disturb the cook, into the kitchen, and reported progress. "How is his tail now?" cried Archy. " Curling up the great snout o' him,” answered the Bailie." He has the shouthers o' a saumont, maister,” cried Girzzy, exulting over her handywork-"Haud back, my bonny man, (I like a compliment to my personal appearance,) haud back, sir, gin you please-you grupped him yoursel, and ye sall eat him yoursel-I'm just gaun to dish-ae flaster o' the pepper mug

and then on wi' him on the trencher!" The Amazon lifted the pan off the fire, and wafting it to the dresser, half-trundled the noble animal into a dish that would have held a sirloin, and bearing him triumphantly aloft over her head, with arms red as those of the morning, she crowned the board with the monarch of the flood.

Did you ever see a pack of hounds worrying a fox? Think on them and then on us. What guzzling! The great drops of sweat stood on every forehead, and I saw them plashing off that of our host into his trencher-but I put my hand to my own brow, and said nothing." Lord forgie me-but I have forgotten to say grace."-" No wonder," quoth I, "but we will all return thanks." We finished him in four minutes-from the tip of the tail to the tip of the snout. His very fins were devoured, and we made no bones of him. Like the great globe itself, he left not a wreck behind. I felt a strong inclination to lick my plate, but delicacy forbade. "Here's a gran' bag o' worms?" cried Watty Ritchie, standing at the door that had been left half open, to admit a little cool air from the kitchen fire. "Rax them ower here," I replied; and a finer collection of worms I never saw bagged. I raised up a red bunch of them with my thumb, as they nestled in the dewy moss, and then handed round the little odorous bag for general admiration. This was during the interval between sermons-I beg pardon, between courses. But the wormbag was removed, and in came the cold round and the pigeon-pie. It now seemed as if the trout had merely given us a whet, and large tripelike slices, comprehending the whole rotundity of beef, came ever and anon flapping upon the plate of each delighted individual, to melt away like