"You make a feast, you spread the hoard
With all your larder can afford-
Fish, fowl, and flesh; then comes a guest,
Who eats as if he were possessed,

Tears up and hacks your savory roasts,
And of his gluttonous prowess boasts.
Thereafter, through the town he goes,
Resolved your folly to expose,

In throwing pearls before a swine.
'Your soup was thin; austere your wine;
Your venison was not larded well;
You had not truffle nor morel,

For sauce to capons tough, that looked
As if with soot and cinders cooked.
In short, 't is true as he's a sinner,
You know not how to give a dinner.'
So croaks the cormorant, and repeats
His obloquy to all he meets.

Who could such insolence endure?

Go, hang the dog! HE'S A REVIEWER!"

WILLIAM TENNENT.

I must not overlook Dr. Willam Tennent, who for some years resided most contentedly at Lasswade, as parish schoolmaster of that humble village, and who, I presume, is living still as a dignified professor at the secluded college of Dollar. The village itself would warrant some especial notice, were it for no more than that it most probably afforded the prototype for Sir Walter Scott's "Gandercleugh." It was an easy matter for the poet's imagination to convert the ruins of the deserted old church and gloomy church-yard into the remains of an old monastery or abbey, and besides this, it was only needful to suppose that Lasswade was fifty miles distant from Edinburgh, in order to establish the resemblance and analogy. The learned and astute Dr. Tennent, it is true, could not so well have been lowered down and degenerated into "Jedediah," but he happened not to assume his functions until after theTales of my Landlord" were commenced.

Strangely enough, in a labored article of the " Edinburgh Review," William Tennent and James Hogg were classed together, though the only point of analogy betwixt them was, that they both emerged from the lowest grades of poverty. I

recollect well the first demonstrations of the former as an author, when, under the anonyme of "William Ready-to-halt (in allusion both to the "Pilgrim's Progress" and his own excessive lameness), he sent the first manuscript of "Anster Fair" to Doctor Robert Anderson, who gave it me to read. The Doctor was puzzled, and so was I. Not perceiving and not being informed that the humorous and utterly unknown author had already studied the Italian writers of ottava rima, and had found among them examples of buffoonery and extravaganza, which by precedent warranted the dance of Maggie Lauder's mustard-pot, we could not imagine in what school he had noviciated, nor what he was driving at. I suppose the public understood him no better, but Dr. Tennent troubled himself very little about their decisions, being in truth far more inclined to turn into ridicule the criticisms of soi-disant judges, who in their luxurious elbow-chairs and surrounded by books, were not half so learned and laborious as he was in his loneliness and poverty. Truly, if a new series of that popular work, "The Pursuit of Knowledge under Difficulties," were attempted, Dr. Tennent ought to hold in it a distinguished place.

Of all the self-educated poets that I have ever known or heard of, Tennent and Hogg were in their views of literary duty the most incongruous and dissimilar. The former went even beyond my old ally, John Pinkerton, in his notions of the necessity for book-learning. He looked upon facility and rapidity of composition with a mixture of wrath and scorn, insisting that such work was no better than twisting ropes of sand, or building without a foundation. Notwithstanding his lameness and inability to move without crutches, he had marvelous strength of constitution and unconquerable spirits. Whilst at Lasswade, he rose, summer and winter, at five o'clock, in order that he might have time for his private studies before his irksome duties as pedagogue began. In the evenings he did not flag, but unless a neighbor came to partake of a jug of toddy, resumed his labors. Tennent's leading crotchet was, that, by dint of lonely application, without any

collaborator or any help but that of books, he would gradually command all languages, but more especially the Oriental. I have heard him complain of want of time, but never of weariness or want of power. Difficulties with him were always conquerable. He would teach himself and teach others; but his soul disdained the notion of being taught. One result of all this was a very dictatorial and pompous manner of speech which I did not admire, and which our mutual friend, James Hogg, could not tolerate. But notwithstanding the peculiarities of our world, merit like his could not be suffered to remain over-clouded in the school-room at Lasswade. I lost sight of him after he went to the college at Dollar.

MRS. SIDDONS.

I remember, like a dream, that Mrs. Siddons came to Edinburgh that winter, - I think it was in the month of February, and probably it was her last appearance among us. She played all her best parts, but did not stay to repeat any of them. As might be expected, the greatest rush and pressure was to see her unequaled Lady Macbeth. I remember meeting in the lobby Mr. Dugald Stewart, who was quite as much puzzled how to find a place as I was, the box to which he had been specially invited, being already over-crammed. I know not what became of him in the crowd, but I clambered to the "slips," and made the most of my station there. Imagination, it has been said, transcends reality, and sometimes no doubt this is true; but I believe no one ever imagined of Mrs. Siddons that which she did not more than realize. The same might be said of Miss O'Neill, great as was, in other respects, the contrast betwixt them. According to my humble notions, however, the natural and unequaled dignity of Mrs. Siddons was not wholly in keeping with the real character of Macbeth's atrocious wife. In the demon conceived by the poet, there is a passionate fierceness, an anxiety visible through the disguise of calmness which are not reconcilable with that sustained dignity or solemnity of which Mrs. Siddons could not, upon any occasion, not even in ordinary life, divest herself.

JAMES GRAY.

Gray was one of the masters of the High School at Edinburgh, and in that capacity was most attentive to his duties and highly respected. He was an excellent Greek scholar, a veritable enthusiast in all his undertakings, and a man of original genius. He married Miss Peacock, a poetess and voluminous letter-writer, who had, I think, been acquainted with Burns. Gray himself had that honor, and among poor Burns's associates was perhaps the only man surviving who had any pretensions to literary talent. Hence, Mr. Wordsworth addressed to him his letter on the character of our national poet, which was published in the year 1815 or 1816. For genius, or even the semblance of genius in every phasis, James Gray felt the most sincere and ardent sympathy. He seemed always on the watch for its demonstrations, and his humble abode at St. Leonards, especially at the dinner-hour, became a sort of rendezvous or club-house for soi-disant poets, some of whom little deserved his patronage. Greatly to his honor, James Hogg often remonstrated, but in vain, against the expense and inconvenience of such hospitality, by which he himself would not profit except sparingly, and which he too truly predicted would one day lead to serious embarrassment. There was another point of difference betwixt them, which sometimes led to ridiculous disputes. Truly zealous for the honor and fame of the Shepherd, Gray wished him to read and study, as well as to write, and directed his attention to the fact that Shakespeare, though risen from the station of a link-boy, and self-educated, became possessed of extensive acquirements and learning. But James Hogg was obdurate in his contempt for books, whether old or new. Not even the example of Shakespeare nor the exaggeration of the implied compliment, could propitiate him. He would work out his own reveries upon the "sclate," after his own fashion, and this was all. Nevertheless, he took up by rote divers of Gray's Latin phrases, and in his prose writings used to table them at hap-hazard.

Worthy James Gray! He rose early and studied late. He

was generous and high-spirited; "obscurely wise and coarsely kind." His greatest luxury or happiness was when, during the long vacations, he could set out, accompanied by his wife, in long pedestrian excursions through the remote Highlands. But he had a family, as well as a squad of parasitical genii to provide for. Embarrassments thickened at last, as Hogg had predicted; and, as usual in such cases, he found in the hour of adversity that he was no prophet in his own land." He gave up his appointments, and with strong testimonials in his pocket, as to learning and moral worth, came to London, where, by some means or another, he succeeded in obtaining a clerical employment in the East Indies; after which I heard no more of him, except that he and his wife soon died there.

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WILLIAM SCOTT IRVING.

He wrote and published a long poem, with notes, entitled "Fair Helen of Kirkconnel," dedicated to Sir John Heron Maxwell; from whom, doubtless, he expected patronage; but I suppose that worthy baronet worshipped more steadily at the shrine of Plutus than of Apollo; for I did not hear of any wealth flowing from his coffers into the empty purse of the poet. Irving covered reams of paper with his various productions, in prose and verse; yet all that he wrote bore the fatal stamp, not of plagiarism, but of undeniable imitatorship. Almost invariably he labored to make a ballad or a book in the style of Scott or Byron, but haud passibus equis. Supposing, however, that he had come nearer to his models, his reception would not have been any better. Our wise public were contented with Scott and Byron, and by no means wanted to see a reduplication or double of either in the person of Mr. Irving. He had a wife and family, this poor man, and thought to support them by serving pertinaciously at the Muses' shrine. But, seemingly, neither the Muses nor any one else cared a straw about his services. At length he sank into the most abject poverty; yet, if on any day he found some one ready to do him the "God-like favor" (his own phrase) of administering a "pound note," he would instantly set himself at his desk