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remarkable for industry, genius, and acquirements, Mr Moore's career has been one of high honour and success. No poet has been more universally read, or more courted in society by individuals distinguished for rank, literature, or public service. His political friends, when in office, rewarded him with a pension of £300 per annum, and as his writings have been profitable as well as popular, his latter days will thus be spent in comfort, without the anxieties of protracted authorship. He resides in a cottage in Wiltshire, preferring a country retirement to those gay and brilliant circles which he occasionally enriches with his wit and genius; and he has recently given to the world a complete collection of his poetical works in ten volumes, to which

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are prefixed some interesting literary and personal details. When time shall have destroyed the attractive charm of Moore's personal qualities, and removed his works to a distance, to be judged of by their fruit alone, the want most deeply felt will be that of simplicity and genuine passion. He has worked little in the durable and permanent materials of poetry, but has spent his prime in enriching the stately structure with exquisite ornaments, foliage, flowers, and gems. He has preferred the myrtle to the olive or the oak. His longer poems want human interest. Tenderness and pathos he undoubtedly possesses; but they are fleeting and evanescent-not embodied in his verse in any tale of melancholy grandeur or strain of affecting morality or sentiment. He often throws into his gay and festive verses, and his fanciful descriptions, touches of pensive and mournful reflection, which strike by their truth and beauty, and by the force of contrast. Indeed, one effect of the genius of Moore has been, to elevate the feelings and occurrences of ordinary life into poetry, rather than dealing with the lofty abstract elements of the art. His wit answers to the definition of Pope: it is

Nature to advantage dressed, What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed. Its combinations are, however, wonderful. Quick, subtle, and varied, ever suggesting new thoughts or images, or unexpected turns of expression- now drawing resources from classical literature or the

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ancient fathers-now diving into the human heart, and now skimming the fields of fancy-the wit or imagination of Moore (for they are compounded together) is a true Ariel, a creature of the elements,' that is ever buoyant and full of life and spirit. His very satires 'give delight, and hurt not.' They are never coarse, and always witty. When stung by an act of oppression or intolerance, he can be bitter or sarcastic enough; but some lively thought or sportive image soon crosses his path, and he instantly follows it into the open and genial region where he loves most to indulge. He never dips his pen in malignity. For an author who has written so much as Mr Moore has done on the subject of love and the gay delights of good fellowship, it was scarce possible to be always natural and original. Some of his lyrics and occasional poems, accordingly, present far-fetched metaphors and conceits, with which they often conclude, like the final flourish or pirouette of a stage-dancer. He has pretty well exhausted the vocabulary of rosy lips and sparkling eyes, forgetting that true passion is ever direct and simple-ever concentrated and intense, whether bright or melancholy. This defect, however, pervades only part of his songs, and those mostly written in his youth. The 'Irish Melodies' are full of true feeling and delicacy. By universal consent, and by the sure test of memory, these national strains are the most popular and the most likely to be inmortal of all Moore's works. They are musical almost beyond parallel in words-graceful in thought and sentiment-often tender, pathetic, and heroic-and they blend poetical and romantic feelings with the objects and sympathies of common life in language chastened and refined, yet apparently so simple that every trace of art has disappeared. The most familiar expressions become, in his hands, instruments of power and melody. The songs are read and remembered by all. They are equally the delight of the cottage and the saloon, and, in the poet's own country, are sung with an enthusiasm that will long be felt in the hour of festivity, as well as in periods of suffering and solemnity, by that imaginative and warm-hearted people.

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JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE.

In 1817 Mr Murray published a small poetical volume under the eccentric title of Prospectus and Specimen of an intended National Work, by William and Robert Whistlecraft, of Stowmarket in Suffolk, Harness and Collar-Makers. Intended to comprise the most Interesting Particulars relating to King Arthur and his Round Table. The world was surprised to find, under this odd disguise, a happy imitation of the Pulci and Casti school of the Italian poets. The brothers Whistlecraft formed, it was quickly seen, but the mask of some elegant and scholarly wit belonging to the higher circles of society, who had chosen to amuse himself in comic verse, without incurring the responsibilities of declared authorship. To two cantos published in the above year, a third and fourth were soon after added. The poem opens with a feast held by King Arthur at Carlisle amidst his knights, who are thus introduced:

They looked a manly generous generation; Beards, shoulders, eyebrows, broad, and square, and thick,

Their accents firm and loud in conversation,
Their eyes and gestures eager, sharp, and quick,
Showed them prepared, on proper provocation,
To give the lie, pull noses, stab and kick;
And for that very reason it is said
They were so very courteous and well-bred.

In a valley near Carlisle lived a race of giants; Oft that wild untutored race would draw, and this place is finely described :

Huge mountains of immeasurable height
Encompassed all the level valley round
With mighty slabs of rock, that sloped upright,
An insurmountable and enormous mound.
The very river vanished out of sight,
Absorbed in secret channels under ground;
That vale was so sequestered and secluded,
All search for ages past it had eluded.

A rock was in the centre, like a cone,
Abruptly rising from a miry pool,
Where they beheld a pile of massy stone,
Which masons of the rude primeval school
Had reared by help of giant hands alone,
With rocky fragments unreduced by rule:
Irregular, like nature more than art,
Huge, rugged, and compact in every part.

A wild tumultuous torrent raged around, Of fragments tumbling from the mountain's height; The whistling clouds of dust, the deafening sound, The hurried motion that amazed the sight, The constant quaking of the solid ground, Environed them with phantoms of affright; Yet with heroic hearts they held right on, Till the last point of their ascent was won. The giants having attacked and carried off some ladies on their journey to court, the knights deem it their duty to set out in pursuit; and in due time they overcome these grim personages, and relieve the captives from the castle in which they had been immured:

The ladies? They were tolerably well,

At least as well as could have been expected:
Many details I must forbear to tell;
Their toilet had been very much neglected;
But by supreme good luck it so befell,

That when the castle's capture was effected,

When those vile cannibals were overpowered,

Only two fat duennas were devoured.

Led by the solemn sound and sacred light,
Beyond the bank, beneath a lonely shaw,
To listen all the livelong summer night,
Till deep, serene, and reverential awe
Environed them with silent calm delight,
Contemplating the minster's midnight gleam,
Reflected from the clear and glassy stream.
But chiefly, when the shadowy moon had shed
O'er woods and waters her mysterious hue,
Their passive hearts and vacant fancies fed
With thoughts and aspirations strange and new,
Till their brute souls with inward working bred
Dark hints that in the depths of instinct grew
Subjective-not from Locke's associations,
Nor David Hartley's doctrine of vibrations.
Each was ashamed to mention to the others
One half of all the feelings that he felt,
Yet thus far each would venture-Listen, brothers,
It seems as if one heard Heaven's thunders melt
In music!'

Unfortunately, this happy state of things is broken up by the introduction of a ring of bells into the abbey, a kind of music to which the giants had an insurmountable aversion:

The solemn mountains that surrounded
The silent valley where the convent lay,
With tintinnabular uproar were astounded
When the first peal burst forth at break of day:
Feeling their granite ears severely wounded,
They scarce knew what to think or what to say;
And (though large mountains commonly conceal
Their sentiments, dissembling what they feel,
Yet) Cader-Gibbrish from his cloudy throne
To huge Loblommon gave an intimation
Of this strange rumour, with an awful tone,
Thundering his deep surprise and indignation;
The lesser hills, in language of their own,
Discussed the topic by reverberation;

This closes the second canto. The third opens in Discoursing with their echoes all day long,

the following playful strain :

I've a proposal here from Mr Murray.

He offers handsomely-the money down;

My dear, you might recover from your flurry,

In a nice airy lodging out of town,

At Croydon, Epsom, anywhere in Surrey;
If every stanza brings us in a crown,
I think that I might venture to bespeak
A bedroom and front parlour for next week.
Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think;
Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock;
Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink;
On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock,
And I'd be sure to keep away from drink,
And always go to bed by twelve o'clock.
We'll travel down there in the morning stages;
Our verses shall go down to distant ages.
And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls,
And you shall have a better shawl to wear;
These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes ;
By Monday next I'll compass a new pair:
Come now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals,
And take away the things you hung to air;
Set out the tea-things, and bid Phoebe bring
The kettle up. Arms and the Monks I sing.
Near the valley of the giants was an abbey, con-
taining fifty friars, fat and good,' who keep for a
long time on good terms with their neighbours. Be-
ing fond of music, the giants would sometimes ap-
proach the sacred pile, attracted by the sweet sounds
that issued from it; and here occurs a beautiful
piece of description:-

Their only conversation was, 'ding-dong.'
These giant mountains inwardly were moved,
But never made an outward change of place;
Not so the mountain giants-(as behoved

A more alert and locomotive race);
Hearing a clatter which they disapproved,
They ran straight forward to besiege the place,
With a discordant universal yell,
Like house-dogs howling at a dinner-bell.
This is evidently meant as a good-humoured satire
against violent personifications in poetry.
Mean-
while, a monk, Brother John by name, who had
opposed the introduction of the bells, has gone in a
fit of disgust with his brethren to amuse himself
Here
with the rod at a neighbouring stream.
occurs another beautiful descriptive passage:-
A mighty current, unconfined and free,
Ran wheeling round beneath the mountain's shade,
Battering its wave-worn base; but you might see
On the near margin many a watery glade,
Becalmed beneath some little island's lee,
All tranquil and transparent, close embayed;
Reflecting in the deep serene and even
Each flower and herb, and every cloud of heaven;
The painted kingfisher, the branch above her,
Stand in the steadfast mirror fixed and true;
Anon the fitful breezes brood and hover,
Freshening the surface with a rougher hue;
Spreading, withdrawing, pausing, passing over,
Again returning to retire anew:
So rest and motion in a narrow range,
Feasted the sight with joyous interchange.

Brother John, placed here by mere chance, is apprised of the approach of the giants in time to run home and give the alarm. Amidst the preparations for defence, to which he exhorts his brethren, the abbot dies, and John is elected to succeed him. A stout resistance is made by the monks, whom their new superior takes care to feed well by way of keeping them in heart, and the giants at length withdraw from the scene of action

And now the gates are opened, and the throng
Forth issuing, the deserted camp survey;
'Here Murdomack, and Mangonel the strong,
And Gorbuduc were lodged,' and 'here,' they say,
This pig-stye to Poldavy did belong;

Here Bundleback, and here Phigander lay.'
They view the deep indentures, broad and round,
Which mark their postures squatting on the ground.
Then to the traces of gigantic feet,

Huge, wide apart, with half a dozen toes;

They track them on, till they converge and meet
(An earnest and assurance of repose)
Close at the ford; the cause of this retreat
They all conjecture, but no creature knows;
It was ascribed to causes multifarious,
To saints, as Jerom, George, and Januarius,

To their own pious founder's intercession,
To Ave-Maries, and our Lady's psalter;
To news that Friar John was in possession,
To new wax candles placed upon the altar,

To their own prudence, valour, and discretion;
To relics, rosaries, and holy water;

To beads and psalms, and feats of arms-in short,
There was no end of their accounting for't.

It finally appears that the pagans have retired in order to make the attack upon the ladies, which had formerly been described-no bad burlesque of the endless episodes of the Italian romantic poets.

It was soon discovered that the author of this clever jeu d'esprit was the Right Honourable John Hookham Frere, a person of high political consequence, who had been employed a few years before by the British government to take charge of diplomatic transactions in Spain in connexion with the army under General Sir John Moore. The Whistlecraft poetry was carried no further; but the peculiar stanza (the ottava rima of Italy), and the sarcastic pleasantry, formed the immediate exemplar which guided Byron when he wrote his Beppo and Don Juan; and one couplet―

Adown thy slope, romantic Ashbourn, glides
The Derby dilly, carrying six insides

Thus

became at a subsequent period the basis of an allusion almost historical in importance, with reference to a small party in the House of Commons. the national poem has actually attained a place of some consequence in our modern literature. It is only to be regretted that the poet, captivated by indolence or the elegances of a luxurious taste, has given no further specimen of his talents to the world.

For many years Mr Frere has resided in Malta. In the Life of Sir Walter Scott, there are some particulars respecting the meeting of the declining novelist with his friend, the author of Whistlecraft. We there learn from Scott, that the remarkable war song upon the victory at Brunnenburg, which appears in Mr Ellis's Specimens of Ancient English Poetry, and might pass in a court of critics as a genuine composition of the fourteenth century, was written by Mr Frere while an Eton schoolboy, as an illustration on one side of the celebrated Rowley controversy. We are also informed by Mrs John

Davy, in her diary, quoted by Mr Lockhart, that Sir Walter on this occasion 'repeated a pretty long passage from his version of one of the romances of the Cid (published in the appendix to Southey's quarto), and seemed to enjoy a spirited charge of the knights therein described as much as he could have done in his best days, placing his walkingstick in rest like a lance, "to suit the action to the word." It will not, we hope, be deemed improper that we redeem from comparative obscurity a piece of poetry so much admired by Scott:

The gates were then thrown open,

and forth at once they rushed, The outposts of the Moorish hosts

back to the camp were pushed;

The camp was all in tumult,

and there was such a thunder

Of cymbals and of drums,

as if earth would cleave in sunder. There you might see the Moors

arming themselves in haste,

And the two main battles

how they were forming fast; Horsemen and footmen mixt,

a countless troop and vast. The Moors are moving forward,

the battle soon must join,

'My men stand here in order,

ranged upon a line!

Let not a man move from his rank
before I give the sign.'

Pero Bermuez heard the word,

but he could not refrain,

He held the banner in his hand,

he gave his horse the rein; 'You see yon foremost squadron there, the thickest of the foes,

Noble Cid, God be your aid,

for there your banner goes! Let him that serves and honours it, show the duty that he owes.' Earnestly the Cid called out,

'For heaven's sake be still!' Bermuez cried, 'I cannot hold,'

so eager was his will.

He spurred his horse, and drove him on
amid the Moorish rout:
They strove to win the banner,

and compassed him about.
Had not his armour been so true,

he had lost either life or limb;

The Cid called out again,

'For heaven's sake succour him!' Their shields before their breasts, forth at once they go,

Their lances in the rest

levelled fair and low;
Their banners and their crests
waving in a row,
Their heads all stooping down

towards the saddle bow.
The Cid was in the midst,

his shout was heard afar,

'I am Rui Diaz,

the champion of Bivar; Strike amongst them, gentlemen, for sweet mercies' sake!' There where Bermuez fought

amidst the foe they brake; Three hundred bannered knights, it was a gallant show; Three hundred Moors they killed, a man at every blow: When they wheeled and turned, as many more lay slain,

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You might see them raise their lances,

and level them again.

There you might see the breastplates,
how they were cleft in twain,
And many a Moorish shield

lie scattered on the plain.
The pennons that were white

marked with a crimson stain,

The horses running wild

whose riders had been slain.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The most purely correct and classical poet of this period, possessing also true lyrical fire and grandeur, is THOMAS CAMPBELL, born in the city of Glasgow July 27, 1777. Mr Campbell's father had been an extensive merchant, but was in advanced years (sixty-seven) at the time of the poet's birth. The

T. Campbell

At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,
I have mused in a sorrowful mood,

On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower
Where the home of my forefathers stood.
All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree;
And travelled by few is the grass-covered road,
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode
To his hills that encircle the sea.

A favourite rock or crag, the scene of his musings,
is pointed out in the Island of Mull as the 'Poet's
Seat.' While living in the Highlands, Mr Campbell
wrote his poem entitled Love and Madness (an elegy
on the unfortunate Miss Broderick), and several
other poems now neglected by their author. The
local celebrity arising from these early fruits of his
poetical genius, induced Mr Campbell to lay aside
the study of the law, which he seriously contem-
plated, and he repaired to Edinburgh. There he
became acquainted with James Grahame, author of
the Sabbath,' with Professor Dugald Stewart, Jef-
frey, Brougham, &c. In April 1799 he published
the Pleasures of Hope, dedicated to Dr Anderson,
the steady and generous friend of literature. The
volume went through four editions in a twelvemonth.
At the same age Pope had published his Essay on
Criticism,' also a marvellous work for a youth; but
the production of Campbell is more essentially poeti-
cal, and not less correct or harmonious in its num-
bers. It captivated all readers by its varying and
exquisite melody, its polished diction, and the vein
of generous and lofty sentiment which seemed to
embalm and sanctify the entire poem. The touch-
ing and beautiful episodes with which it abounds
constituted also a source of deep interest; and in
picturing the horrors of war, and the infamous par-
tition of Poland, the poet kindled up into a strain of
noble indignant zeal and prophet-like inspiration.

Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of time!
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo!

Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career:
Hope for a season bade the world farewell,

And freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell!

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The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there; Tumultuous murder shook the midnight airOn Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below. The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way, Bursts the wild' cry of horror and dismay! latter was the Benjamin of the family, the youngest Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall, of ten children, and was educated with great care. A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call! At the age of thirteen he was placed at the univer- Earth shook, red meteors flashed along the sky, sity of Glasgow, where he remained six years. In And conscious nature shuddered at the cry! the first session of his college life he gained a bur- These energetic apostrophes are contrasted with sary for his proficiency in Latin. He afterwards sketches of domestic tenderness and beauty, finished received a prize for the best translation of the Clouds with the most perfect taste in picturesque delineaof Aristophanes, and in awarding it, Professor Young tion, and with highly musical expression. Traces pronounced the poet's translation to be the best of juvenility may no doubt be found in the 'Pleaexercise which had ever been given in by any student sures of Hope'-a want of connection between the of the university. His knowledge of Greek litera- different parts of the poem, some florid lines and imture was further extended by several months' close perfect metaphors; but such a series of beautiful study in Germany under Professor Heyne; but this and dazzling pictures, so pure and elevated a tone was not till the poet's twenty-second year. On of moral feeling, and such terse, vigorous, and leaving the university, Campbell resided a twelve-polished versification, were never perhaps before month in Argyleshire. His father was the youngest found united in a poem written at the age of twentyson of a Highland laird-Campbell of Kernan-and one. Shortly after its publication Mr Campbell the wild magnificent scenery of the West Highlands visited the continent. He went to Bavaria, then the was thus associated in his imagination with recol- seat of war, and from the monastery of St Jacob lections of his feudal ancestors. His poem on visit-witnessed the battle of Hohenlinden, in which (Deing a scene in Argyleshire will occur to our readers: cember 3, 1800) the French under Moreau gained a it opens as follows: victory over the Austrians. In a letter written at

66

this time, he says, 'The sight of Ingoldstat in ruins, and Hohenlinden covered with fire, seven miles in circumference, were spectacles never to be forgotten.' He has made the memory of Hohenlinden immortal, for his stanzas on that conflict form one of the grandest battle-pieces that ever was drawn. In a few verses, flowing like a choral melody, the poet brings before us the silent midnight scene of engagement wrapt in the snows of winter, the sudden arming for the battle, the press and shout of charging squadrons, the flashing of artillery, and the too certain and dreadful death which falls upon the crowded ranks of the combatants.

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !

The poet intended to pass into Italy-a pilgrim at the shrine of classic genius; but owing to the existing hostilities, he could not proceed, and was stopped both on his way to Vienna, and by the route of the Tyrol. He returned to Hamburg in 1801, and resided there some weeks, composing his Exile of Erin, and Ye Mariners of England. The former was suggested by an incident like that which befell Smollett at Boulogne, namely, meeting with a party of exiles who retained a strong love of their native country, and a mournful remembrance of its wrongs and sufferings. So jealous was the British government of that day, that the poet was suspected of being a spy; and on his arrival in Edinburgh, was subjected to an examination by the authorities! He lived in Edinburgh, enjoying its literary society for upwards of a year, and there wrote his Lochiel's Warning.

Alison Square, Edinburgh.*

This poem being read in manuscript to Sir Walter Scott, he requested a perusal of it himself, and then repeated the whole from memory-a striking instance of the great minstrel's powers of recollection. In 1803 Mr Campbell repaired to London, and devoted himself to literature as a profession. He resided for some time in the house of his friend, Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer. Telford continued his regard for the poet throughout a long life, and remembered him in his will by a legacy of £500.†

*The Pleasures of Hope were written in this square.

A similar amount was bequeathed to Mr Southey, and, with a good luck which one would wish to see always attend

Mr Campbell wrote several papers for the Edinburgh Encyclopædia (of which Telford had some share), including poetical biographies, an account of the drama, and an elaborate historical notice of Great Britain. He also compiled Annals of Great Britain, from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens, in three volumes. Such compilations can only be considered in the light of mental drudgery; but Campbell, like Goldsmith, could impart grace and interest to task-work. In 1806, through the influence of Mr Fox, the government granted a pension to the poet-a well-merited tribute to the author of those national strains, Ye Mariners of England, and the Battle of the Baltic. In 1809 was published his second great poem, Gertrude of Wyoming, a Pennsylvanian Tale. The subsequent literary labours of Mr Campbell have only, as regards his poetical fame, been subordinate efforts. The best of them were contributed to the New Monthly Magazine, which he edited for ten years (from 1820 to 1830); and one of these minor poems, the Last Man, may be ranked among his greatest conceptions: it is like a sketch by Michael Angelo or Rembrandt. Previous to this time the poet had visited Paris in company with Mrs Siddons and John Kemble, and enjoyed the sculptured forms and other works of art in the Louvre with such intensity, that they seemed to give his mind a new sense of the harmony of art -a new visual power of enjoying beauty. Every step of approach,' he says, to the presence of the Apollo Belvidere, added to my sensations, and all recollections of his name in classic poetry swarmed on my mind as spontaneously as the associations that are conjured up by the sweetest music.' In 1818 he again visited Germany, and on his return the following year, he published his Specimens of the British Poets, with biographical and critical notices, in seven volumes.* The justness and beauty of his critical dissertations have been universally admitted; some of them are perfect models of chaste yet animated criticism. In 1820 Mr Campbell delivered a course of lectures on poetry at the Surrey institution; in 1824 he published Theodric, and other Poems; and, though busy in establishing the London university, he was, in 1827, honoured with the graceful compliment of being elected lord rector of the uni. versity of his native city. This distinction was

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poets' legacies, the sums were nearly doubled in consequence of the testator's effects far exceeding what he believed to be their value. Thomas Telford (1755-1834) was himself a rhymester in his youth. He was born on poetic ground, amidst the scenes of old Scottish song, green hills, and the other adjuncts of a landscape of great sylvan and pastoral beauty. Eskdale, his native district (where he lived till nearly twenty, first as a shepherd, and afterwards as a stone-mason), was also the birthplace of Armstrong and Mickle. Telford wrote a poem descriptive of this classic dale, but it is only a feeble paraphrase of Goldsmith. He addressed an epistle to Burns, part of which is published by Currie. These boyish studies and predilections contrast strangely with the severer pursuits of his after years as a mathematician and engineer. In his stones (in which he excelled), we can fancy him cheering his original occupation of a stone-mason, cutting names on tombsolitary labours with visions of literary eminence, rivalling the fame of Milton or Shakspeare; but it is difficult to conceive him at the same time dreaming of works like the Menai Bridge or the Pont-cy-sylte aqueduct in Wales. We should as soon expect to see the gnarled and unwedgeable oak' spring from a graft on a myrtle. He had, however, received an early architectural or engineering bias by poring over the plates and descriptions in Rollin's history, which he read by his mother's fireside, or in the open air while herding sheep. Telford was a

liberal-minded and benevolent man.

*A second edition of this work was published in 1841, in one large volume, edited, with care and taste, by Mr Peter Cur ningham.

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