But if you must, don't tell your neighbors; Or five in six, who cannot scrawl, Will dub you donkey for your labors. This epithet may seem unjust To you or any verse-begetter: Oh, must we own - I fear we must! Then let them bray with leathern lungs, And match you with the beast that grazes; Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues, Or damn you with the faintest praises. you will get your due Be patient, When strangers first approved my books, My kindred marveled what the praise meant, They now wear more respectful looks, But can't get over their amazement. Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond For all the time they are so fond — Which makes the aggravation greater. Most warblers now but half express The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter: If they attempted naught or less! They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter. Fly low, my friend; then mount, and win The niche for which the town's contesting: And never mind your kith and kin — But never give them cause for jesting. A bard on entering the lists Should form his plan; and having conned it, Should know wherein his strength consists, And never, never go beyond it. Great Dryden all pretense discards; And Praed (Watteau of English Bards) - Hold Pegasus in hand-control Of all that Time deems worth the sparing. Long lays are not a lively sport; Reduce your own to half a quarter: I look on bards who whine for praise And swear one's spiteful when one's witty. The critic's lot is passing hard: Between ourselves, I think reviewers, When called to truss a crowing bard, Should not be sparing of the skewers. We all the foolish and the wise Regard our verse with fascination, And hues of Fancy's own creation; Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx, Is perfect: try and teach her better. One half the pains to learn that we, sir, Still use to hide our ignorance · How very clever you will be, sir! JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, a Scottish biographer, born at Cambusnethan, July 14, 1794; died at Abbotsford, Nov. 25, 1854. He studied at the University of Edinburgh and at Balliol College, Oxford, and in 1816 was called to the bar of Edinburgh. In 1820 he married a daughter of Sir Walter Scott. In 1826 he became editor of the London Quarterly Review, which he conducted. until 1853. As early as 1817 he became a contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, his most notable contribution to which was "Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk," some of which, however, were the production of Wilson, while Lockhart wrote portions of Wilson's "Christopher in his Tent," and "Noctes Ambrosianæ." Lockhart wrote several novels, the best of which are, "Adam Blair," and "Reginald Dalton." His spirited translations of the "Ancient Spanish Ballads," most of which had previously appeared in Blackwood, were collected into a volume in 1823. The principal of his other works are: "Life of Robert Burns" (1828); "Life of Napoleon Bonaparte " (1829); "Life of Sir Walter Scott" (7 vols., 1836-1838). LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. (From the "Life of Scott.") ON this his last journey Sir Walter was attended by his two daughters, Mr. Cadell, and myself; and also by Dr. James Watson, who (it being impossible for Dr. Ferguson to leave town at that moment) kindly undertook to see him safe at Abbotsford. We embarked in the James Watt steamboat, the master of which (Captain John Jamieson), as well as the agent of the proprietors, made every arrangement in their power for the convenience of the invalid. The Captain gave up for Sir Walter's use his own private cabin, which was a separate erection, a sort of cottage on the deck: and he seemed unconscious, after being laid in bed there, that any new removal had occurred. On arriving at Newhaven, late on the 9th, we found careful preparations made for his landing by the manager of the Shipping Company (Mr. Hamilton); and Sir Walter, prostrate in his carriage, was slung on shore, and conveyed from thence to Douglas's Hotel in St. Andrew's Square, in the same complete apparent unconsciousness. Mrs. Douglas had in former days been the Duke of Buccleuch's housekeeper at Bowhill, and she and her husband had also made the most suitable provision. At a very early hour on the morning of Wednesday the 11th, we again placed him in his carriage; and he lay in the same torpid state during the first two stages on the road to Tweedside. But as we descended the vale of the Gala he began to gaze about him, and by degrees it was obvious that he was recognizing the features of that familiar landscape. Presently he murmured a name or two: "Gala Water, surely - Buckholm - Torwoodlee." As we rounded the hill at Ladhope, and the outline of the Eildons burst on him, he became greatly excited; and when, turning himself on the couch, his eye caught at length his own towers at the distance of a mile, he sprang up with a cry of delight. The river being in flood, we had to go round a few miles by Melrose bridge; and during the time this occupied, his woods and house being within prospect, it required occasionally both Dr. Watson's strength and mine, in addition to Nicolson's, to keep him in the carriage. After passing the bridge, the road for a couple of miles loses sight of Abbotsford, and he relapsed into his stupor; but on gaining the bank immediately above it, his excitement became again ungovernable. Mr. Laidlaw was waiting at the porch, and assisted us in, lifting him into the dining-room, where his bed had been prepared. He sat bewildered for a few moments, and then resting his eye on Laidlaw, said, "Ha! Willie Laidlaw! O man, how often have I thought of you!" By this time his dogs had assembled about his chair; they began to fawn upon him and lick his hands; and he alternately sobbed and smiled over them until sleep oppressed him. Dr. Watson, having consulted on all things with Mr. Clarkson and his father, resigned the patient to them and returned to London. None of them could have any hope but that of soothing irritation. Recovery was no longer to be thought of; but there might be euthanasia. And yet something like a ray of hope did break in upon us next morning. Sir Walter awoke perfectly conscious where he was, and expressed an ardent wish to be carried out into his garden. We procured a Bath-chair from Huntly-Burn; and Laidlaw and I wheeled him out before his door, and up and down for some time on the turf, and among the rose beds then in full bloom. The grandchildren admired the new vehicle, and would be helping in their way to push it about. He sat in silence, smiling placidly on them and the dogs their companions, and now and then admiring the house, the screen of the garden, and the flowers and trees. By-and-by he conversed a little, very composedly, with us: said he was happy to be at home, that he felt better than he had ever done since he left it, and would perhaps disappoint the doctors after all. He then desired to be wheeled through his rooms, and we moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and down the hall and the great library. "I have seen much," he kept saying, "but nothing like my ain house: give me one turn more!" He was gentle as an infant, and allowed himself to be put to bed again the moment we told him that we thought he had had enough for one day. Next morning he was still better; after again enjoying the Bath-chair for perhaps a couple of hours out-of-doors, he desired to be drawn into the library and placed by the central window, that he might look down upon the Tweed. Here he expressed a wish that I should read to him; and when I asked from what book, he said, "Need you ask?- there is but one." I chose the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel; he listened with mild devotion, and said when I had done, "Well, this is a great comfort: I have followed you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet to be myself again." In this placid frame he was again put to bed, and had many hours of soft slumber. On the third day Mr. Laidlaw and I again wheeled him about the small piece of lawn and shrubbery in front of the house for some time; and the weather being delightful, and all the richness of summer around him, he seemed to taste fully the balmy influences of nature. The sun getting very strong, we halted the chair in a shady corner, just within the verge of his verdant arcade around the court-wall; and breathing the coolness of the spot, he said, "Read me some amusing thing; read me a bit of Crabbe." I brought out the first volume of his own favorite that I could lay hand on, and turned to what I remembered as one of his most favorite passages in it, the description of the arrival of the Players in the Borough. He listened with great interest, and also, as I soon perceived, with great curiosity. Every now and then he exclaimed, "Capital - excellent very good-Crabbe has lost nothing;" and we |