trap, and are delighted to find that in the book there is so little. We rejoice to see, by the way, from a recent glance at that repertory of wit and wisdom-Boswell's “Johnson”—that old Samuel entertained the same opinion with us of the inutility of lectures, and their inferiority to books as a means of popular education; and that, too, many years

1; ere they had become the standing article of disgust and necessary

nuisance which they seem now to be. But, instead of dwelling on Delta's faults, or quoting any of the eloquent and beautiful passages in which his lectures abound, we close by calling on our readers to peruse for themselves. His book is not only worthy of his reputation, but is really one of the heartiest, sincerest, and most delightful works of criticism we have read for many a long year.

We almost tremble now to begin a criticism on any advanced and long-known author. While we were writing a recent paper on Joanna Baillie, the news arrived of her death. While expecting the proof of the above article on “Delta,” the melancholy tidings of his sudden decease reached us. Shall we say, in the language of Lalla Rookh,

“I never rear'd a fair gaz

To glad me with her soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,

And love me, it was sure to die?” About two months ago, the lamented dead opened up a communication with us, which promised to ripen into a long and friendly correspondence. Dis aliter visum est. Delta the Delightful is no more. On a visit in search of health, he reached Dumfries, a town dear to him on many accounts, and principally because there sojourned a kindred spirit—Thomas Aird—one of his oldest and fastest friends. On the evening of Thursday, the 3d of July, as the amiable and gifted twain were walking along the banks of the Nith, Delta was suddenly seized with a renewal of his complaint -peritonitis-a peculiar kind of inflammation, and it was with great difficulty that his friend could help him home to

a

his hotel. There, fortunately, were his wife and one of his children. He was put immediately to bed, and every remedy that could promise relief was adopted. On Friday he rallied somewhat. Dr Christison was summoned from Edinburgh, and came, accompanied by the rest of Delta's family. On Saturday he grew worse, and early on Sunday morning he expired, surrounded by his dear family, and by two of his old friends, one of the Messrs Blackwood and Mr Aird. On Thursday, the 11th, he was buried in Musselburgh, where he had long officiated as a physician, universally respected and beloved. He was only fifty-three. For nearly thirty-three years he had been a popular contributor to “'

Blackwood's Magazine." His principal literary works are, “A Legend of Genevieve, with other Poems" (which includes the best of his poetical contributions to the magazines and annuals), “ Mansie Wauch," and the "Sketches of Poetical Literature," above criticised. He published, also, several medical works of value, as well as edited the works of Mrs Hemans, and wrote the “Life of John Galt," &c.

We have spoken briefly, but sincerely, in the article, of Delta's intellectual merits; it remains only to add, that, although we never met him in private, we can testify with perfect certainty, that a better man, or a lovelier specimen of the literary character, did not exist: he had many of its merits, and none of its defects; he used literature as a “staff, not a crutch”-it was the elegant evening pastime of one vigorously occupied through the day in the work of soothing human anguish, and going about doing good. Hence he preserved to the last his child-like love of letters ; hence he died without a single enemy; hence his personal friends—and they were the élite of Scotlandadmired and loved him with emulous enthusiasm. Peace to his fine and holy dust! reposing now near that of the fine boy, whose premature fate he has sung in his “Casa Wappy"-one of the truest and tenderest little poems in the language, to parallel which, indeed, we must go back to Cowper and his verses on his Mother's Picture. In all the large sanctuary of sorrow, there is no chamber more sweetly shadowed than that in which the dear child reposes, embalmed in the double odours of parental affection and poetic genius.

Note. Since this paper appeared, Mr Aird has collected Delta's poetry into two volumes, and prefixed to them a Life, which, in beauty of language, depth of feeling, and unity of artistic execution, has seldom been equalled.

N:o. IV.-PROFESSOR SPALDING.*

In our two former papers we were up among the Dië majorum gentium of criticism—the Hazlitts, Coleridges, and Jeffreys. We are now about to descend to the analysis of a much smaller critic, premising that our principal reason for speaking of him at all is, that his little work seems to us typical of rather a large and somewhat shallow class of critical productions, whose popularity at present is disgraceful to the age. We may premise also that our motives in the following paper must be considered disinterested, since the professor is a gentleman whom we know not, never saw, and seldom heard of till he published his volume. The volume before us has been much and widely praised

and yet we intend to prove that it contains more specimens of weak and worthless criticism than any book of the same compass in recent critical literature, Hallam not excepted. Indeed, Professor Spalding reminds us very much of that greatly overrated man. A similar quantity of learning; the same calmness of tone; judicial air; the same barrenness of imagination; the same want of curiosa felicitas in expression; the same inevitable necessity of missing the character of the authors criticised; the same chastity and coldness, but not the same correctness of style; the same deficiency in wide and deep critical sympathies—are apparent in both. And yet these are the idols of a considerable class of minor writers, who have all

by the

press, and

the same

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the faults of Hallam and Spalding, without their merits. We proceed to substantiate our assertion by a few specimens of our St Andrews style of critical discussion and verdict. In his remarks on Shakspere, Mr Spalding has set out apparently with the intention of saying nothing new or good upon the subject, and has admirably fulfilled his intention. He calls << Timon of Athens” a singular piece," and adduces “ Troilus and Cressida” as a proof of the gloom which rested on Shakspere's mind in his latter years ! “Othello,” not“ Lear” or “ Macbeth,” is “the sternest and gloomiest of all his dramas.” And yet, at the time when he wrote it, his power of conceiving and representing passion was

“ less intense.” What palpable contradiction have we here! In his remarks on Spenser, we find the following startling and novel statement: “His magnificent poem is called the 'Fairy Queen.'" He tells us, too, that that poem is distinguished by the interest of its adventures -a mere paradox, which we wonder Macaulay had not taught him to be ashamed of. Herbert he treats coldly, as distinguished chiefly by "oddest peculiarities,” and thinks he compliments when he compares him to Keble. Surely such a critic deserves to be driven out of the “Temple” with a whip of small cords. Herbert has indeed “presented the belief and offices of the Church of England in their most amiable aspect;” but he has done far more, and has, in parts, reached a depth of thought which Quarles, Crashaw, Donne, or Cowley, have never neared. The enthusiastic appreciation denied to the “holy Herbert,” is reserved for the amorous Herrick. A criticism on Milton follows, exceedingly poor and commonplace, filled with the old stories about his imitation of other poets, his poetry being consecrated to holiness and virtue, &c. We do not think the expression, the prodigal variety of his imagination,” to be very characteristic or happy. Milton's imagination was neither prodigal nor varied; it was a severe, condensed energy, not teeming like that of Shakspere or Jeremy Taylor-dealing, indeed, much in figures; but dealing far more in forms, thoughts, and sentiments. The 666 Paradise Regained' is wearisome," and its plan“ poorly conceived ;” and yet he grants that it has passages which,

in one way or another, are beautiful. What a kind and gracious concession! Are there no passages in that exquisite poem, such as the visions from the mountain, the storm in the wilderness, and the account of the dreams of Christ, which spurn the word “ beautiful,” and aspire to the measure and stature of the sublime ? Samson Agonistes” is neither “impassioned," nor "strong in character,"

,nor “poetical in its lyrical parts.” No sentence could contain more falsehood in the same compass.

What! is there no passion” in Samson's complaints over his blindnessnone in his vehement accusations of Delilah-n

-none in his fierce rejoinders to Harapha ? Are Samson, Delilah, and Harapha weak characters? And who that remembers the sublime burst of lyrical wo, “O dark, dark, dark!” or the comparison of the Phoenix," the secular bird of ages," will deny that there is poetry in its “ lyrical parts ?” We advise all readers of Spalding, as a general rule, to apply the principle of contraries to his critical statements, and thus get at the truth. Of the “Paradise Lost” he says nothing

“ but what had been said far better before. It is too late in the day to speak of the organ-peal of his versification, and the melancholy grandeur of his angelic natures.

Howe he next attempts to “damn with faint praise." It seems that his diction has no “ fine felicities of genius.” Indeed! has Mr Spalding ever read Howe? If so, does he never remember him rising above “the old force of eloquent persuasiveness ?” Has he ever seen his “ Vanity of Man as Mortal,” his “Blessedness of the Righteous," or his “Living Temple"? Are there no fine felicities of genius in them? We venture to compare his picture of the judgment in the first of these; his fine raptures on the glory of heaven in the second; and his description of man's soul as a temple in ruins in the third—for dignity, eloquence, richness of expression, and “fine felicity of genius,' to anything in the English tongue; and we are so far from

e being singular in this opinion, that we never saw it questioned, till we read the above impertinence of the professor. To Owen, too, he by no means does full justice. He says,

to the praise of eloquence he has no claim whatever. Mr Spalding has certainly never read his “Meditations on