red in Scotland. No man has done more by the tone of his writings to discourage classical learning, and erudition as it is called, than David Hume; and yet we think it would be difficult to point out any English author, whose works, above all in respect to language, bear stronger marks of a mind imbued and penetrated with the very spirit of antiquity.* The authors of the next age have had no occasion for so much duplicity. Their contempt of Greek and Latin rests not upon policy, but on the more stable foundation of ignorance. It is fair, however, to say one word in regard to the Edinburgh Review. The greater part of these ingenious Journalists, in addition to being the perpetual enemies of the government and religion of their country, have waged a warfare, equal ly inveterate and equally insidious, against the old supremacy and worship of the classics. A few excellent papers on classical criticism have been furnished to them by some of the best English scholars; but these are technical, so to speak, in appearance, and their influence, whatever it might otherwise have been, has been neutralized or annihilated by the gross and blundering ignorance of other articles, but most of all, by the general tone and character of the work in which they were inserted.-But we introduced the subject in order to pay a compliment; we shall do so, without, we hope, incurring any suspicion either of partiality or of flattery. Mr Jeffrey, we venture to assert, belongs, in this matter, to the class of his predecessors rather than to that of his contemporaries. His papers have, even when he affects to deride scholarship, a scholarlike air about them, which it is impossible to mistake. He is in many respects a wiser man than he wishes to seem. After all his abuse of the Lake Poets, it turns out that his favourite pocket-companion is the "Lyrical Ballads;" and we are satisfied, from internal evidence, that he has, in We have heard, we cannot recollect where, or upon what sort of authority, that among Hume's books there was found, after his death, a copy of Thomas Aquinas, completely covered with the marks of patient study. How much greater must have been the labour he bestowed on those great masters of ancient wisdom, whose works he commonly affected to talk of as if they were scarcely worthy of being read. like manner, bestowed more time on the study of the classics than is confessed by himself, or suspected by the greater part of his admirers. A complete disguise is a matter of very great difficulty. We discover the classical touch of Mr Jeffrey amidst the rude daubings of his disciples, as we should a gentleman clothed in a waggoner's frock, among a whole barn of genuine rustics. A single look, or gesture, or tone, is sufficient in the one case, and a single parenthesis, nay, a single word, may furnish evidence equally convincing in the other. The violent national partiality of the Scots, unlike most of their alleged peculiarities, is confessed by themselves, almost as much as it is derided by their neighbours. The Scots authors have, in general, been under no inconsiderable obligations to this propensity of their countrymen. Their fame has generally begun, as it ought to have done, at home; and their works have gone forth among strangers, backed by the zealous commendations of a multitude of admirers at home. If, in many instances, the voice of domestic praise has died into a faint expiring echo abroad, the misfortune of the author has been caused by himself, not by his countrymen; nor are these easily to be shaken from the favourable opinion they have once formed, even although they see that the critics of most other countries are obstinate in refusing to second their applauses. We know of one great Scots author only, whose writings are neglected by his countrymen, while they are studied and admired by the literati of every other district of Europe. There needs no other proof to a foreign scholar of the shameful extent to which our aversion for classical learning is carried, than the simple fact, that we, a people devoted to literature, and filled with prejudices eminently and vehemently national, neglect one of the greatest, and withal, one of the most national authors our country has ever produced, for no other reason than because his works are written in Latin. when poets and historians shall be in If any time shall ever again appear, danger of falling into a fashion of composing in a dead or foreign language, the most effectual of all warnings will be that which is addressed to their vanity. By those who have any of the noblest ambition with which great authors are animated--the ambi tion of building for themselves a lasting place in the bosoms and affections of their countrymen,-that voice shall not be listened to in vain, which shall bid them remember the fate of GEORGE BUCHANAN. In genius, as in language, he is beyond all comparison the first of the modern writers of Latin. Scotland has never produced any man who is worthy of being classed with him; so exquisite are his talents, singly, so matchless in their union. Yet what influence does he exert over the minds of his countrymen? A few of his translations of the Psalms are read by our school-boys, before they are capable of comprehending their beauties; in the belief of our vulgar, he, the grave and dignified patriot, the counsellor, and instructor, and terror of kings, is degraded to a mimic and a court-buffoon; his works are read and praised by a few secluded scholars, chiefly, we verily believe, because they are read and praised by no one else. But in regard to all active influence over the souls and tastes of his countrymen, George Buchanan has, in truth, scarcely any existence at all, or is at least, beyond all calculation, the inferior even of an Allan Ramsay or a Burns. His name, indeed, is a great name among us. Such genius has not breathed in our land, without leaving behind a faint majestic shadow to haunt the spot where it hath been. We know that we have reason to be proud that Buchanan was our coun tryman. We talk of him, we extol him; we are delighted to hear an Ita lian or a German scholar confess his superiority to Vida, Sannazar, Casi mir, or Baldé. His glory resembles that of some gigantic hero of the elder time, some Bruce, or Keith, or Douglas, at whose name our hearts leap up within us, although we have scarcely any record or precise knowledge of those deeds which have linked this mysterious grandeur to an empty sound. There is something very noble in this privilege of genius, in whose virtue even the ignorant are made to pay homage to its possessors. But those who are really acquainted with the works of Buchanan, will not easily rest satisfied with such homage as this. They will wish others to partake in the same enjoyments which have been imparted to themselves; they will strive to make their favourite better known; and they will be confident, that in so doing, they run no risk of lessening his reputation. For if it be very true in the general, that "intimacy diminisheth reverence,” that humiliating maxim has no application, either to the person, or the writings, of such men as Buchanan. For ourselves, we are well aware, that to many of our well-educated readers beyond the Tweed, there may appear to be something almost ludicrous in writing, at this time of day, either a critique, or an eu logium upon such a writer as this. We would it were so. But if our friends recollect the one solitary fact, that no tolerable edition of Buchanan's Works has ever been published in this island, except a huge unmanageable one in folio,* more than a century ago, our opinion, as to the neglect in which these writings are held, can scarcely, we imagine, appear to be destitute of foundation; and if it be correct, we are sure none of them will disapprove of the motives which have induced us to call the attention of our readers to Buchanan, even although they should wish, as they may well do, that the business had fallen into better hands. Buchanan's first and greatest character is that of a Poet. His prose works were the occupation of his declining years, and are the monuments of his practical wisdom. But the fire of his youthful genius expanded itself entirely in verse; it was the fault of the age, and it has been the misfortune of our country, that his verse was Latin. There is no occasion for repeating the common-place and unanswerable arguments against writing poetry in any other language than that which has been taught in childhood. Every one must admit, that had the language of Scotland been in a state fit for the higher sorts of poetry, Buchanan would have done very ill to make use of any other than his mother-tongue. We must take things as they are;-we must examine his productions, and judge of them by the eternal rules of beauty;-we must compare him with those who * This is the edition of Ruddiman, Edin burgh, 1715. It forms the ground-work of the greatly superior one, by Peter Burmann, in quarto. These are the only two editions of the Opera of Buchanan. The one is clumsy and inconvenient; the other seldom to be met with, and very dear. have used similar instruments in similar situations; we must reflect what were his difficulties, in order that we may estimate the merits of his success. The world has seen several examples of foreign languages being acquired, even in such perfection as is requisite for the purposes of poetical composition,-mastered and swayed to all appearance as thoroughly as if the thoughts and the words had grown up together in the familiarity of the same bosom. With a dead language the difficulty is infinitely greater, and the acquisition infinitely more rare. It is indeed the high prerogative of the language of cultivated men, to survive even the ruin of those that fashioned it, and bear down to posterity the image and glory of refinement and wisdom that have passed away. It is thus that mind asserts its immortality; it refuses to be embodied in materials that are less than imperishable. But how shall the vigour which moves in the nerves and veins of the living speech, be found to animate even the most skilful of after imitations? The counterfeit may be exquisite, the features may be beautiful, but does not even their beauty betray the coldness and stiffness of death? Every living language is in so far free-it may receive new combinations-it may even sanction the privilege of creation. Without this, how shall genius have that liberty which is its birthright? Shall that which is by nature free as air, be straitened and cooped up within the walls even of a magnificent prison? How shall the rod of the magician work its wonders in a fettered hand? Can any man breathe the spirit of life and energy into a cold and artificial mass? Of all the modern poets who have written in Latin, is there one who has stamped upon his verses the impress of genius rioting in its strength, -the symbol of uncontrolled might, -the full majesty of freedom? If such an one there be, who shall deserve, so well, the name of a Prometheus, the rival of creators, the conqueror of bondage?-To those who doubt the power of genius to overcome even these difficulties, and atchieve even these triumphs, we must address only one word-READ BUCHANAN. He is by no means the only man of high and powerful genius among the modern Latin poets; neither is he the only one among their number who has overcome the necessary difficulties of his situation. But he has excelled all his brethren in the splendour as well as in the variety of his triumphs. Not satisfied with mastering the difficulties of any one mode of composition, he has grappled with those of all, and in all has he been successful. In ode, epigram, elegy, satire, and didactic, he has rivalled the first favourites of the Roman Muse.* He assumes, with equal ease, the careless grace of Catullus,-the lyric ardours of Horace, the soothing tenderness of Tibullus,-the sublime indignation of Juvenal,-and the philosophic majesty of Lucretius. To those who are strangers to Buchanan, these praises of a modern Latinist cannot fail to appear hyperbolical and absurd. How the thing was done, it is indeed scarcely possible to imagine; it is sufficient for us to know and feel that it is so. Buchanan is distinguished from almost all his rivals by the boldness with which he infused into the shape of Roman verse, the richest of those elements which are furnished to a modern poet by religious feelings and national recollections. His best poems are those which he has written either in the spirit of a Scotsman or of a Christian. He stands at an immeasurable distance above those scores of German and Italian poets, who scorned all modern affairs, and even the sanctities of the true religion, as unworthy of being adorned by their elegant muse, and sickened the world with their endless repetitions of the metamorphoses and personifications of the classical mythology. He knew wherein true poetry and true feeling consist, and he drew largely upon the treasures which he had discovered. But for the existence of the Paraphrase of the Psalms, and the lines on the death of Calvin, we doubt whether any one would have believed it possible to clothe, in a form of the most perfect classical purity, ideas so utterly unknown to the formers, and masters of the ancient language, as those which Buchanan had gathered from the study and the feeling of Christianity. * Eorum nemo est cui idem quod Buchanano contigerit ut in quovis carminum genere summum obtineret: Cujus quidem rei laude omnem etiam antiquitatem provocat," &c.-SCIOPPIUS. We shall quote the beginning of the Calvini Epicedium. "Si quis erit nullos superesse a funere manes Qui putet, aut si forte putet, sic vivit ut Or cum Speret, & æternas Stygio sub gurgite poenas, Is merito sua fata fleat, sua funera ploret Vivus, & ad caros luctum transmittat amicos. At nos, invitis quanquam sis raptus amicis Ante diem, magnis quamvis inviderit ausis Mors, te flere nefas, Calvine, & funera vanæ Ludibrio pompæ, & miseris onerare querelis. Liber enim curis, terrenæ & pondere molis, Astra tenes, propiusque Deo, quem mente colebas, Nunc frueris, puroque vides in lumine purum Lumen, & infusi satiatus Numinis haustu, Exigis æternam sine sollicitudine vitam: Quam neque dejiciunt luctus, nec tollit inani Ebria lætitia spes, exanimantve timores, Quæque animo offundit morbi contagia cor on its circumstances of "vernal joy.” In this ode, however, the circumstances which the poet has selected are of a kind which, to me, appear inexpressibly sublime, and distinguish the poem itself by a degree and character of grandeur which I have seldom found equalled in any other composition."We doubt, indeed, whether Wordsworth himself has ever touched with a more masterly hand, that secret chord of sympathy which connects the meditative soul of man with the external manifestations of nature, or called up to dignify and consecrate the enjoyment of the senses, thoughts more profound, and aspirations more sublime. It is a glorious triumph of " the Vision and the Faculty Divine." It mingles all the graces of youth and love, with the gravity of philosophy, and the energy of faith.-The exquisite version which we place by its side is from the classical pen of Mr Wrangham. Maic Calendæ. "Salvete sacris deliciis sacræ Maiæ Calendæ, lætitiæ et mero Ludisque dicatæ jocisque, Et teneris Charitum choreis. Salve voluptas et nitidum decus Anni recurrens perpetuâ vice, Et flos renascentis juventæ, In senium properantis ævi. Cùm blanda veris temperies novo Illuxit orbi, primaque sæcula Fulsêre flaventi metallo, Sponte suâ sine lege justa ; Talis per omnes continuus tenor Annos tepenti rura Favonio Mulcebat, et nullis feraces Seminibus recreabat agros. Talis beatis incubat insulis Felicis auræ perpetuus tepor, Et nesciis campis senecta Difficilis querulique morbi. Talis silentûm per tacitum nemus Levi susurrat murmure spiritus, Lethenque juxta obliviosam Funereas agitat cupressus. Forsan supernis cùm Deus ignibus Piabit orbem, lætaque sæcula Mundo reducet, talis aura Æthereos animos fovebit. Salve, fugacis gloria sæculi, Salve secundâ digna dies notâ, Salve vetustæ vitæ imago, Et specimen venientis ævi. The First of May. Hail! sacred thou to sacred joy, To mirth and wine, sweet First of May! To sports, which no grave cares alloy, The sprightly dance, the festive play! Hail! thou, of ever-circling time That gracest still the ceaseless flow ! When first young Spring his angel face Mild Zephyr breath'd on all around; With grateful glee, to airs like these Yielded its wealth th' unlabour'd ground. So fresh, so fragrant is the gale, Which o'er the islands of the Blest Sweeps; where nor aches the limbs assail, Nor age's peevish pains infest. Where thy hush'd groves, Elysium, sleep, Such winds with whisper'd murmurs blow; So, where dull Lethe's waters creep, They heave, scarce heave the cypress- And such, when heaven with penal flame Haply such gale again shall play. Hail! image of primeval time! Hail! sample of a world to come! The subject of the tremendous execration "in Colonos Brasilienses" prevents us from making any observations on it, or offering any version. But we nust quote it, because it is, we believe it to be, the most energetic of all his lyrics. "Descende cœlo turbine flammeo En rursus armis quod pereat tuis Pars ista mundi, quam sibi propriam Quem, rere, ponet nequitiæ modum O Christiani infamia nominis! Per ferrum & ignes & mare naufragum Nunc Scylla sævos exsere nunc canes, Aut hisce tellus in patulos specus, A beautiful contrast to this is supplied by one of his epigrams, addressed to a real or imaginary mistress, to his devotion for whom Milton was supposed, by Warton, to have alluded in those lines: "Were it not better done, as others use, In Neœram. "Illa mihi semper præsenti dura Neara, Me, quoties absum, semper abesse dolet. Non desiderio nostri, non mæret amore, Sed se non nostro posse dolore frui. Dr Irving informs us, that Menage was peculiarly delighted with the felicity of these lines," and that he imitated them as follows, in one of his Italian madrigals: "Chi creduto l'avrebbe ? Non ti fidar, mio core. Quella che monstra, nò; ma crudeltade. La cruda vuol gioire; Udir la cruda i miei sospiri ardenti, Of all Buchanan's original productions, the least read is, we imagine, the didactic poem, De Sphaera. We are far from being admirers of the cies to which this belongs; and we lament that the majestic genius of Lucretius was not devoted to better pur spe * Memoirs of Buchanan, by David Irving, LL.D. p. 131. |