proud too of displaying it; and I have seen him lift a load with ease, which few ordinary men would have willingly undertaken. The first time I ever saw Byron was in the House of Lords, soon after the publication of "Childe Harold." He stood up in his place on the opposition side, and made a speech on the subject of Catholic freedom. His voice was low, and I heard him but by fits, and when I say he was witty and sarcastic, I judge as much from the involuntary mirth of the benches as from what I heard with my own ears. His voice had not the full and manly melody of the voice of Burns; nor had he equal vigour of frame, nor the same open expanse of forehead. But his face was finely formed, and was impressed with a more delicate vigour than that of the peasant poet. He had a singular conformation of ear, the lower lobe, instead of being pendulous, grew down and united itself to the cheek, and resembled no other ear I ever saw, save that of the Duke of Wellington.

The last time I saw Burns in life was on his return from the Brow Well of Solway; he had been ailing all spring, and summer had come without bringing health with it; he had gone away very ill, and he returned worse. He was brought back, I think, in a covered spring cart, and when he alighted at the foot of the street in which he lived, he could scarce stand upright. He reached his own door with difficulty. He stooped much, and there was a visible change in his looks. He was at that time dressed in a blue coat, with the undress nankeen pantaloons of the volunteers, and his neck, which was inclining to be short, caused his hat to turn up behind, in the manner of the shovel hats of the Episcopal clergy. He was not fastidious about his dress; and an officer, curious in the personal appearance and equipments of his company, might have questioned the military nicety of the poet's clothes and arms.

From the day of his return home till the hour of his untimely death, Dumfries was like a besieged place. It was known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone; they spoke of his history-of his person

of his works—of his family-of his fame, and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance.

His good humour was unruffled, and his wit never forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow volunteers with a smile, as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, “ John, don't let the awkward squad fire over me." He was aware that death was dealing with him; he asked a lady who visited him, more in sincerity than in mirth, what commands she had for the other world; he repressed with a smile the hopes of his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen increased. He was an exciseman it is true-a name odious, from many associations, to his countrymen--but he did his duty meekly and kindly, and repressed rather than encouraged the desire of some of his companions to push the law with severity; he was, therefore, much beloved, and the passion of the Scotch for poetry made them regard him as little lower than a spirit inspired. It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means I had an opportunity of witnessing the general solicitude of all ranks and of all ages. His differences with them on some important points of human speculation and religious hope were forgotten and forgiven: they thought only of his genius-of the delight his compositions had diffused-and they talked of him. with the same awe as of some departing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more. His last moments have never been described; he had laid his head quietly on the pillow, awaiting dissolution, when his attendant reminded him of his medicine, and held the cup to his lip. He started suddenly up, drained the cup at a gulp, threw his hands before him like a man about to swim, and sprang from head to foot of the bed- fell with his face down, and expired with a groan.

When Burns died I was then young, but I was not insensible that a mind of no common strength had passed from amongst us. He had caught my fancy and touched my heart with his songs and his poems.

I went to see him laid out for the grave; several elderly people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned coffin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face, and on the bed, and around his body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage of the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness; but death had not increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked-the dying pang was visible in the lower part, but his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey, and inclining more to a wave than a curl. The room where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely on the heart than if his bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the space of several minutes-we went, and others succeeded us-there was no jostling and crushing, though the crowd was great-man followed man as patiently and orderly as if all had been a matter of mutual understanding-not a question was asked-not a whisper was heard. This was several days after his death.

The multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave went step by step with the chief mourners. They might amount to twelve thousand. Not a word was heard; and, though all could not be near, and many could not see, when the earth closed on their darling poet for ever, there was no rude impatience shewn, no fierce disappointment expressed. It was an impressive and mournful sight to see men of all ranks, and persuasions, and opinions, mingling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, with the remains of him who had sung of their loves, and joys, and domestic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the procession away-for he was buried with military honours. His fate has been a reproach to Scotland. But the reproach comes with an ill grace from England. When we can forget Butler's fate, Otway's loaf, Dryden's old age, and Chatterton's poison cup, we may

think that we stand alone in the iniquity of neglecting pre-eminent genius. I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he was about to descend for ever there was a pause among the mourners as if loath to part with his remains; and when he was at last lowered, and the first shovelful of earth sounded on his coffin lid, I looked up and saw tears on many cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears of their comrades by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gazing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain fell from dawn till twilight.

A few select friends and admirers followed Lord Byron to the grave. His coronet was borne before him, and there were many indications of his rank; but, save the assembled multitude, no indications of his genius. In conformity to a singular practice of the great, a long train of empty carriages followed the mourning coaches, mocking the dead with idle state, and impeding the honester sympathy of the crowd with barren pageantry. Where were the owners of those machines of sloth and luxury? Where were the men of rank among whose dark pedigrees Lord Byron threw the light of his genius, and lent the brows of nobility a halo to which they were strangers? Where were the great Whigs? Where were the illustrious Tories? Could a mere difference in matters of human belief keep those fastidious persons away? But, above all, where were the friends with whom wedlock had united him? On his desolate corpse no wife looked, and no child shed a tear. When the career of Burns was closed, I saw another sight-a weeping widow and four helpless sons; they came into the streets in their mournings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh. I shall never forget the looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life had not been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in forgiving, but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unalienable affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love by its regard and esteem.

Burns, with all his errors in faith and in practice, was laid in hallowed earth, in the church-yard of the town where he resided; no one thought of closing the church-gates against his body, because of the freedom of his poetry, and the carelessness of his life. And why was not Byron laid among the illustrious men of England in Westminster Abbey ?

SHAKESPEARE.

A LITERARY treasure of no common value, and of most singular rarity, which is likely to excite a strong interest in the minds of all well-read lovers of the ancient English drama, and will awaken the hopes and fears of every ambitious and jealous collector of scarce books, has, within the last few days, been brought to light, and is now in the hands of Messrs. Payne and Foss, of Pall-Mall.

This exhumated curiosity is a book in small quarto, said to have been once possessed by Sir Thomas Hanmer, but not alluded to by him-containing the scarce editions of eleven of Shakespeare's Plays, amongst which is Hamlet. The perusal of the whole of these must highly gratify a qualified reader; but a careful collation of the latter tragedy will bestow a greater reward on the diligence of the critical examiner than any, or all, of the others can give; it is, in fact, the principal feature in the volume, The following is the title under which it appears :--

"The Tragicall Historie of HAMLET Prince of Denmarke, by William Shake-speare. As it has been diuerse times actid by his Highnesse Seruants in the Cittie of London; as also in the Vniuersities of Cambridge and Oxford, and elsewhere. At London, printed for N. L. and John Trundell, 1603."

Of this edition not the slightest mention has ever been made; it is therefore fair to conclude, that to the various able and laborious commentators of Shakespeare it was utterly unknown, the earliest which has ever obtained notice being that of 1604, of which Mr. Malone gives the title, though it is quite clear that he had no other knowledge of it. *

A copy of this edition of 1604 was, however, in Mr. Kemble's collection, and is now in the possession of the Duke of Devonshire.