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 charity. He became eventually minister of Percy Chapel, St. Pancras; and died at Brighton, December, 1855, in his forty-ninth year.

I ought not to omit to mention that the critical remarks by Fraser on Robert Montgomery are among those of which it was admitted, at a later period, that "though not remarkably harsh, they were uncalled for and unjust." In fact, the poetry of this writer still finds readers and admirers, while better is forgotten; and for the justification of such, I do not hesitate to conclude by the expression of my full belief that, in the words of old Fuller,—taken literally,—it "will be admired by judicious posterity, while Fame has a trumpet left her, and any breath to blow therein."

 

, if any country in the world, it is "invincible romantic Scotia" who has just cause to be proud of her peasant-poets,—those glorious, who, drawing their inspiration from the natural scenes and oral traditions of their own storied land, and with small aid from society or education, pour forth their souls in untutored song, with all the glee and spontaneity of the lark at heaven's gate. Many there are; but of all who have thus strung their names upon time's eternal bead-roll, three stand forth in the foremost rank. These are, , and ,—verily a triad, an equal to which Scotland may safely challenge the whole world to produce.

Of these, is essentially the poet of human feeling and passion, whose burning thoughts find response in every bosom, and whose utterances kindle sympathetic feeling with all the rapidity of the electrical current. , on the other hand, has little footing on the nether world;—he is the bard of a weird and imaginative realm,—of the spirits that haunt the lonely glen and the storied stream,—of the fairy, the brownie, and the mournful wraith of the unburied victim. , lastly, is the minstrel of the border foray and feud, the knightly joust, the men and the deeds of other times, which he brings before us with a picturesqueness and reality perhaps excelled by no other lyrist.

What's in a name? Charles Lamb once wrote a farce entitled Mr. H., which is, as Talfourd says, the apotheosis of the alphabet, and teaches 