FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHRÖYAN. A TRADITIONAL VERSION OF THE ANCIENT ROMANTIC BALLAD. SWEET Annie built a bonnie ship 1 And set her on the sea, The sails were a' of the damask'd silk, The masts of silver free. The gladsome waters sung below, A gentle wind came with a sweep "O touch her not, my mariners a', Such loveliness goes free, Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, The moon look'd out with all her stars, Until she came to a castle high, That all as diamonds shone. On every tower there stream'd a light, She took her young son in her arms, The wind rose with an angry gust, "Oh, open the door, Lord Gregory, love, The sea-foam hangs in my yellow hair, The surge dreeps down my chin. "All for thy sake, Lord Gregory, love, And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts, 'The foam hangs on the topmost cliff, And hear ye not your true-love's voice, Fair Annie turn'd her round about, "May never a babie suck a breast Wi' a heart sae full of woe. Take down, take down that silver mast, Set up a mast of tree, It disnae become a forsaken dame To sail sae royallie.” "Oh rede my dream, my mother dear—. I heard a sweet babe greet, And saw fair Annie of Lochroyan And loud and loud his mother laugh'd, O! he went down to yon sea-side He saw fair Annie and her sweet babe, "And hey Annie, and how Annie, The wind wax'd loud, the sea grew rough, Oh! first he kiss'd her cherry cheek, But there was nae breath within. As meek and sweet was she My mother's hate was strong as death, C. THE LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. HENRY KIRKE WHITE was born at Nottingham, on the twenty-first of March, 1785. His father, John, was a butcher; his mother, Mary Neville, was of a respectable family in Staffordshire. Of the schoolmistress, who taught him to read and whose name was Garrington, he has drawn a pleasing picture in his verses entitled Childhood. At about six years of age he began to learn writing, arithmetic, and French, from the Rev. John Blanchard; and when out of school was employed in carrying about the butcher's basket. Some lines "On being confined to School one pleasant Summer Morning," written at the age of thirteen, by which time he had been placed under the tuition of a Mr. Shipley, are nearly equal to any he afterwards produced. Next year he was made to work at a stocking-loom, preparatively to his learning the business of a hosier; but his mother, seeing the reluctance with which he engaged in an employment so illsuited to his temper and abilities, prevailed on his father, though not without much difficulty, to fix him in the office of Messrs. Coldham and Enfield, attorneys in Nottingham. As his parents could not afford to pay a fee, he was (in 1799) engaged to serve for two years, and at the end of that term he was articled. Most of his time that could be spared from the duties of the office was, at the recommendation of his masters, spent in learning Latin, to which, of his own accord he added Greek, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. Some knowledge of chemistry, astronomy, electricity, and some skill in music and drawing, were among his other voluntary acquirements. White was one of those, who feel an early and importunate craving for distinction. He had already been chosen member of a literary society in his native town; and soon after his election, as Mr. Southey relates, "he lectured upon genius, and spoke extempore for about two hours, in such a manner, that he received the unanimous thanks of the society, and they elected this young Roscius of Oratory their Professor of Literature." He next became a writer in several of the Monthly Miscellanies; and (in 1803) put forth a volume of poems. A few words of unfortunate criticism in one of the Reviews, which in a few years more he would have learned to smile at, had nearly crushed his hopes as an author; when Mr. Southey, into whose hands both the Review and the Poems themselves chanced to fall, generonsly came to his relief. The protection of one so deservedly eminent could not fail of affording him some comfort; though he still complained that "the Review went before him wherever he turned his steps, that it haunted him incessantly, and that he was persuaded it was an instrument in the hands of Satan to drive him to distraction." It is not usual to hear a poet, much less a young poet, complaining that Satan is busied about his concerns. But his mind, which had before been disposed to scepticism, was now determined with such force to an extreme of devotional feeling as scarcely to retain its due balance. In what manner the change was effected, it is not very material to enquire; but the different accounts which Mr. Southey has given of the matter according to the information he received at different times, may serve to show how little dependance is to be placed on relations of this kind. At first he tells us that Mr. Pigott, the curate of St. Mary's, Nottingham, hearing what was the bent of his religious opinions, sent him, by a friend, Scott's Force of Truth, and requested him to peruse it attentively, which he promised to do. Having looked at the book, he told the person who brought it to him, that he would soon write an answer to it; but about a fort night afterwards, when this friend enquired how far he had proceeded in his answer to Mr. Scott, Henry's reply was in a very different tone and temper. He said, that to answer that book was out of his power, and out of any man's, for it was founded upon eternal truth; that it had conDEC. 1824. vinced him of his error; and that so thoroughly impressed was he with a sense of the importance of his Maker's favour, that he would willingly give up all acquisitions of knowledge, and all hopes of fame, and live in a wilderness unknown till death, so he could ensure an inheritance in heaven." In a subsequent correction of this statement, Mr. Southey informs us that Scott's Force of Truth was put into his hands by his friend and fellow-pupil Mr. Almond, since Rector of St. Peter's, Nottingham, with an entreaty that he would peruse it at his leisure; that the book produced little effect, and was returned with disapprobation; but that afterwards in a conversation with Mr. Almond, he declared his belief with much vehemence and agitation. This was soon after he had reached his eighteenth year. Maturer judgment "convinced him that 'zeal was to be tempered with discretion; that the service of Christ was a rational service;' that a strong assurance 'was not to be resorted to as the touchstone of our acceptance with God,' that it was not even the necessary attendant of religious life;" as more experience of his spiritual associates discovered to him that their professions of zeal were too frequently accompanied by want of charity; and that in matters of religion, as in every thing else, they "who feel the most, generally talk the least." That even before his conversion, as it is rather improperly called, he was not without a sense of religious duty, may be inferred from his having already chosen the Church as a profession in preference to the Law. To this alteration in his plan of life he might have been directed by a love of study, or by the greater opportunities held out to him of gratifying his literary ambition; but it is unreasonable to suppose that he would have voluntarily taken such a measure, if his own conviction had run counter to it. The attorneys to whom he was bound, were ready enough to release him; since, though well satisfied with his conduct and attention to their concerns, they perceived him to be troubled with a deafness which would incapacitate him for the practice of the law. The means of supporting him at the University 2 R was were accordingly supplied by the liberality of the friends whom he had gained; and after passing a twelvemonth with the Rev. Mr. Grainger, of Winteringham, in Lincolnshire, to prepare himself, he was in 1805 entered a sizar of St. John's, Cambridge. Here his application to books so intense, that his health speedily sank under it. He was indeed "declared to be the first man of his year;" but the honour was dearly purchased at the expense of "dreadful palpitations in the heart, nights of sleeplessness and horrors, and spirits depressed to the very depths of wretchedness." In July, 1806, his laundress on coming into his room at College, saw him fallen down in a convulsive fit, bleeding and insensible. His great anxiety was to conceal from his mother the state to which he was reduced. At the end of September, he went to London in search of relaxation and amusement; and in the next month, returned to College with a cough and fever, which this effort had encreased. His brother, on being informed of his danger, hastened to Cambridge, and found him delirious. He recovered sufficiently to know him for a few moments; but the next day sank into a stupor, and on the 19th of October expired. It was the opinion of his medical attendants, that if he had lived his intellect would have failed him. He was buried in All-Saints' Church, Cambridge, where his monument, sculptured by Chantrey, has been placed by Mr. Francis Boott, a stranger from Boston in America. After his death all his papers were consigned to the hands of Mr. Southey. Their contents were multifarious: they comprised observations on law; electricity; the Greek and Latin languages, from their rudiments to the higher branches of critical study; on history, chronology, and divinity. He had begun three tragedies, on Boadicea, Ines de Castro, and a fictitious story; several poems in Greek, and a translation of Samson Agonistes. The selection which Mr. Southey has made, consists of copious extracts from his letters, poems, and essays. Mr. Southey has truly said of him, that what he is most remarkable for is his uniform good sense. To Chatterton, with whom this zealous friend and biographer has mentioned him, he is not to be compared. Chatterton has the force of a young poetical Titan, who threatens to take Parnassus by storm. White is a boy differing from others more in aptitude to follow than in ability to lead. The one is complete in every limb, active, self-confident, and restless from his own energy. The other, gentle, docile, and animated rather than vigorous. He began, as most youthful writers have begun, by copying those whom he saw to be the objects of popular applause in his own day. He has little distinct character of his own. We may trace him by turns to Goldsmith, Chatterton, and Coleridge. His numbers sometimes offend the ear by unskilful combinations of sound, as in these lines But for the babe she bore beneath her And breast; In his Clifton Grove there are some little touches of landscapepainting which are, as I think, unborrowed. What rural objects steal upon the sight, Trent, The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, And frequent interspersed the woodman's there is one unfinished fragment in Or should the day be overcast, FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. THOSE who have visited Paris well know the difficulty, not to say impossibility, of acquiring accurate information upon any subject whatever, whether politics, literature, the arts, society, &c. In London, the most perfect stranger requires no guide beyond the daily newspapers, and periodical works, weekly, monthly, or quarterly, with which our coffee houses, booksellers' shops, and club rooms abound; but should these even be silent upon any specified point of public or private interest, we doubt whether there is a tradesman connected directly or indirectly with the point in question, who would not afford the requisite information, and put the inquirer in a way to satisfy his curiosity. Not so in Paris; an Englishman, well versed in the language and manners of the country and people, can only hope to attain his point at a very inconvenient expense of time and trouble, and must even then often make up his mind to vexation and disappointment. Are his pursuits political? the recent censorship has extinguished the partial glimmering which heretofore existed; to the press he therefore looks in vain; and the system of espionage has so completely paralysed all colloquial freedom, that it will be equally vain to hope for information from the casual intercourse with such society as chance may throw in his way. In literature, he will find difficulties nearly as insurmountable, connected, if not originating with the same cause. They are a talking, but necessity has denied them the power or pleasure of being a communicative people. Let an English traveller go into a Parisian bookseller's shop, and ask for the productions of the day; should good fortune bring him in contact with ctual publisher of a recent work, that work will be presented, but, beyond this, he will hear nothing above the common routine. On the Boulevard, or Palais Royal, he will inquire in vain for works on Natural History or Science; for these he must cross the river, defile (in more senses than one the word is applicable) through the filthy streets diverging from the Quai des Augustins, and pick out his way to the Rue de l'Ecole de Medicine. I speak feelingly and experimentally upon this subject, for well do I remember the better half of a valuable day lost in wandering from shop to shop, in search of a work of some note. By one bookseller assured, in spite of the evidence of my own senses, that no such work existed; by another, that he believed it to be in progress; by another, that, if published, it must be out of print, for he had neither seen nor heard of it;— it was only by persevering efforts that I was at last fortunate enough to run it to earth in its birth-place, in the remote recesses of Rue de la Seine. The same difficulty exists with regard to the Arts. David and Gerard are names tolerably familiar to the generality of our readers, but it may be doubted whether many (unless professed artists) know even by name half a dozen of the seven hundred and ninety painters, engravers, sculptors, and architects, of whose works I am about to speak, hoping and believing that in thus saying I am not guilty of illiberality or prejudice towards my Gallic friends; for it is surely next to an impossibility that any well-informed foreigner should in this country be ignorant of the works or names of Lawrence, Beechey, Phillips, Wilkie, Callcott, Hilton, Chantrey, multis aliis. But in France, more or less, it must be admitted as a general axiom that the right hand knoweth not what the left hand doeth (saving and excepting with all due deference the police, which knoweth well, and watcheth vigilantly over the workings of every hand, and heart, and head, within its enfilure). To other sources then must the traveller look for information; and, accordingly, he will gratefully and joyfully hail the announcement of a public exhibition, which will do what a public press and public intercourse ought, but does not. It had been given out that at twelve o'clock, on the 25th of August, the long expected day of the " fête de St. Louis, au Musée Royal des Arts," there cum |