entirely, who takes most religious care that he shall everywhere strut in buckram. . . . In short, my dear, there is hardly anything in the world so unlike another, as Pope's version of Homer to the original. Give me a great corking-pin, that I may stick your faith upon my sleeve. Thereupon my sleeve. There-it is done! Now assure yourself, upon the credit of a man who made Homer much his study in his youth, and who is perhaps better acquainted with Pope's translation of him than almost any man, having twenty-five years ago compared them with each other line by line throughout,-upon the credit of a man, too, who would not for the world deceive you in the smallest matter, - that Pope never entered into the spirit of Homer, that he never translated him, - I had almost said, did not understand him; many passages it is literally true he did not. Why, when he first entered on his task, did he (as he did, by his own confession) forever dream that he was wandering in unknown ways, that he was lost upon heaths and forests, and awoke in terror? I will tell you, my dear; his dreams were emblems of his waking experience; and I am mistaken if I could not go near to prove that at his first setting out he knew very little of Greek, and was never an adept in it, to the last. THE MONTHLY REVIEW DECEMBER, 1786 [This journal, the earliest of English critical reviews, was founded by the bookseller Ralph Griffiths, who conducted it till his death, in 1803. It was Whig and nonconformist in attitude; see Dr. Johnson's remark comparing it and its Tory rival (founded 1756) The Critical Review, quoted by Boswell, page 650, below. The present extract is reproduced both for its interest as exemplifying the attitude of the Monthly toward a new poet, and its connection with the earliest volume of Burns's poems.] Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. By Robert Burns. 8vo. Kilmarnock. 1786. Poeta nascitur non fit is an old maxim, the truth of which has been generally admitted; and although it be certain that in modern times many verses are manufactured from the brain of their authors with as much labor as the iron is drawn into form under the hammer of the smith, and require to be afterwards smoothed by the file with as much care as the burnishers of Sheffield employ to give the last finish to their wares, yet after all these verses, though ever so smooth, are nothing but verses, and have no geniune title to the name of Poems. The humble bard whose work now demands our attention cannot claim a place among these polished versifiers. His simple strains, artless and unadorned, seem to flow without effort from the native feelings of the heart. They are always nervous, sometimes inelegant, often natural, simple, and sublime. The objects that have obtained the attention of the author are humble; for he himself, born in a low station, and following a laborious employment, has had no opportunity of observing scenes in the higher walks of life. Yet his verses are sometimes struck off with a delicacy and artless simplicity that charms like the bewitching though irregular touches of a Shakespeare. We much regret that these poems are written in some measure in an unknown tongue, which must deprive most of our readers of the pleasure they would otherwise naturally create, being composed in the Scottish dialect, which contains many words that are altogether unknown to an English reader. Be side, they abound with allusions to the modes of life, opinions, and ideas of the people in a remote corner of the country, which would render many passages obscure, and consequently uninteresting, to those who perceive not the forcible accuracy of the picture of the objects to which they allude. This work, therefore, can only be fully relished by the natives of the part of the country where it was produced; but by such of them as have a taste sufficiently refined to be able to relish the beauties of nature, it cannot fail to be highly prized. By what we can collect from the poems themselves, and the short preface to them, the author seems to be struggling with poverty, though cheerfully supporting the fatigues of a laborious employment. He thus speaks of himself in one of the poems: The star that rules my luckless lot And damn'd my fortune to the groat; Has blessed me with a random shot "None of the following works" (we are told in the Preface) "were ever composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears in his own breast; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind these were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry its own reward." - These poems are chiefly in the comic strain. Some are of the descriptive cast, particularly Hallow-e'en, which contains a lively picture of the magical tricks that still are practiced in the country at that season. It is a valuable relic which, like Virgil's eighth Eclogue, will preserve the memory of these simple incantations long after they would otherwise have been lost. It is very properly accompanied with notes explaining the circumstances to which the poem alludes. Sometimes the poems are in the elegiac strain, among which class the reader will find much of nature in the lines to a Mouse, on turning up her nest with the plough, in November, 1785, and those to a Moun tain Daisy, on turning one down with the plough, in April, 1786.... The modern ear will be somewhat disgusted with the measure of many of these pieces, which is faithfully copied from that which was most in fashion among the ancient Scottish bards, but hath been we think with good reason laid aside by later poets. The versification is, in general, easy, and it seems to have been a matter of indifference to our author in what measure he wrote. But if ever he should think of offering anything more to the public, we are of opinion his performances would be more highly valued were they written in measures less antiquated. The few songs, odes, dirges, etc., in this collection are very poor in comparison of the other pieces. The author's mind is not sufficiently stored with brilliant ideas to succeed in that line. In justice to the reader, however, as well as the author, we must observe that this collection may be compared to a heap of wheat carelessly winnowed. Some grain of a most excellent quality is mixed with a little chaff and half-ripened corn. How many splendid volumes of poems come under our review, in which, though the mere chaff be carefully separated, not a single atom of perfect grain can be found, all being light and insipid! We never reckon our task fatiguing when we can find, even among a great heap, a single pearl of price; but how pitiable is our lot when we must toil and toil, and can find nothing but tiresome uniformity, with neither fault to rouse nor beauty to animate the jaded spirits! EDWARD GIBBON THE HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE 1776-88 [This work, the chief history of the century, whether regarded as a work of learning or of literature, began to appear in 1776, and the sixth and last volume was published on the author's fifty-first birthday, April 27, 1788. For his own account of the inception and completion of the History, see the extracts from the Memoirs, pages 545-6, below. The present extract is from the opening of Volume V; in presenting a sketch of the contents of that and the final volume, it well exemplifies Gibbon's panoramic method.] CHAPTER XLVIII I HAVE now deduced from Trajan to Constantine, from Constantine to Heraclius, the regular series of the Roman emperors; and faithfully exposed the prosperous and adverse fortunes of their reigns. Five centuries of the decline and fall of the empire have already elapsed; but a period of more than eight hundred years still separates me from the term of my labors, the taking of Constantinople by the Turks. Should I persevere in the same course, should I observe the same measure, a prolix and slender thread would be spun through many a volume, nor would the patient reader find an adequate reward of instruction or amusement. At every step, as we sink deeper in the decline and fall of the Eastern Empire, the annals of each succeeding reign would impose a more ungrateful and melancholy task. These annals must continue to repeat a tedious and uniform tale of weakness and misery; the natural connection of causes and events would be broken by frequent and hasty transitions, and a minute accumulation of circumstances must destroy the light and effect of those general pictures which compose the use and ornament of a remote history. From the time of Heraclius the Byzantine theatre is contracted and darkened: the line of empire, which had been defined by the laws of Justinian and the arms of Belisarius, recedes on all sides from our view; the Roman name, the proper subject of |