hood; or, which comes to the same thing, a wilful misrepresentation of the words uttered, whatever they were. We are prudently kept in the dark, as to the place at which, the time when, and the person by whom these or some such words were said to be uttered: had we been furnished with the smallest clue, to get at direct evidence, the falschood should have been made as manifest as it is ridiculously malicious. As it is, however, nobody who reads what follows ean doubt for a moment on the point. "Even Sir Walter Scott, I understand, talks of the Scotch Novels in all companies; and, by waving the title of the author, is at liberty to repeat the subject ad infinitum." Rousseau tells us, in his Confessions, that, besides his propensity to thieving, he was the most inveterate and incurable liar in existence: but I cannot induce myself to believe that even he could have brought himself to face out any thing so bad as this, especially where detection was so easy, so unavoidably certain. I would conceive myself writing a libel, not only upon Sir Walter Scott, but upon all those who have the honour of enjoying his friendship, were I to enter a formal disclaimer against this gratuitous, monstrous, and malicious falsehood. I call upon the writer of the article to make good his assertion, or submit to the infamy of having invented it. I know well he cannot do so, and I therefore use the less circumlocution in describing him in the only language which applies to him. It is needless to say how notoriously true is the very reverse of the statement here put forth.

It would be too bad in me to withhold the following, when speaking of this subject: "The genius of their greatest living writer, is the genius of national tradition. He has damnable iteration in him; but hardly one grain of sheer invention. His mind is turned instinctively backward on the past he cannot project it forward to the future. HE HAS NOT

THE FACULTY OF IMAGINING ANY

THING, either in individual or general truth, different from what has been handed down to him for such. Give him costume, dialect, manners, popular superstitions, grotesque characters, supernatural events, and lo

cal scenery, and he is a prodigya man-monster among writers: take these actually embodied and endless materials from him, and he is a common man, with as little original power of mind as he has (unfortunately) independence or boldness of spirit!" I would not disturb, by any commentary of mine, the effect which this unrivalled specimen of rank nonsense is calculated to produce upon the risible muscles of your readers. Who but an idiot or a cockney could have written such gibberish? Is not the genius of Homer "the genius of national tradition ?" and if you take from him

costume, dialect, manners, characters, popular superstitions, supernatural events, and local scenery," how much, pray, will you leave? Perform the same operation on Chaucer and Shakespeare, and then tell us the result. Who but a mind of the first order can work up these materials into one great and imperishable fabric, and embody the spirit at once of history and tradition, in the characters and events of his fable? If this be not "invention”—what is it? Try my Lord of Byron by the rule laid down by his brother Liberal— strip his best and most admired poems of their oriental costume, manners, superstitions, grotesque characters, and local scenery-and having performed this process of abstraction on the Giaour, the Bride of Abydos, the Corsair, Lara, and the early parts of Childe Harold, be kind enough to tell us how much there is left. His lordship would not care to abide the result of the experiment.

You will not expect me to dissect a tythe of the nonsense contained in this miserable trade: if you do, you will be disappointed. For example, we are told that a Scotchman is not "an unit, but an aggregate; not a link, but a chain;" that is, one Scotchman is not one Scotchman, but more and, in the very next sentence, it is added, "he belongs

to a regiment;" although two lines before we had been assured that he himself constituted the whole regiment-in short, was omnes in uno. What can a man make of this?

power, and would be more disposed to fall upon and crush, than come forward to the support of a sinking individual." Now, were this true, it would be very bad: its falsehood, direct manifest falsehood, does not render it the less fit to appear in "The Liberal." Had any thing approaching to truth been said of our countrymen, we should have wondered how the devil it got there. It would have been out of place, and out of keeping. As to the matter of cowardice, however, it would not savour much of prudence, were Mr Hunt, or whoever is the author of this paper, to act upon the opinion he has here propounded: he might perhaps find he had reckoned without his host. But "a Scotchman would rather fall upon, and crush, than come forward to the support of a sinking individual,” like Mr Hunt, for example. It is extremely probable he would. He hates infidels, jacobins, and manufacturers of Parisinas, and Stories of Rimini, with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his strength; to such gentry, he might indeed be provoked to administer a kick in the breech en passant. He thinks society would be well rid of such fellows, who are either pandering to the passions of the multitude, or occupied in providing furniture for the bagnio. But I would not have it be believed, that, therefore, he is either destitute of feeling or generosity. He is not such a foggy-headed, beef-eating, gullible animal as Master Bull: he looks before he leaps but I shall be glad to find an Englishman of them all, who, when he has fairly reconnoitred his way, will leap beyond him.

Next, as to his being the slave of authority, the blockhead who made the assertion is as ignorant of the character he attempts to describe, as of the inhabitants of Saturn's Ring. A Scotchman's greatest fault, perhaps, is the little deference he pays to authority, and the habitual propensity he displays to think and act for himself. This originates in two causes; the natural acuteness of the people, and the universal diffusion of knowledge.

But the greatest flaw in the Scottish character yet remains to be noticed, and I shall do it in the words

of the author, that I may not be suspected of mis-representing his meaning. "The delicate sensibility (not to say soreness) of the Scotch, in matters of moral reputation, may be accounted for from their domiciliary system of church-government, of Kirk-Assemblies, and Ruling Elders; and in the unprincipled assurance with which assertions of this sort are thrown out, and the panic-terror which they strike into the timid or hypocritical, one may see the remaining effects of Penance Sheets and Cutty Stools! Poor Burns! he raised up the ghost of Dr Hornbook, but did not lay the spirit of cant and lying in the cunning North!" It is always an unpleasant thing when one receives a compliment not to be able to return it. I should be writing a malicious and unpardonable libel, were I to accuse the Liberals of any "delicate sensibility (not to say soreness) in matters of moral reputation:" I am aware they have none, and I would not for the world put them to the blush. But I may be allowed to inform them, that the "domiciliary system" of which they talk, has long since (the more pity say I) gone to the tomb of all the Capulets. Our clergy seem to have imbibed a large portion of the light of the age, and with it a truly Episcopalian contempt for "domiciliary" visits, and catechizing the young. In fact, we are in a fair way to acquire the full and inestimable benefits of the noble prerogative of non-residence itself: so far have we advanced in the career of improvement. The tie by which a clergyman of old was bound to his flock has been disrupted where it could not be conveniently dissolved; and, except for an hour or two on Sunday, he sees and knows as little about them (especially in large towns) as about the Junta at Pisa, or the inhabitants of the Odenwald. What could Mr Hunt wish for more? Can he deny that we are in a fair way to get rid of every shred and remnant of "Penance Sheets and Cutty Stools?" He will indeed be sorry to learn, that these are many splendid and honourable exceptions: I would not willingly give him pain; but I must pay some regard to truth. Yes, there are noble exceptions; and a re-action

is daily taking place in the feelings and wishes of a people, who are not to be driven out of all reverence and veneration for the best and most efficient part of our ecclesiastical discipline, by the sneer of witlings, the taunts of libertines, the profanity of Pisans, or the blasphemies of thorough-bred and openly-avowed infidels. This, verily, is a grievous backsliding; but under all the afffictions and troubles incident to the "domiciliary system," it is odds that we shall not send to Pisa for consolation. As to "poor Burns!" (how hateful is the pity of those rapscallions!) no man can admire his genius more fervently or intensely than I do; but I cannot, at the same tine, shut my eyes to the melancholy truth, that his writings have greatly tended to lower the tone of moral feeling among his countrymen, and that there is occasionally about them a savour of profanity and blackguardism, which cannot be too deeply execrated or deplored. I abhor cant as much as any man, but I shall not hesitate to proclaim what I am satisfied is truth, merely because I may stand in the minority. The ridicule which Burns so frequently directed against sacred things not only attaches an ineffaceable stain to his memory, but has been productive of incredible evil, and begotten among our people a spirit of levity and irreverence, unknown before his time. The universal diffusion of his works, and the natural delight with which they are read, will show that I have not exaggerated their influence. But let me not be cruel or unjust to the memory of an unfortunate son of genius, in whose bosom the sacred fire burned with such resplendent brightDess. He erred from exuberance of feeling, and not from settled depravity of heart. He was no infidel, nor was he unfriendly to the religion of his "beloved native land." He handled edged tools without being aware of his danger: but he lived to repent of his error. And he would have been the first to proclaim his contempt for, and to refuse to fraternize with the slip-slop, maudlin drivellers, who have the impudence to evoke his inmortal name with an expression of their disgusting and in

sulting pity. Hallowed be the mould that covers his final resting-place!

It is owing to the restraints which the "domiciliary system" imposes, that, according to this Liberal, "of all blackguards, a Scotch blackguard is the worst." And for this a curious reason is assigned: "The character sits ill upon him for want of use, and is sure to be most outrageously caricatured." For my own part, I have not the least objection to admit, that England is capable of furnishing more finished blackguards than Scotland; I should be sorry to contest the claim which is here set up in her behalf: "by worst," therefore, is only meant less accomplished in the cha. racter. But, unhappily, towards the close, the secret of the whole philippic comes out. Mr Hunt conceives himself to have been rather roughly handled by a parcel of rogues, with more fun in their noddles than malice in their hearts, and greatly his overmatch in humour, wit, and sarcasm: And now, like a magnanimous Cockney, he takes his revenge by libelling a whole people, of whose national and individual character every line he writes proves his entire ignorance, while they just know enough of him to despise heartily both his talents and his principles. In this spirit, and warming as he gets on, he indites the following dreadfully pungent anathema: "Their impudence is extreme, their malice cold-blooded, covert, crawling, deliberate, without the frailty or excuse of passion. They club their vices and their venality together, and, by the help of both together, are invincible!!!"

I have been greatly amused, and, you may believe, occasionally a little shocked, (which means a great deal, considering, that, according to Mr Hunt, "there is a natural hardness and want of nervous sensibility about the Scotch") with the article entitled "Les Charmettes, and Rousseau,” and the attempt made to white-wash the character of that eloquent but profligate man, I regret that I cannot enter into it somewhat at large. The best apology for Rousseau is, that he was stark staring mad all his life. None of his actions indicates a man compos sui. His character is a bundle of contradictions.

He was not only capable of, but committed some of the most atrocious, as well as despicable crimes. His propensity to thieving was a disease of which he was never, as he himself confesses, entirely cured. He was addicted to habitual misrepresentation. He abjured his religion at Turin, that he might eat dishonest bread. The affair of the ribbon, very trifling in itself, became a crime of the blackest dye, when he laid the theft at the door of a poor, friendless, female fellow-servant, who had always treated him with kindness. The nature of his liaison with Madame de Warens is well known-he was a kept man-mistress. The author of this paper-his panegyristhas forgotten that, in conjunction with another man, Carrio-as great a scoundrel as himself-he bought a girl of her mother-a greater blackguard than either-in order to bring her up as their common mistress: and he has frankly admitted that, (to use the words of Mr Burke,) "he left the spawn of his disgustful amours to languish in a Foundling Hospital." Did his character improve as he advanced in years, and acquired fame by his writings? Quite the reverse. He became intolerable, first to his friends, and latterly to himself. In what respects has he conferred any benefit on mankind? In none that I am aware of. He was eloquent-powerfully eloquent; and that was all. But on what subjects were hisconfessedly great powers employed? In maintaining the most pernicious paradoxes, and pandering to the most dangerous passions. The faggots were piled up to his hand, and he applied the fire. Of his Nouvelle Heloise there has hitherto been scarce two opinions: it is a masterpiece of eloquence and profligacy. But the author before me thinks differently-let him enjoy his opinion. Mine will not be affected, although he brings forward a female authority on his side. I wish he had quoted the exact words of Miss Seward. I can hardly bring myself to believe that, "sensible maiden" as she was, she would recommend such a book to the perusal of young men: if she

really did, I should know what to think of herself. A young woman recommending a tale of seduction, full of voluptuous and inflammatory description, to young men! Imp-1 wish I could say-Impossible! But I have not the means at hand of ascertaining the fact, so I must leave it as I found it.

The worst feature, however, in Rousseau's character is, that he sinned with his eyes open. He saw clearly the heinous nature of the crime he was about to commit-and he committed it. Of this we have an instance in the matter of his abjuring his religion. "Though young, says he, "I was sufficiently convinced, that whatever religion might be the true one, I was about to sell mine; and even should I chance to chuse the best, I lied to the Holy Ghost, and merited the disdain of every good man!" Yet, with this sufficient conviction on his mind, he sold his religion! The Confessions furnish many similar examples.

The coincidence, in this respect, between Rousseau and Gibbon, is remarkable. Both abjured the religion in which they had been educated, and became Catholics,-with this advantage in favour of the latter, that he was converted, not bribed to the change and both ended by becoming professed infidels. This fact is highly instructive, and would furnish matter for a volume.

The author before me pleads hard for Rousseau's exculpation,-in respect of his inhuman treatment of his children, because he repented of his barbarity. But to what did his repentance amount? Did it induce him to alter his conduct, and atone for it, by taking home to his bosom, and his heart, the unhappy beings on whom he had inflicted the curse of existence? No: it was a mere vision of his troubled imagination: a spectre he had conjured up and tricked out in fantastic horrors, to frighten his own mind: it has accordingly left no trace of its existence, except in the pages of his Confessions. But I must have done—Vale !

JONATHAN OLDMIXON.

In his progress towards Ispahan, Sir Robert traversed the salt desert of Kaveer. Numerous and wide sheets of salt, to the depth of half an inch, spread over the plain, as smooth and level as a mirror, reflecting the sun-beams with a mirror's brightness, and sometimes producing the most extraordinary optical delusions. In this cheerless tract, the eye is seldom refreshed with the sight of water; and if a stream occasionally appears, it is only to inflict the curse of Tantalus on the thirst-tortured traveller, who finds it as salt as the soil through which it flows.

The sacred city of Khom, renowned for the shrine of the fair saint Fatima, and many other holy and dignified personages, presents the anomalous and disagreeable appearance of repair and ruin, bustle and desolation. Sir Robert was now following the tract which Sir John Malcolm had pursued; and wherever he went, he received the most gratifying proofs of the respect and affection with which the remembrance of that excellent officer was still cherished in Persia. In many of the villages, the inhabitants date their marriages, or the birth of their children, from the era of his visit among them; and the peasants, in the warmth of their gratitude for his beneficence, used to say, that "if the rocks and trees should suddenly receive the power of speech, their first word would be Malcolm."

Of the numerous ruins which our traveller had yet seen, those of Lanker-rood were the most striking and singular. They consisted of large buildings, totally separated from each other. In each building were several central arches, supporting a pointed dome; while from the body of the edifice projected smaller divisions, again divided into cells, the whole being finished with the greatest care and neatness. Nearly a hundred of these insulated structures, mingling with old walls and towers fallen into the most picturesque ruin, surrounded the

VOL. XII.

low-roofed dwellings which form the present village. Of the once considerable town of Kassamabad, which Chardin, in the year 1686, found fully inhabited, the only vestige now is a long black line of ruins, with the dome of a lonely.mosque. At Dhay Nain and Sin-Sin, Sir Robert found ruins similar to those at Lankerrood; and from their being divided into domestic apartments, and the walls of those at Dhay Nain being in some places covered with portraits in fresco, he was led to conclude that they had originally been dwellinghouses. The town of Kashan presented an agreeable contrast to the dilapidation of most of the cities which lay in our traveller's present

tract.

It was in all its former prosperity; its manufactures of silk brocades and shawls, and of copper utensils, being as flourishing and in as great request as ever.

Of the miserable system of government in Persia, and of the still more deplorable manner in which it is administered, Sir Robert gives a distressing account, when speaking of the kanaughts, or aqueducts, which fertilize, by irrigation, the valley of Guz.

ment.

"Indeed, there is no source whence the crown draws its revenue so productively, as from that of these waters; for the advantage of which artificial channels, a certain sum is paid yearly to governGreat as that may be, it is short of what it might be, were the dispersion of these aqueducts better understood; and were the dues properly collected, the result would be double profit to the crown. But, in this country (as it is sometimes even with ourselves) there are a train of intermediate agents between the government and the tax, who either eat up three-fourths of the expected sum, before it reaches the treasury, or so grind each other at every remove from the first delegated hand, that when the last and

full exaction is made from the industrious

peasant, or trader, or warder of a caravansary, (it being demanded in sufficient quantity to stick a reasonable profit to the

its way to those of the sovereign,) the poor labouring wretch, at the bottom of the ladder, is made to dig the gold out of his very veins; to pour it out with his sweat and his blood; and giving his last handful of grain this year, with all his means of subsistence, to these hard task

coffers of each successive extortioner, in

C