his views with singular ability and indomitable firmness; and if, at times, with a boldness and rough energy, both rash and unwise, the obvious sincerity and personal feeling of the writer elevated him far above the suspicion of being actuated by vulgar or mercenary motives. Motherwell was of small stature, but very stout and muscular in body— accompanied, however, with a large head, and a short thick neck and throat- the precise character of physical structure the most liable to the fatal access of the apoplectic stroke. Accompanied by a literary friend, on the first of November, 1835, he had been dining in the country, about a couple of miles from Glasgow, and, on his return home, feeling indisposed, he went to bed. In a few hours thereafter he awakened, and complained of pain in the head, which increased so much as to render him speechless. Medical assitance was speedily obtained; but, alas! it was of no avail-the blow was struck, and the curtain had finally fallen over the life and fortunes of William Motherwell.- One universal feeling of regret and sympathy seemed to extend over society, when the sudden and premature decease of this accomplished poet, and elegant writer, became known. His funeral was attended by a large body of the citizens, by the most eminent of the learned and literary professions, and by persons of all shades of political opinion. He was interred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far from the resting-place of his fast friend, Mr. Andrew Henderson; and the writer of this brief memoir will long remember the feelings of deep regret with which he beheld the long procession of mourners winding its way up the steep ascents of that romantic place of graves, with the mortal remains of his private and literary friend, although firm political opponent.

'For the information of such of our readers as are not acquainted with the locality, we may mention, that the place of his sepulture is well fitted for the grave of a poet. It is a small piece of level ground, above which bold masses of rock, crowned with trees and shrubs of various kinds, ascend to a considerable

height; and below, the broken ground, richly wooded, and bristling with monumental columns and other erections, slopes beautifully down to the banks of a small lake or dam, terminated by a weir, over which its waters foam and fret at all seasons of the year. 'We hope, ere long, that some memorial of our gifted friend will rise amid these congenial shades (where some of the best dust in Glasgow now reposes,) to refresh the eye of friendship, and tell the wandering stranger of 'the inhabitant who sleeps below.'

'In the year 1827, whilst at Paisley, he published his 'Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern'-a work which raised him at once to a high rank as a literary antiquarian. The introduction, a long and singularly interesting document, exhibits the writer's extensive acquaintance with the history of the ballad and romantic literature of Scotland—and independent of its merits as a historical and critical disquisition, is in itself a piece of chaste and elegant composition, and vigorous writing. Soon after that he became editor of the Paisley Magazine, and contributed some of the sweetest effusions of his muse to enrich its pages effusions which now began to interest and concentrate the public attention, until, in 1832, a volume of his poems was published by Mr. David Robertson, Glasgow, which fully established his reputation as one of the sweet singers of his native land. A few months previous to the publication of his poems, another proof of the fertile versatility of his genius was afforded in an elaborate and able preface, which he contributed, to enrich a collection of Scottish Proverbs by his friend Mr. Andrew Henderson. In this essay, Motherwell exhibited a profound acquaintance with the proverbial antiquities of Scotland, and a fine and delicate tact in the management of a somewhat difficult subject. The style is equally elegant and vigorous, and shows him a master of prose, as of poetic composition. In 1836, an edition of the works of Robert Burns, in five volumes, was published, edited by him, in conjunction with the Ettrick Shepherd. A considerable part of the life, with a large amount of notes, critical and illustrative,

were supplied by Motherwell, with his usual ability and copious knowledge of his subject: but literary partnerships are seldom very fortunate in their consequences, and this was not fated to be an especial example of a contrary result.

'Mr. Motherwell was also a considerable contributor to the literary periodical-The Day' of which due mention has already been made, and which, for some time, commanded a brilliant range of western talent. His memoirs of Bailie Pirnie formed one of the most amusing and masterly papers in that journal. It is understood he left behind a considerable amount of manuscript; and, amongst other matter, a work embodying the wild legends of the ancient northern nations -a department of antiquarian research to which he was much devoted.* It is to be hoped, that a selection at least from these manuscripts will be laid before the public, as an act of justice to his memory.

'In mixed society, Motherwell was rather reserved, but appeared to enjoy internally 'the feast of reason and the flow of soul,' amongst his intimate friends and associates, who were but few in number. Amongst these, the principal were David Carrick and Andrew Henderson. Opposite as in most respects were the characters and pursuits of these three individuals, a certain community of taste and feeling formed a bond of union amongst them: and it was rather amusing to observe, how their comparatively neu, tralizing qualities dovetailed so naturally and finely into each other, as to form a harmonious concord. The constitutional reserve and silent habits of Motherwell. the quiet drollery and sly hu, mour of Carrick-with the irritable and somewhat explosive abruptness of Henderson, formed a melange, so happily constituted, and so bizarre frequently in its results, that those who had access to their frequent symposia, will long remember the richness of the cordial and original compound. There was a depth of charac

*A portion of this, under the title of 'The Doomed Nine, or the Langbein Riters,' appeared in the Paisley Magazine, pp. 60 and 346.'

ter, however, in Motherwell, which placed him naturally at the head of this firm fellowship; and though apparently the least motive of the party, his opinions on most points, with his tastes and wishes, were generally a law to the others.'

Even with this limited knowledge, a reader of these poems cannot help acquiring an unusual interest in the author; and he irresistibly feels that it is no feigned cry, but the genuine groans of a deeply wounded spirit, that he hears in 'O Agony! keen Agony!'-that it is the true sentiment that sighs forth in 'Mournfully! O Mournfully,'-that it is the waywardness of the writer himself that exclaims, 'Sing high, sing low, thou moody wind,'-and his own disappointed hopes that try to buoy themselves up by asking 'What is Glory? What is Fame?'- -or talking so resignedly of 'The darkness of a nameless tomb;' and this feeling is still increased by the perusal of the poem which concludes this volume, and which is now for the first time published in this form, a poem touching in itself, but rendered still more so when known to have been found upon his desk just after his death.

TO

WILLIAM KENNEDY, ESQ.

MY DEAR KENNEDY,

At the suggestion of some mutual friends, I have been induced to collect these stray verses of mine into a volume, which I have now the pleasure of dedicating to you, as a memorial of earlier days, and of my unaltered feelings of friendship and esteem for you.

I have been told that several of the pieces, in order to be intelligible to the general reader, required the aid of notes. To the critical opinion of others, I am always inclined to defer; but to have loaded a volume of such slender dimensions as the present, with historical annotation, would, I think, have gone far to mar its appearance as a book, as well as to have given it an air of pedantry, which I dislike.

In this I may be wrong; but according to my apprehension, the only pieces in the volume which need the desiderated illustration, are the first three. These, I may mention, are intended to be a faint shadowing forth of something like the form and spirit of Norse poetry; but all that is historical about them is contained in the proper names. The first,'Sigurd's Battle-Flag,' does not follow the story as given in the Nothern Sagas, but only adopts the incident of the Magic Standard, which carries victory to the party by whom it is displayed, but certain death to its bearer.

'Jarl Egill Skallagrim's Wooing Song' is entirely a creation, and nothing of it is purely historical, save the preserving of the name of that warrior and Skald. From the memorials, however,