he strange single word that
seems to possess the power of all the parts of speech. And, having
stolen them, to what use did he turn the treasures? Why, unable to give
back every man his own--for they were all dead, buried, and
forgotten--by a potent prayer he evoked from his Pool-Palace,
overshadowed by the Dalswinton woods, the Genius of the Nith, to
preserve the gathered flowers of song for ever unwithered, for that they
all had grown ages ago beneath and around the green shadows of Criffel,
and longed now to be embalmed in the purity of the purest river that
Scotland sees flowing in unsullied silver to the sea. But the Genius of
the Nith--frowning and smiling--as he looked upon his son alternately in
anger, love, and pride--refused the votive offering, and told him to be
gone; for that he--the Genius--was not a Cromek--and could distinguish
with half an eye what belonged to antiquity, from what had undergone, in
Allan's hands, change into "something rich and rare;" and above all,
from what had been blown to life that very year by the breath of Allan's
own genius, love-inspired by "his ain lassie," the "lass that he loe'd
best," springing from seeds itself had sown, and cherished by the dews
of the same gracious skies, that filled with motion and music the
transparency of the river-god's never-failing urn.

We love Allan's "Maid of Elvar." It beats with a fine, free, bold, and
healthful spirit. Along with the growth of the mutual love of Eustace
and Sybil, he paints peasant-life with a pen that reminds us of the
pencil of Wilkie. He is as familiar with it all as Burns; and Burns
would have perused with tears many of these pictures, even the most
cheerful--for the flood-gates of Robin's heart often suddenly flung
themselves open to a touch, while a rushing gush--wondering gazers knew
not why--bedimmed the lustre of his large black eyes. Allan gives us
descriptions of Washings and Watchings o' claes, as Homer has done
before him in the Odyssey, and that other Allan in the Gentle
Shepherd--of Kirks, and Christenings, and Halloweens, and other
Festivals. Nor has he feared to string his lyre--why should he?--to such
themes as the Cottar's Saturday Night--and the simple ritual of our
faith, sung and said

"In some small kirk upon the sunny brae,
That stands all by itself on some sweet Sabbath-day."

Ay, many are the merits of this "Rustic Tale." To appreciate them
properly, we must carry along with us, during the