

E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



THE GENIUS OF SCOTLAND;

Or

Sketches of Scottish Scenery, Literature and Religion.

by

REV. ROBERT TURNBULL

FOURTH EDITION.







New York:
Robert Carter, 58 Canal Street
1848.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847,
by Robert Carter,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.

Stereotyped by Thomas B. Smith,
216 William Street, New York




PREFACE.


Having been born and educated in Scotland, and possessing a tolerable
acquaintance with its History and Literature, the Author of the
following Work felt that he had some facilities for giving to the people
of this country a just idea of his native Land. The plan of his work is
somewhat new, combining in a larger degree, than he has hitherto seen
attempted, descriptions of Scenery, with Literary and Biographical
Sketches, portraitures of character social and religious, incidents of
travel, and reflections on matters of local or general interest. Hence
he has omitted many things which a mere tourist would not fail to
notice, and supplied their place with sketches of more enduring
interest. He would particularly invite attention to the sketches of
Knox, Burns, Wilson, Chalmers, Bruce, 'The Ettrick Shepherd,' and Sir
Walter Scott. His rambles through fair or classic scenes are thus
enlivened with useful information. In a word, it has been his endeavor,
in an easy natural way, to give his readers an adequate conception of
the Scenery, Literature, and Religion of Scotland.

HARTFORD, CONN.




CONTENTS


                                                                      PAGE

 Preface                                                                 1


CHAPTER I.

 Beauty an Element of the Mind--Our Native Land--Auld Lang Syne--General
 Description of Scotland--Extent of Population--Spirit of the People--The
 Highlands--The Lowlands--Burns's 'Genius of Scotland'--Natural and Moral
 Aspects of the Country--'The Cotter's Saturday Night'--Sources of
 Prosperity                                                             11


CHAPTER II.

 The city of Edinburgh--Views from Arthur's Seat--The Poems of
 Richard Gall--'Farewell to Ayrshire'--'Arthur's Seat, a
 Poem'--Extracts--Craigmillar Castle--The Forth, Roslin Castle
 and the Pentland Hills--Liberty                                        32


CHAPTER III.

 Walk to the Castle--The Old Wynds and their Occupants--Regalia of
 Scotland--Storming of the Castle--Views from its Summit--Heriot's
 Hospital--Other Hospitals--St. Giles's Cathedral--Changes--The
 Spirit of Protestantism                                                42


CHAPTER IV.

 John Knox's House--History of the Reformer--His Character--Carlyle's
 View--Testimony of John Milton                                         53


CHAPTER V.

 Edinburgh University--Professor Wilson--His Life and Writings, Genius
 and Character                                                          62


CHAPTER VI.

 The Calton Hill--Burns's Monument--Character and Writings of 'the
 Peasant Poet'--His Religious Views--Monument of Professor Dugald
 Stewart--Scottish Metaphysics--Thomas Carlyle                          77


CHAPTER VII.

 Preaching in Edinburgh--The Free Church--Dr. Chalmers--A Specimen
 of his Preaching--The Secret of his Eloquence                          99


CHAPTER VIII.

 Biographical Sketch of Dr. Chalmers                                   113


CHAPTER IX.

 Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh--Rev. John Brown of Whiteburn--Professor
 John Brown of Haddington--Rev. Dr. Candlish--Specimen of his
 Preaching                                                             126


CHAPTER X.

 Ride into the Country--The Skylark--Poems on the Skylark by
 Shelley and the 'Ettrick Shepherd'--Newhall--'The Gentle
 Shepherd'--Localities and Outlines of the Story--Its Popularity
 in Scotland                                                           138


CHAPTER XI.

 Biographical Sketch of Allan Ramsay--Lasswade--Ramble along the
 banks of the North Esk--Glenesk--A Character--Anecdote of Sir
 Walter Scott--Hawthornden--Drummond, the Poet--His Character
 and Genius--Sonnets--Chapel and Castle of Roslin--Barons of
 Roslin--Ballad of Rosabella--Hunting Match between Robert Bruce
 and Sir William St. Clair                                             157


CHAPTER XII.

 Ramble through the Fields--Parish Schools--Recollections of Dominie
 Meuross--The South Esk--Borthwick and Crichtoun Castles--New Battle
 Abbey--Dalkeith--Residence of the Duke of Buccleugh--'Scotland's
 Skaith,' by Hector Macneil--His Character and Writings--Extracts
 from the 'History of Will and Jean'                                   183


CHAPTER XIII.

 City of Glasgow--Spirit of the Place--Trade and Manufactures--The
 Broomielaw--Steam--George's Square--Monuments to Sir Walter Scott,
 Sir John Moore, and James Watt--Sketch of the Life of Watt--Glasgow
 University--Reminiscences--Brougham--Sir D. K. Sandford--Professor
 Nichol and others--High Kirk, or Glasgow Cathedral--Martyrdom
 of Jerome Russel and John Kennedy                                     197


CHAPTER XIV.

 The Necropolis--Jewish Burial Place--Monument to John Knox--Monuments
 of William Macgavin and Dr. Dick--Reminiscences--Character and
 Writings of Dr. Dick--Pollok and 'the Course of Time'--Grave of
 Motherwell--Sketch of his Life--His Genius and Poetry--'Jeanie
 Morrison'--'My Heid is like to rend, Willie'--'A Summer Sabbath
 Noon'                                                                 209


CHAPTER XV.

 Dumbarton Castle--Lochlomond--Luss--Ascent of Benlomond--Magnificent
 Views--Ride to Loch-Katrine--Rob Roy Macgregor--'Gathering of Clan
 Gregor'--Loch-Katrine and the Trosachs--The City of Perth--Martyrdom
 of Helen Stark and her husband                                        231


CHAPTER XVI.

 Sabbath Morning--'The Sabbath,' by James Grahame--Sketch of his
 Life--Extracts from his Poetry--The Cameronians--'Dream of the
 Martyrs,' by James Hislop--Sabbath Morning Walk--Country Church--The
 Old Preacher--The Interval of Worship--Conversation in the
 Church-yard--Going Home from Church--Sabbath Evening                  244


CHAPTER XVII.

 Lochleven--Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle--Michael
 Bruce--Sketch of his Life--Boyhood--College
 Life--Poetry--'Lochleven'--Sickness--'Ode to Spring'--Death--'Ode
 to the Cuckoo'                                                        260


CHAPTER XVIII.

 Dunfermline--Ruins of the Abbey--Grave of Robert Bruce--Malcolm
 Canmore's Palace--William Henryson, the poet--William Dunbar--Stirling
 Castle--Views from its Summit--City of Stirling--George Buchanan
 and Dr. Arthur Johnston--Falkirk--Linlithgow--Story of the Capture
 of Linlithgow Castle--Spirit of War--Arrival in Edinburgh             284


CHAPTER XIX.

 Journey to Peebles--Characters--Conversation on Politics--Scottish
 Peasantry--Peebles--'Christ's Kirk on the Green'--A Legend--An old
 Church--The Banks of the Tweed--Its ancient Castles--The Alarm
 Fire--Excursion to the Vales of Ettrick and Yarrow--Stream of
 Yarrow--St. Mary's Lake and Dryhope Tower--'The Dowie Dens of
 Yarrow'--Growth of Poetry--Ballads and Poems on Yarrow by Hamilton,
 Logan and Wordsworth                                                  295


CHAPTER XX.

 Hamlet and Church-yard of Ettrick--Monument to Thomas
 Boston--Birth-place of the Ettrick Shepherd--Altrieve
 Cottage--Biographical Sketch of the Ettrick Shepherd--The Town of
 Selkirk--Monument to Sir Walter Scott--Battle-field of Philiphangh    319


CHAPTER XXI.

 Return to the Banks of the Tweed--Abbotsford--The Study--Biographical
 Sketch of Sir Walter Scott--His Early Life--Residence in the
 Country--Spirit of Romance--Education--First Efforts as an
 Author--Success of 'Marmion'--Character of his Poetry--Literary
 Change--His Novels--Pecuniary Difficulties--Astonishing
 Efforts--Last Sickness--Death and Funeral                             334


CHAPTER XXII.

 Melrose Abbey--The Eildon Hills--Thomas the Rhymer--Dryburgh--Monuments
 to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir William Wallace--Kelso--Beautiful
 Scenery--A Pleasant Evening--Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet,
 Antiquary, Scholar and Traveller--The Duncan Family--Journey
 Resumed--Twisel Bridge--Battle of Flodden--Norham Castle--Berwick
 upon Tweed--Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The
 Border Tales'--Conclusion--'Auld Lang Syne'                           351




GENIUS OF SCOTLAND.




CHAPTER I.

     Beauty an Element of the Mind--Our Native Land--Auld Lang
     Syne--General Description of Scotland--Extent of Population--Spirit
     of the People--The Highlands--The Lowlands--Burns's 'Genius of
     Scotland'--Natural and Moral Aspects of the Country--'The Cotter's
     Saturday Night'--Sources of Prosperity.


The theory has become prevalent among philosophers, and even among
literary men, that beauty is more an element of the mind than of
external objects. Things, say they, are not what they seem. Their
aspects are ever varying with the minds which gaze upon them. They
change even under the eyes of the same individuals. A striking
illustration of this may be found in the opening stanza of Wordsworth's
Ode to Immortality.

    There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,
    The earth and every common sight
                      To me did seem
                      Apparelled in celestial light,
    The glory and the freshness of a dream.
    It is not now as it hath been of yore;
                      Turn wheresoe'er I may,
                      By night or day,
    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

It is the mind then, which transfers its own ethereal colors to the
forms of matter, and invests scenes and places with new and peculiar
attractions. Like the light of the moon streaming through a leafy grove
and transforming its darkness into its own radiant beauty, the spirit of
man diffuses its own inspiration through the universe,

                    "Making all nature
    Beauty to the eye and music to the ear."

Now if this theory be true, it follows that no country will appear to us
so beautiful as the one which happens to be endeared to our hearts by
early recollections and pleasant associations. No matter how rude and
wild,--that spot of all others on earth, will appear to us the sweetest
and most attractive! 'New England,' says a native of Massachusetts or of
Vermont, 'is the glory of all lands. No hills and vales are more
picturesque than hers, no rivers more clear and beautiful.' 'Visit
Naples, and die!' exclaims the Neapolitan, proud of his classic home.
'Green Erin, my darling,' is the fond language of the Hibernian, 'first
gem of the ocean, first flower of the sea.' 'Here's a health,' shouts
the native of Caledonia, 'bonny Scotland to thee!' Others may speak
disparagingly of the sour climate and barren soil of Scotland; but to a
native of that country, the land of his fathers is invested with all the
charms of poetry and romance. Every spot of its varied surface is
hallowed ground. He sees its rugged rocks and desolate moors mantled
with the hoary memories of by-gone days, the thrilling associations of
childhood and youth. Therefore, with a meaning and emphasis, which all
who love their native land will appreciate, he appropriates the words of
the poet:--

    Land of the forest and the rock,
      Of dark blue lake and mighty river,
    Of mountains reared aloft to mock,
    The storm's career, the lightning's shock,
      My own green land forever!
    Land of the beautiful and brave!
    The freeman's home, the martyr's grave!
    The nursery of giant men,
    Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
    The magic of a warrior's name!

Does not Scotland, however inferior, in some respects it may be deemed
to other lands, possess a peculiar charm to all cultivated minds?[1]
What visions of ancient glory cluster around the time-honored name!
What associations of 'wild native grandeur,'--of wizard beauty, and
rough magnificence. What gleams of 'poetic sunlight,'--what
recollections of martial daring by flood and field,--what hallowed faith
and burning zeal,--what martyr toils and martyr graves, monuments of
freedom's struggles and freedom's triumphs in moor or glen,--what
'lights and shadows' of love and passion,--what ancient songs, echoing
among the hills,--what blessed sabbath calm,--what lofty inspiration of
the Bible and covenant,--in a word, what dear and hallowed memories of
that 'Auld lang syne,' indigenous only to Scotland, though known
throughout the world! Should this be deemed enthusiastic, let it, and
all else of a similar character which may be found in this volume, be
ascribed to a natural and not unpardonable feeling on the part of the
writer. The remembrance of 'Auld lang syne' can never be extinguished.
Except the hope of heaven, it is our best and holiest heritage.

[Footnote 1: The following eloquent passage from an address by the
Honorable Edward Everett, before the "Scots' Charitable Society,"
Boston, well illustrates the fact referred to.

"Not to speak of the worthies of ages long passed; of the Knoxes, the
Buchanans, and the early minstrelsy of the border; the land of your
fathers, sir, since it ceased to be a separate kingdom, has, through the
intellect of her gifted sons, acquired a supremacy over the minds of men
more extensive and more enduring, than that of Alexander or Augustus. It
would be impossible to enumerate them all,--the Blairs of the last
generation, the Chalmerses of this; the Robertsons, and Humes; the
Smiths, the Reids, the Stuarts, the Browns; the Homes, the Mackenzies;
the Mackintoshes, the Broughams, the Jeffreys, with their distinguished
compeers, both on physical and moral science. The Marys and the
Elizabeths, the Jameses and the Charleses will be forgotten, before
these names will perish from the memory of men. And when I add to them
those other illustrious names--Burns, Campbell, Byron, and Scott, may I
not truly say, sir, that the throne and the sceptre of England will
crumble into dust like those of Scotland: and Windsor Castle and
Westminster Abbey will lie in ruins as poor and desolate as those of
Scone and Iona, before the lords of Scottish song shall cease to reign
in the hearts of men.

For myself, sir, I confess that I love Scotland. I have reason to do so.
I have trod the soil of the

    Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
    Land of the mountain and the flood,

I have looked up to the cloud-capt summit of Ben Lomond; have glided
among the fairy islets of Loch Katrine; and from the battlements of
Stirling Castle, have beheld the links of Forth sparkling in the morning
sun. I have done more, sir; I have tasted that generous hospitality of
Scotland, which her Majesty's Consul has so justly commemorated; I have
held converse with her most eminent sons; I have made my pilgrimage to
Melrose Abbey, in company with that modern magician, who, mightier than
the magician of old that sleeps beneath the marble floor of its chancel,
has hung the garlands of immortal poesy upon its shattered arches, and
made its moss-clad ruins a shrine, to be visited by the votary of the
muse from the remotest corners of the earth, to the end of time. Yes,
sir, musing as I did, in my youth, over the sepulchre of the wizard,
once pointed out by the bloody stain of the cross and the image of the
archangel:--standing within that consecrated enclosure, under the
friendly guidance of him whose genius has made it holy ground; while
every nerve within me thrilled with excitement, my fancy kindled with
the inspiration of the spot. I seemed to behold, not the vision so
magnificently described by the minstrel,--the light, which, as the tomb
was opened,

              broke forth so gloriously,
    Streamed upward to the chancel roof,
    And through the galleries far aloof:

But I could fancy that I beheld, with sensible perception, the brighter
light, which had broken forth from the master mind; which had streamed
from his illumined page all-gloriously upward, above the pinnacles of
worldly grandeur, till it mingled its equal beams, with that of the
brightest constellations, in the intellectual firmament of England."]

    As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland one and all,
      Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills and clear streams,
    The Dee, the Don, Balgownies brig's black wall,
      All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams
    Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,
      Like Banquo's offspring; floating past me seems
    My childhood, in this childishness of mind;
      I care not;--'tis a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.'

    BYRON.

Beautiful is New England, resembling as she does, in many of her
features, 'Auld Scotia's hills and dales,' and moreover being much akin
to her, in religious sentiment and the love of freedom; so that a native
of either might well be forgiven for clinging with peculiar fondness to
the land of his birth, and, in certain moods of mind, prefering it to
all the world beside. Though far away, and even loving the place of his
estrangement, he cannot, if he would, altogether renounce those ties
which bind him to his early home. A 'viewless chain,' which crosses
ocean and continent, conveys from the one to the other that subtle, yet
gracious influence, which is quicker and stronger than the lightning's
gleam. Let no one then be surprised if a Scotsman in New England, the
cherished land of his adoption, should solace his mind with the
recollection of early days, and endeavor to set before others the
characteristic beauties and excellences of his native country.

    O Caledonia, stern and wild,
    Meet nurse for a poetic child!
    Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
    Land of the mountain and the flood,
    Land of my sires! What mortal hand,
    Can e'er untie the filial band
    That knits me to thy rugged strand!

"Scotland," as one of her own sons has expressed it, "is a wee bit
country," but possessed of "muckle pith and spirit." Its surface is
rough and mountainous, with beautiful patches of rich arable land along
the courses of its streams, and extensive level meadows, called Carses,
as the Carse of Falkirk, and the Carse of Gowrie. It is of unequal
breadth, being much indented with bays and creeks, and stretches some
two hundred and eighty miles in length, reckoning from its most
southerly point, the Mull of Galloway, to Dunnet's Head, its most
northern extremity. This probably would be a little farther than from
"Maiden Kirk to Johnny Groat's," the "from Dan to Beersheba" of
Scotland. Clustering around its western and northern sides are the
Hebrides, the Shetland and the Orkney islands; wild and rocky isles,
with rude and primitive inhabitants, constituting the Ultima Thule of
Great Britain. In Scotland, a considerable portion of the land is
uncultivated, consisting of heathy hills, mountains and moors; and the
most of that which is cultivated has been rendered productive by the
hand of art and industry. Like Switzerland, it is comparatively a poor
country, but has been made rich by the generative powers of mind. Her
wealth consists in the brawny arms and vigorous intellects of her sons.
The climate is cold and variable, though milder in winter than that of
New England, and in summer cooler, and upon the whole, more agreeable,
except when dense fogs and long-continued rains prevail.

The population is over two millions and a half, and is gradually
increasing, though the people, like those of New England, are greatly
given to migration, and may be found in every part of the world. Its
commerce and manufactures are, for its size, very extensive. They have
increased, since 1814, from twenty-five to thirty per cent. Agriculture
and the mechanic arts have been carried to a high degree of perfection.
While the people are characteristically cautious and slow, "looking
before they leap," to quote one of their favorite proverbs, they are
bold and enterprising, and thus leap long and successfully. Few nations
have accomplished so much in literature or trade, in science or the arts
of industry. Their highest distinction, however, consists in their
spirit of love and fealty, their leal-heartedness, their contempt of
sham, their passionate love of freedom, their zeal for God and the
truth! Obstinate and wrong-headed at times, characteristically dogmatic,
and perhaps a little intolerant, their very faults lean to virtue's
side, and go to the support of goodness. Their punctiliousness and
pride, their dogged adherence to what they conceive to be right, and
their vehement mode of defending it, constitute the rough and prickly
bark which defends the precious tree. One thing is certain, they are
transparent as daylight, and honest as their own heathy hills.

They are preeminently a religious people, protestant to the backbone,
occasionally rough and impetuous in the expression of their opinions,
but never formal, never indecorous. A profound enthusiasm, bordering on
fanaticism, a passionate, though not boisterous or canting devotion, a
fine sense of the grand and beautiful, intermingled with a keen
conscientiousness, an ardent love of freedom, with a boundless trust in
God, form the great elements of their religious life. Their theology is
chiefly Calvinistic, apparently philosophical and dogmatic, but rather
less so than popular and practical. Of cathedrals, old and dim, of
masses, chants and processions, the pomp and circumstance of a
magnificent ritual, they have none.[2] But of old and glorious memories,
solemn temples among the woods and hills, hallowed grave-yards, blessed
sacraments, and national enthusiasm, they have abundance. Their religion
is a part of the soil. It is indigenous to the country. It grew up among
the mountains, was nursed by 'wizard streams,' and 'led forth' with the
voice of psalms, among 'the green pastures of the wilderness.' Somewhat
forbidding at first, like the rough aspect of the country, it appears
equally picturesque and beautiful, when really known and loved. It is
the religion not of form but of substance, of deep inward emotion, not
of outward pretension and show. Neither is it a sickly sentimentalism
which lives on poetic musings, and matures only in cloistered shades and
moonlight groves; but it is a healthy, robust principle which goes forth
to do and to suffer the will of Heaven. Its head and heart are sound,
and its works praise it in the gate. Beautiful as the visions of fancy,
it is yet strong as the everlasting hills among which it was reared. In
a word, it is the religion of faith and love, the religion of the old
puritans, of the martyrs and confessors of primitive times. Welling out
forever from the unstained fountains of the Word of God, it has marked
its course over the fair face of Scotland, with the greenest verdure,
the sweetest flowers.

[Footnote 2: This is spoken, of course, of the great body of the
people.]

Scotland is naturally divided into Highlands and Lowlands. The former
includes, besides the various groups of islands on the north and
north-west coast, the counties of Argyle, Inverness, Nairn, Ross,
Cromarty, Sutherland and Caithness, with portions of Dumbarton,
Stirling, Perth, Forfar, "Aberdeen awa," Banff and Elgin, or the more
northerly regions of the country, protected and beautified by the mighty
range of the Grampians, commencing at the southern extremity of Loch
Etive, and terminating at the mouth of the Dee on the eastern coast. The
Highlands again are divided into two unequal portions by the beautiful
chain of lochs, or lakes running through the Glenmore-Nan-Albin, or
Great Glen of Caledonia, forming some of the wildest and richest scenery
in the world. To the north are the giant mountains of Macdui, Cairngorm,
Ben-Aven and Ben-More, while nearer the Lowlands, rise the lofty
Ben-Lomond, and the hoary Ben-Awe. Under their shadows gleam the storied
lochs, the wild tarns and trosachs, whose picturesque and romantic
beauties have been immortalized by the pens of Burns, Scott, and Wilson.

To the south and east of the Grampian range, and running parallel to
them, you discover a chain of lower and more verdant hills, bearing the
well known and poetical names of the Sidlaw, Campsie and Ochil hills.
These are divided by the fertile valleys of the Tay and Forth. Between
them and the Grampians lies the low and charming valley of Strathmore.
The "silver Tay," one of the finest rivers in Scotland, rises in
Breadalbane, expands into lake Dochart, flows in an easterly direction
through the vale of Glendochart, expands again into the long and
beautiful Loch Tay, which runs like a belt of silver among the hills,
whence issuing, it receives various accessions from other streams,
passes on in a southerly direction to Dunkeld, famous for its ancient
Abbey and lovely scenery, skirts the ancient and delightful city of
Perth, below which it is joined by its great tributary the Earn, which
flows, in serpentine windings, through the rich vale of Strath-Earn,
touches the populous and thriving town of Dundee, and gradually widens
into the Firth of Tay, whose clear waters mirror the white skiff or
magnificent steamer, and imperceptibly mingle with the waves of the
Northern Sea. Further north, the rapid Spey, springing from the 'braes
of Badenoch' near Lochaber, passes tumultuously through a rough and
mountainous country, lingering occasionally, as if to rest itself in
some deep glen, crosses the ancient province of Moray, famous for its
floods, so admirably described by Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, passes
Kinrara, "whence, for a few miles, it is attended by a series of
landscapes, alike various, singular and magnificent," after which, it
moves, with a monotonous aspect, and a steady pace, to the sea. Portions
of the country through which this river passes are exceedingly sterile
and wild. Covered with the birch, the alder and the pine, varied by
rugged rocks and desolate moors, it admirably corresponds to our
notions of Caledonia, in her ancient and primitive integrity.

In the more remote and northern regions of the Highlands, and in most of
the Scottish isles, the Gaelic, or Erse, a primitive and energetic
tongue, somewhat akin to the Welsh or Irish, is spoken by a majority of
the inhabitants. In other parts of Scotland, the English, with a
Scottish idiom, is the prevalent speech. The literature of the Gaelic is
exceedingly limited, confined chiefly to old ballads, songs and
traditionary stories. The poems of Ossian are doubtless the production
of Macpherson, their professed translator, while they probably contain a
few translated fragments, and some traditionary facts and conceptions
afloat among the Highlanders, ingeniously interwoven with the main
fabric of the work.

The Highlanders are a simple-hearted, primitive race, mostly poor, and
imperfectly educated. Those of them that are wealthy and well educated,
are said to be remarkably acute, courteous, and agreeable.

The Lowlands of Scotland comprehend the south and southeastern portions
of the country, and though not the grandest and most romantic, are by
far the best cultivated, and in some respects the most beautiful.
Including the level ground on the eastern coast to the south of the
Moray Firth, they stretch along the coast through portions of
Perthshire, and the old kingdom of Fife, towards the regions bounded on
either side, by the river and the Firth of Forth, and thence to
Kircudbright and the English border, including the principal cities,
the most fertile tracts of arable land, the rivers Forth, Clyde and
Tweed, and the range of the Cheviot hills, which extend from the north
of England towards the north-west, join the Louther hills in the region
of Ettrick and Yarrow, with their 'silver streams,' pass through the
southern part of Ayrshire and terminate at Loch Ryan, in the Irish
Channel. The Clyde is the most important commercial river in Scotland.
Taking its origin among the mountains of the south, not far from the
early home of its beautiful and more classic sisters, the Tweed and the
Annan, it runs in many capricious windings, in a northwesterly
direction, leaps in foaming cascades first at Bonnington, and then at
Cora Linn, rushes on through the fine country of Lanarkshire, till,
joined by many tributary streams, it passes through the large and
flourishing city of Glasgow, bearing upon its bosom the vast commerce
and population of the neighboring regions, flows around the walls of old
Dumbarton Castle, with its time-worn battlements and glorious memories,
in sight, too, of the lofty Ben Lomond, and the beautiful lake which it
protects, touches the ancient city of Greenock, expands into the Firth
of Clyde, and gradually loses itself amid the picturesque islands which
adorn the western coast of Scotland.

Were it possible, by placing ourselves upon some lofty elevation, to
take in at one glance, the whole of this varied landscape of lake,
river, and mountain; of tarn, trosach and moor, with verdant vales, and
woody <DW72>s between, we should confess that it was one of as rare
beauty and wild magnificence as ever greeted the vision of man. And were
our minds steeped in ancient and poetic lore, we should be prepared to
appreciate the faithfulness and splendor of Burns's allegorical
description of the "Genius of Scotland."

    "Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs,
    Were twisted gracefu' round her brows,
    I took her for some Scottish Muse,
              By that same token,
    And come to stop those reckless vows
              Would soon be broken.

    A hair-brained sentimental trace,
    Was strongly marked in her face;
    A wildly witty-rustic grace,
              Shone full upon her,
    Her eye e'en turned on empty space,
              Beamed keen with honor.

    Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
    My gazing wonder chiefly drew,
    Deep _lights and shadows_ mingling threw
              A lustre grand;
    And seemed, to my astonished view
              A _well known land_!

    Here rivers in the sea were lost;
    There mountains in the skies were tost;
    Here tumbling billows marked the coast,
              With surging foam;
    There, distant shone, Art's lofty boast,
              The lordly dome.

    Here Doon poured down his far-fetched floods;
    There well fed Irwine stately thuds:
    Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods,
              On to the shore;
    And many a lesser torrent scuds
              With seeming roar.

    Low in a sandy valley spread,
    An ancient _borough_ reared her head
    Still as in Scottish story read,
              She boasts a race,
    To every nobler virtue bred,
              And polished grace.

    By stately tower or palace fair
    Or ruins pendent in the air
    Bold stems of heroes here and there,
              I could discern;
    Some seemed to muse, some seemed to dare
              With feature stern."

Now, imagine the whole of this country, studded at no remote intervals,
with churches and schools well supported, and well attended by young and
old. Think of her ancient and able Universities, Edinburgh, Glasgow, St.
Andrews, and Aberdeen, including in the last, Marischal College and
Kings College, with an average attendance of from 2500 to 3000 students,
with their learned and amiable professors, extensive libraries, and fine
collections in Natural History. Think of her innumerable high schools,
private schools, public and private libraries, literary institutes and
ancient hospitals, some for the body and some for the mind, and connect
the whole with her heroic history, her poetical enthusiasm, her
religious faith, her fealty to God and man, and you will have some faint
conception of the beauty and glory of Scotland.

But the impression would be deepened, could you behold the land,
beautified and ennobled by her sabbath calm, as once in seven days, she
rests and worships before the Lord. Could you but hear the voice of her
church-going bells, and go to the house of God, in company with her
thoughtful but cheerful population; could you sit in some "auld warld"
kirk, and hear some grey-haired holy man dispense, with deep and tender
tones, the word of everlasting life; could you hear a whole congregation
of devout worshippers make the hills ring again, with their simple
melody; above all, could you place yourself in some deep shady glen, by
the "sweet burnie," as it "wimples" among the waving willows, or the
yellow broom, or sit down on the green "brae side," enamelled with
"gowans," on some sacramental occasion, when thousands are gathered to
hear the preaching of the gospel, and with simple ritual, to commemorate
the dying love of the Redeemer! Could you see the devout and happy looks
of the aged, and the sweet but reverent aspect of children and youth, as
the tones of some earnest preacher thrilled them with emotions of holy
gratitude, in view of the "loving kindness of the Lord," you would
instinctively feel that Scotland,--free, Protestant Scotland, was a
happy land, and would be prepared to exclaim with the sweet singer of
Israel: "Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound, they shall
walk, O Lord, in the light of thy countenance."

    "How with religious awe impressed
    They open lay the guileless breast;
    And youth and age with fears distressed
                  All due prepare,
    The symbols of eternal rest
                  Devout to share.

    How down ilk lang withdrawing hill,
    Successive crowds the valleys fill;
    While pure religious converse still
                  Beguiles the way,
    And gives a cast to youthful will,
                  To suit the day.

    How placed along the sacred board,
    Their hoary pastor's looks adored,--
    His voice with peace and blessing stored,
                  Sent from above,
    And faith and hope, and joy afford
                  And boundless love.

    O'er this with warm seraphic glow,
    Celestial beings pleased bow;
    And whispered hear the holy vow,
                  'Mid grateful tears;
    And mark amid such scenes below
                  Their future peers."[3]

[Footnote 3: Letter to Robert Burns, by Mr. Telford, of Shrewsbury, a
native of Scotland.]

Or you might leave this scene, and study the Scottish character with
some shepherd boy on the hills, as he reads God's word upon the
greensward, and meditates on things divine, while tending his flocks far
from the house of God, on the sabbath day, a circumstance to which
Grahame in his poem of the Sabbath, has touchingly referred, and which
Telford has thus described:

    "Say how, by early lessons taught,
    Truth's pleasing air is willing caught!
    Congenial to the untainted thought,
                  The shepherd boy,
    Who tends his flocks on lonely height,
                  Feels holy joy.

    Is aught on earth so lovely known,
    On sabbath morn, and far alone.
    His guileless soul all naked shown
                  Before his God--
    Such prayers must welcome reach the throne
                  And bless'd abode.

    O tell! with what a heartfelt joy
    The parent eyes the virtuous boy;
    And all his constant kind employ,
                  Is how to give
    The best of _lear_ he can enjoy,
                  As means to live."

The scenes of "the Cotter's Saturday Night," one of the sweetest poems
in any language, are exact transcripts from real life, as Burns himself
intimates. His father was "a godly man," and was wont, morning and
evening, to "turn o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, the big ha' Bible," and
worship God, with his family. Where in Italy or in Austria will you meet
aught so beautiful or thrilling as the following?

      "The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
        They round the ingle form a circle wide,
      The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace
        The big _ha' Bible_ ance his father's pride:
      His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
        His lyart haffets[4] wearing thin and bare:
      Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide
        He wales a portion with judicious care;
    And 'Let us worship God!' he says with solemn air.

      They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
        They tune their hearts, by far their noblest aim;
      Perhaps _Dundee's_ wild warbling measures rise,
        Or plaintive _Martyrs_ worthy of the name,
      Or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame,
        The sweetest far of _Scotia's_ holy lays.
      Compared with these Italian trills are tame;
        The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise,
    Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

      The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
        How Abram was the friend of God on high,
      Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
        With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
      Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
        Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
      Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;
        Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;
    Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

      Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:
        How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed,
      How He who bore in Heaven the second name,
        Had 'not on earth whereon to lay his head;'
      How his first followers and servants sped;
        The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
      How he who lone in Patmos banished,
        Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;
    And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

      Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King,
        The saint, the father, and the husband prays,
      Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing,
        That thus they all shall meet in future days:
      There ever bask in uncreated rays,
        No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
      Together hymning their Creator's praise,
        In such society, yet still more dear;
    While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

      Compared with this how poor religion's pride,
        In all the pomp of method and of art,
      When men display to congregations wide,
        Devotion's every grace except the heart;
      The Power incensed the pageant will desert,
        The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
      But haply in some cottage far apart,
        May hear well pleased the language of the soul,
    And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll."

[Footnote 4: Withered cheeks.]

These are the elements of a people's greatness. These are the perennial
sources of their ruth and loyalty, their freedom and virtue. These guard
the domestic graces, these bind the commonwealth in holy and enduring
bands. Better than splendid mausoleums and gorgeous temples, better than
costly altars and a pompous ritual, better than organ blasts and rolling
incense, better by far than mass and breviary, confessional and priestly
absolution! For while the most imposing forms of Religion are often
heartless and dead, these sacred rites of a Christianity pure and
practical, ever possess a vital power,--a power to quicken and save.

      "From scenes like these auld Scotia's grandeur springs,
        That makes her loved at home, revered abroad;
      Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
        'An honest man's the noblest work of God.'

           *       *       *       *       *

      O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
        For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent,
      Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,
        Be blest with health and peace and sweet content!
      And oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent
        From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
      Then howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
        A virtuous populace may rise the while,
    And stand a wall of fire around their much loved Isle."

But we have dwelt long enough on general topics. If the reader will
accompany us, we will ramble together in some particular scenes,
meditating, as we go, on things new and old, and chatting, in lively or
in sombre mood, as the humor may seize us. First of all then, let us
visit "Auld Reekie," as the inhabitants often call it, or more
classically, "the modern Athens," the beautiful and far famed metropolis
of Scotland.




CHAPTER II.

     The city of Edinburgh--Views from Arthur's Seat--The Poems of
     Richard Gall--"Farewell to Ayrshire"--"Arthur's Seat, a
     Poem"--Extracts--Craigmillar Castle--The Forth, Roslin Castle and
     the Pentland Hills--Liberty.


We will enter the city on the west side, as if we were coming from
Glasgow, pass through Prince's Street, with its elegant buildings and
fine promenades, skirting that enclosure of walks and shrubbery, just
under the frowning battlements of the Castle, and adorned with the
superb statue of Sir Walter Scott, rising rapidly to its completion;
then turn the corner at right-angles, cross the North Bridge, enter High
Street, and thence plunge down the hill into the old Canongate; and
without waiting to look at "the Heart of Midlothian," or even the
beautiful ruins of Holyrood House, at the foot of the hill, let us turn
to the right, and climb the rocky sides of "Arthur's Seat" with its
summit of verdure overlooking the city and the neighboring country. For
there the whole panorama of the city will spread itself before us,
surrounded with magnificent scenery, stretching far and wide from the
Pentland Hills on the one side to the Firth of Forth on the other, from
Stirling Castle on the west to the German Ocean on the east. Here we are
then, on the very highest point of the mountain, with the warm sunshine
around us, tempered as it is by the fresh "westlin wind," at once so
sweet and bland. Aye, aye! this is beautiful! What a landscape! How
varied and yet how harmonious! Not only beautiful exceedingly, but
ineffably grand and striking! Beneath us is the fine old city--new and
old at the same time, lying nearly square, with its lofty buildings and
elegant monuments, handsome parks and green shrubberies. To the left is
the older part of the city, rising gradually from the palace of Holyrood
at our feet, and crowned by the Castle, which is built upon a granite
rock, whose rough sides, terminating abruptly to the north and west,
hang over Prince's Street and the lower part of the city.

    "There watching high the least alarms,
      Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;
    Like some bold veteran gray in arms
      And pierced with many a seamy scar:
    The ponderous wall and massy bar,
      Grim rising o'er the rugged rock;
    Have oft withstood assailing war,
      And oft repelled the invader's shock."--Burns.

Before us and stretching away towards the Forth and the city of Leith is
"the new town," surmounted on this side by the Calton Hill, on which
stand the monuments of Dugald Stewart and Admiral Nelson, the unfinished
Parthenon, and the monument of Robert Burns,--beautiful and imposing
objects, reminding us of the Acropolis of Athens, and affording fine
relief to the long ranges of smooth and polished buildings beyond.
Behind us are the Pentland Hills with their verdant <DW72>s and historic
recollections. To the right lie the city and bay of Leith, "the Piraeus"
of Edinburgh, the long winding shore in the direction of Portobello, and
"the dark blue deep" of the ocean, studded with white sails, glistening
in the summer radiance. To the north, at a distance of a few miles, you
see the majestic Firth of Forth, and beyond, "in cultur'd beauty," the
"Kingdom of Fife," with the distant range of the Ochil and Campsie
hills. From this point also you can see, at a distance of some three
miles, the gray ruins of Craigmillar Castle, famous in the annals of
Scotland, as the residence of Queen Mary, and the scene of those secret
machinations, which ended in the tragedy of Holyrood; Inch Keith with
its lofty lighthouse; the isle of May, once consecrated to St. Adrian,
and on which stands another "star of hope" to the mariner; and old
Inchcolm, famous for its ancient convent founded by St. Colomba, one of
the patron saints of Scotland. How gloriously, light and shade, land and
ocean, park and woodland, old castles and hoary ruins, frowning rocks
and smiling meadows mingle and blend in this rare and magnificent
landscape.

    "Traced like a map the landscape lies
      In cultur'd beauty stretching wide;
    There Pentland's green acclivities,
      There ocean, with its azure tide;
    There Arthur's Seat, and gleaming through
    Thy southern wing Dun Edin blue!
    While in the orient, Lammer's daughters,
      A distant giant range are seen,
      North Berwick Law, with cone of green,
    And Bass amid the waters."    Delta.[5]

[Footnote 5: Supposed to be Dr. Moir.]

Here you can easily understand the reason why Edinburgh has been thought
to resemble the city of Athens. Mr. Stuart, author of the "Antiquities
of Athens," was the first to call attention to this fact, and his
opinion has often been confirmed since. Dr. Clarke remarks that the
neighborhood of Athens is just the Highlands of Scotland, enriched with
the splendid remains of art. Another acute observer states that the
distant view of Athens from the Aegean Sea is extremely like that of
Edinburgh from the Firth of Forth, "though," he adds, "certainly the
latter is considerably superior." "The resemblance," says J. G. Kohl,
the celebrated German traveller, "is indeed very striking. Athens, like
Edinburgh, was a city of hills and valleys, and its Ilissus was probably
not much larger than the Water of Leith. Athens, like Edinburgh, was an
inland town, and had its harbor, Piraeus, on the sea-coast. The mountains
near Edinburgh very much resemble those near Athens. I have little
doubt, however, that Athens is more honored by being compared to
Edinburgh, than Edinburgh to Athens; for it is probable that the scenery
and position of the Northern are more grand and striking in their
beauty, than those of the Southern Athens."

By the way there is a beautiful poem in the Scottish dialect, entitled
"Arthur's Seat," written by Richard Gall, a young man of great promise,
the friend and correspondent of Burns. He struggled with poverty, and
like Fergusson and Michael Bruce, was cut off prematurely, but not
before he had written some exquisite poems, in the style of Burns, whom
he greatly admired. He was contemporary with the unfortunate but gifted
Tannahill of Paisley, and possessed a kindred taste in song writing.[6]
His "Farewell to Ayrshire," commencing--

    "Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
      Scenes that former thoughts renew;
    Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
      Now a sad and last adieu!
    Bonnie Doon sae sweet at gloaming,
      Fare thee weel before I gang--
    Bonnie Doon where early roaming,
      First I weaved the rustic sang"--

has been often printed, on account of its locality and associations, as
the composition of Burns. He is doubtless greatly inferior to Burns, and
not quite equal to Bruce or even Tannahill, but his verses possess great
sweetness, and contain some graphic and beautiful descriptions. This is
the case especially, with "Arthur's Seat," his longest and most
elaborate poem. As its sketches of scenery in and around Edinburgh, are
at once accurate and pleasing, and as it is entirely unknown in America,
we will take the liberty of quoting some of its finest passages.

[Footnote 6: Tannahill was a weaver in Paisley. He excelled in song
writing. Under the pressure of poverty and deep depression of spirits he
committed suicide.]

Gazing from Arthur's Seat, the poet invokes the genius of Burns--

    "To sing ilk bonny bushy bower,
    Adorned with many a wild-born flower;
    Ilk burnie singing through the vale,
    Where blooming hawthorns scent the gale;
    And ilka sweet that nature yields,
    In meadow wild or cultur'd fields;
    The cultur'd fields where towering strang
    The sturdy aik his shadows flang;
    Where lonely Druids wont to rove,
    The mystic tenants of the grove."

He aptly and strikingly interweaves historical and poetical allusions.
The following contains a fine contrast, and a striking description of
the ruins of Craigmillar Castle, in the vicinity of Edinburgh.

    "Yes, ARTHUR, round thy velvet chair,
    Ilk chequered picture blushes fair,
    And mixed with nature's landscape green,
    The varied works o' art are seen.
    Here starts the splendid dome to view,
    Mang sylvan haunts o' vernal hue;
    There some auld lanely pile appears,
    The mouldering wreck o' former years,
    Whose tottering wa' nae mair can stand
    Before fell Time's resistless hand;
    Sic as Craigmillar's Castle gray,
    That now fa's crumbling to decay,
    A prey to ilka blast that blaws
    An' whistles through its royal ha's--
    Where mirth ance burst with joyfu' sound
    And melting music rang around,
    Ah! there dull gloomy silence reigns,
    The mossy grass creeps o'er the stanes,
    And howlets loud at e'enin's fa',
    Rejoice upon the ruined wa'."

Craigmillar Castle naturally suggests the name of the beautiful and
unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who once resided within its lordly but
now forsaken halls. The poet therefore breaks out into the following
animated and pathetic strains, which, it has been said, will bear a
comparison with Mr. Burke's celebrated rhapsody on the unfortunate Queen
of France.

    "There was a time when woman's charms
    Could fire the warlike world of arms,
    And breed sic wae to auld and young,
    As Helen wept and Homer sung,
    But Mary o' ilk stay bereft,
    Misfortune's luckless child was left;
    Nae guileless friend to stem her grief,
    The bursting sigh her whole relief.--
    O ye whose brave forefathers bled,
    And oft the rage of battle led,
    Wha rushing o'er the crimson field,
    At Bannockburn made Edward yield;
    Ye wha still led by glory's flame,
    Make terror mix wi' Scotia's name--
    Where slept your dauntless valor keen
    When danger met your injured Queen?"

His descriptions of the Forth and the neighboring regions, of the
Pentland hills, and the scenery of the Esk, are strikingly beautiful.

    "What varied scenes, what prospects dear
    In chequer'd landscape still appear!
    What rural sweets profusely thrang
    The flowery Links of Forth alang,
    O'er whose proud shivering surface blue
    Fife's woods and spires begirt the view;
    Where Ceres gilds the fertile plain
    An' richly waves the yellow grain,
    An' Lomond hill wi' misty showers,
    Aft weets auld Falkland's royal towers,
    Nor distant far, upon the ear
    The popling Leven wimples clear,
    Whose ruined pile and glassy lake
    Shall live in sang for Mary's sake.[7]

           *       *       *       *       *

    Return fond muse frae haunts sae fair,
    To Lothian's shore return ance mair,
    And let thy lyre be sweetly strung,
    For peerless Esk remains unsung.
    Romantic stream, what sweets combine
    To deck ilk bank and bower o' thine!
    For now the sun, wi' cheerfu' rays
    Glows soft o'er a' thy woody braes,
    Where mony a native wild flower's seen,
    Mang birks and briars, and ivy green,
    An' a' the woodland chorists sing
    Or gleesome flit on wanton wing,
    Save where the lintie mournfully
    Sabs sair 'aneath the rowan tree,
    To see her nest and young ones a'
    By thoughtless reaver borne awa.'

           *       *       *       *       *

    What saftening thoughts resistless start,
    And pour their influence o'er the heart;
    What mingling scenes around appear
    To musing meditation dear,
    When wae we tent fair grandeur fa'
    By Roslin's ruined Castle wa'![8]
    O what is pomp? and what is power?
    The silly phantoms of an hour!
    Sae loudly ance from Roslin's brow[9]
    The martial trump of grandeur blew,
    While steel-clad vassals wont to wait
    Their chieftain at the portalled gate;
    And maidens fair, in vestments gay,
    Bestrewed wi' flowers the warrior's way.
    But now, ah me! how changed the scene!
    Nae trophied ha', nae towers remain;
    Nae torches bleeze wi' gladsome light,
    A guiding star in dead o' night;
    Nae voice is heard, save tinkling rill,
    That echoes from the distant hill."

[Footnote 7: The reference here is to the residence, or rather
imprisonment of Mary in Lochleven Castle.]

[Footnote 8: Roslin Castle, on the banks of the Esk, about seven miles
from Edinburgh.]

[Footnote 9: _Brow_, in Scotland, is often pronounced as if spelt
_brue_.]

How exquisite, and how entirely and peculiarly Scottish is the
following:

    "Now tent the Pentlands westlin's seen,
    O'erspread wi' flowery pastures green;
    Where, stretching wide, the fleecy ewes[10]
    Run bleating round the sunny knowes,
    And mony a little silver rill
    Steals gurgling down its mossy hill;
    And vernal green is ilka tree
    On bonny braes o' Woodhouselee."

[Footnote 10: _Ewes_, pronounced as if it were _yowes_.]

The genius of Scotland is one of freedom, of independent thought, and
unfettered action in matters civil and religious. This produced the
Reformation; this generated the recent secession from the 'Kirk;' this
characterizes the literature of the nation. We cannot, therefore,
refrain from making one more quotation, which breathes the lofty spirit
of freedom:

    "Alas! sic objects to behold,
    Brings back the glorious days of old,
    When Scotia's daring gallant train,
    That ever spurned a tyrant's chain,
    For dearest independence bled,
    And nobly filled their gory bed--
    So o'er yon mountains stretching lang,
    Their shields the sons of Freedom rang,
    When Rome's ambition wild, burst forth,
    An' roused the warriors of the north,
    When CALGACH urged his dauntless train,
    And freedom rush'd through ilka vein,
    And close they met the haughty foe,
    And laid fu' mony a tyrant low;
    As fierce they fought, like freemen a',
    Oh! glorious fought--yet fought to fa'!
    They fell, and thou sweet LIBERTY,
    Frae Grampia's blood-stained heights did flee,
    And fixed thy seat remote, serene,
    Mang Caledonia's mountains green.
    Fair Maid! O may thy saftest smile
    For ever cheer my native isle!"




CHAPTER III.

     Walk to the Castle--The old Wynds and their Occupants--Regalia of
     Scotland--Storming of the Castle--Views from its Summit--Heriot's
     Hospital--Other Hospitals--St. Giles's Cathedral--Changes--The
     Spirit of Protestantism.


Let us now descend into the city. We will not linger long in old
Holyrood Palace, interesting as it is, nor dwell upon "the stains" of
Rizzio's blood in Queen Mary's room, as these have been described a
thousand times, and are familiar to every one. Neither will we spend
time in gazing upon the spot where once stood that quaint old gaol,
called "The Heart of Midlothian," made classic by the pen of Scott, in
the beautiful story of Jeanie Deans. Neither will we visit the old
"Parliament House" and the "Advocates' Library;" but we will pass right
up through High Street, amid those colossal buildings, rising, on either
side, to the height of six, seven, and even eight and ten stories,
swarming with inhabitants; and dive into one or two of those close, dark
wynds, where reside, in countless multitudes, the poorest and most
vicious of the people. Here, it must be confessed, are some strange
sights and appalling noises. Yet it is not quite so bad as some have
represented it. All large cities have their poor and vicious
inhabitants, and although those of the Scottish metropolis are
tolerably dirty and vastly degraded, they bear no comparison to the
lazzaroni of Naples and the beggars of Rome. Some of the streets and
wynds are narrow enough and vile enough, but they contain, after all,
many worthy people, who own a Bible, and read it too; and were you only
to become thoroughly acquainted with them, you would be surprised to
find how much of honesty and kindly affection still dwell in their
hearts. In ancient times the houses in these very "closes" or "wynds"
were inhabited by the nobility and gentry. Hence Grey's Close,
Morrison's Close, Stewart's Close, &c. They built their houses in these
narrow streets in order to be more secure from the attacks of their
enemies, and to be the better able to defend the principal thoroughfares
into which they opened. In Blythe's Close may be seen the remains of the
palace of the Queen Regent, Mary of Guise. In another stand the old
houses of the Earls of Gosford and Moray. One of the largest old palaces
is now inhabited by beggars and rats.

It would be a great improvement if these miserable dwellings could be
removed, and replaced by better streets and houses; a still greater one,
if the people could only be induced to abandon the use of whiskey, for
then they would abandon their hovels as a matter of course. Their
besetting sin is the love of strong drink, though this has been
gradually diminishing for the last few years throughout Scotland. It is
to be hoped that the pious and moral portion of the community will unite
in a strong effort to reclaim this degraded class of their
fellow-townsmen, and that the time will speedily come when the only
reproach which rests upon their fair fame shall be wholly obliterated.

But let us leave this region, the only unpleasant one in the whole of
this magnificent city, and ascend to the old Castle, where we shall see
the Regalia of Scotland, preserved in a little room at the top of the
Castle. These regalia consist of the crown of Robert Bruce the hero of
Bannockburn, the sceptre of James the Fifth, a sword presented by Pope
Julius the Second to James the Sixth, and other articles of inferior
note. It is somewhat singular that the Regalia should have lain
concealed from 1745 to the year 1818. At the time of the Union in 1707
between England and Scotland, they were walled up by some Scottish
patriots, in order to prevent their being removed to London.

What recollections of the stormy but glorious history of Scotland
cluster around the mind, while gazing at that antique-looking crown
which adorned the head of the Bruces and the ill-fated Mary. The freedom
and prosperity now enjoyed by the nation had a gloomy and tempestuous
birth. Their very religion, placid and beautiful now, was cradled amid
the war of elements and the shock of battle. But, thanks to God, it is
all the purer and stronger for its rough and tempestuous youth.

Draw near to the edge of that battlement, and look down over the
frowning rock. Would it be possible, think you, to storm the Castle from
that side? One would suppose it beyond the power of man. It has been
done, however, and the circumstance illustrates the spirit of hardihood
and enterprise which has ever distinguished the people of Scotland. In
the year 1313, when the Castle was in the possession of the English,
Randolph, Earl of Moray, was one day surveying the gigantic rock, when
he was accosted by one of his men at arms with the question, "Do you
think it impracticable, my lord?" Randolph turned his eyes upon the
speaker, a man a little past the prime of life, but of a firm well-knit
figure, and bearing in his keen eye and open forehead marks of
intrepidity which had already gained him distinction in the Scottish
army. "Do you mean the rock, Francis?" said the Earl; "perhaps not, if
we could borrow the wings of our gallant hawks."[11]

[Footnote 11: We give the version of Leitch Ritchie, who has thrown the
facts into the form of a dialogue, and given a false name to the hero;
otherwise the narration is entirely authentic.]

"There are wings," replied Francis, with a thoughtful smile, "as strong,
as buoyant, and as daring. My father was keeper of yonder fortress."

"What of that? You speak in riddles."

"I was then young, reckless, high-hearted: I was screwed up in that
convent-like castle; my sweetheart was in the plain below"--

"Well, what then?"

"'Sdeath, my lord, can you not imagine that I speak of the wings of
love? Every night I descended that steep at the witching hour, and every
morning before the dawn I crept back to my barracks. I constructed a
light twelve-foot ladder, by means of which I was able to pass the
places that are perpendicular; and so well, at length, did I become
acquainted with the route, that in the darkest and stormiest night, I
found my way as easily as when the moonlight enabled me to see my love
in the distance waiting for me at the cottage door."

"You are a daring, desperate, noble fellow, Francis! However, your
motive is now gone; your mistress"--

"She is dead; say no more; but another has taken her place."

"Ay, ay, it's the soldier's way. Women will die or even grow old; and
what are we to do? Come, who is your mistress now?"

"MY COUNTRY! What I have done for love, I can do again for honor; and
what I can accomplish, you, noble Randolph, and many of our comrades can
do far better. Give me thirty picked men, and a twelve-foot ladder, and
the fortress is our own!"

"The Earl of Moray, whatever his real thoughts of the enterprise might
have been, was not the man to refuse such a challenge. A ladder was
provided, and thirty men chosen from the troops; and in the middle of a
dark night, the party, commanded by Randolph himself, and guided by
William Francis, set forth on their desperate enterprise.

"By catching at crag after crag, and digging their fingers into the
interstices of the rocks, they succeeded in mounting a considerable way;
but the weather was now so thick, they could receive but little
assistance from their eyes; and thus they continued to climb, almost in
utter darkness, like men struggling up a precipice in the night-mare.
They at length reached a shelving table of the cliff, above which the
ascent, for ten or twelve feet, was perpendicular; and having fixed
their ladder, the whole party lay down to recover breath.

"From this place they could hear the tread and voices of the 'check
watches,' or patrol, above; and, surrounded by the perils of such a
moment, it is not wonderful that some illusions may have mingled with
their thoughts. They even imagined that they were seen from the
battlements, although, being themselves unable to see the warders, this
was highly improbable. It became evident, notwithstanding, from the
words they caught here and there in the pauses of the night-wind, that
the conversation of the English soldiers above related to a surprise of
the Castle; and at length these appalling words broke like thunder on
their ears: 'Stand! I see you well!' A fragment of the rock was hurled
down at the same instant; and as rushing from crag to crag it bounded
over their heads, Randolph and his brave followers, in this wild,
helpless, and extraordinary situation, felt the damp of mortal terror
gathering upon their brow, as they clung with a death-grip to the
precipice.

"The startled echoes of the rock were at length silent, and so were the
voices above. The adventurers paused, listening breathless; no sound was
heard but the sighing of the wind, and the measured tread of the
sentinel who had resumed his walk. The men thought they were in a
dream, and no wonder; for the incident just mentioned, which is related
by Barbour, was one of the most singular coincidences that ever
occurred. The shout of the sentinel and the missile he had thrown, were
merely a boyish freak; and while listening to the echoes of the rock, he
had not the smallest idea that the sounds which gave pleasure to him
carried terror and almost despair into the hearts of the enemy.

"The adventurers, half uncertain whether they were not the victims of
some illusion, determined that it was as safe to go on as to turn back;
and pursuing their laborious and dangerous path, they at length reached
the bottom of the wall. This last barrier they scaled by means of their
ladder; and leaping down among the astonished check-watches, they cried
their war-cry, and in the midst of answering shouts of 'treason!
treason!' notwithstanding the desperate resistance of the garrison,
captured the Castle of Edinburgh."

Sit down here on the edge of this parapet. That huge cannon there is
called Mons Meg, from being cast at _Mons_, in Flanders, and reminds us,
somewhat significantly, of the terrible use to which all the
arrangements of the Castle are applied.[12] How singular, that men have
to be governed and controlled like bull-dogs, that castles and dungeons,
halters, and cannon, are necessary to keep them from stealing each
other's property, or cutting each other's throats! Surely mankind have
ills enough to bear without turning upon each other like tigers.

[Footnote 12: At present it is used as a barracks for soldiers and a
magazine of arms.]

    "Many and sharp the numerous ills,
      Inwoven with our frame!
    More pointed still we make ourselves,
      Regret, remorse, and shame;
    And man, whose heaven-erected face
      The smiles of love adorn,
    Man's inhumanity to man
      Makes countless thousands mourn."

    BURNS.

But all is quiet now. The tendency of the times is to peace; and
Edinburgh Castle, Mons Meg, and the whole array of cannon bristling over
the precipice, are but objects of natural curiosity or of poetical
interest.

Do you see yonder turreted building, with high pointed gables and
castellated walls, in the Elizabethan style, just beyond the Grass
Market. That is George Heriot's Hospital, one of the proudest monuments
of the city, and one of the most beautiful symbols of its peaceful
prosperity. It was founded by the rich and benevolent George Heriot,
jeweller to King James the Sixth, "Jingling Geordie," as he is quaintly
termed in the "Fortunes of Nigel." It is of vast extent, as you
perceive, and presents a good specimen of the mixed style of
architecture prevalent in the days of Queen Mary. The object of this
noble institution is the maintenance and education of poor and
fatherless boys, or of boys in indigent circumstances, "freemen's sons
of the town of Edinburgh." Of these, one hundred and eighty receive
ample board and education within its walls. By this means they are
thoroughly prepared for the active business of life, each receiving
at his dismissal a Bible, and other useful books, with two suits of
clothes chosen by himself. Those going out as apprentices are allowed
$50 per annum for five years, and $25 at the termination of their
apprenticeship. Boys of superior scholarship are permitted to stay
longer in the institution, and are fitted for college. For this purpose
they receive $150 per annum, for four years. Connected with this
institution are seven free schools, in the different parishes of the
city, for the support of which its surplus funds are applied. In these
upwards of two thousand children receive a good common school education.
The girls, in addition to the ordinary branches, are taught knitting and
sewing.

In addition to these provisions for the education of the poor, there are
also ten "bursaries," or university scholarships, open to the
competition of young men, not connected with the institution. The
successful candidates receive $100 per annum for four years. No wonder
that Sir Walter Scott felt authorized to put into the mouth of the
princely founder of these charities the striking sentiment: "I think
mine own estate and memory, as I shall order it, has a fair chance of
outliving those of greater men."

Edinburgh abounds in charitable hospitals, and particularly in free
educational institutions, in the support of which the citizens evince a
laudable enthusiasm. Thus, for example, we have Watson's Hospital, the
Merchant Maiden's Hospital, the Trades' Maiden Hospital, Trinity College
Hospital, Cauvin's Hospital, a little out of the city; Gillespie's
Hospital, Donaldson's Hospital, Chalmers's Hospital, the House of
Refuge, the House of Industry, the Strangers' Friend Society, the
Institution for the Relief of poor old Men, and another for the Relief
of indigent old Women, and many others.

Below us, on one side of High Street, you see the fine old Gothic
Cathedral of St. Giles. It was founded in the twelfth or thirteenth
century, and named after St. Giles, abbot and confessor, and tutelar
saint of Edinburgh in the olden time. The Scottish poet, Gavin Douglas,
bishop of Dunkeld, was sometime provost of St. Giles. He translated
Virgil into English, the first version of a classic ever made in
Britain, and was the author of "The Palace of Honor," from which some
have absurdly supposed that John Bunyan borrowed the idea of the
"Pilgrim's Progress." This edifice is interesting, chiefly as connecting
the past with the present condition of Scotland, and indicating the
mighty transitions through which it has passed. In the fifteenth century
incense ascended from forty different altars within its walls; now it
contains three Protestant places of worship. Once it enshrined the
relics of St. Giles; now its cemetery contains the body of John Knox! On
the 13th of October, 1643, "the solemn League and Covenant" was sworn to
and subscribed within its walls, by the Committee of the Estates of
Parliament, the Commission of the Church, and the English Commission.
The sacred vessels and relics which it contained, including the arm-bone
of the patron saint, were seized by the magistrates of the city, and the
proceeds of their sale applied to the repairing of the building.
Puritanism has thus often showed itself a rough and tempestuous
reformer; nevertheless it possesses wonderful vitality, and has
conferred upon Scotland the blessings of civil and religious liberty.
Its outer form is often hard and defective, and its movements irregular
and convulsive, but its inner spirit is ever generous and free. Its
rudeness and excess none will approve; its life, energy, and activity,
all will admire. It came forth, like a thunder-cloud, from the
mountains. Its quick lightning-flashes went crashing amid the old images
of papal worship. The atmosphere of spiritual pollution was agitated and
purified. Upon the parched ground fell gentle and refreshing showers.
The sun of freedom began to smile upon hill and valley, and the whole
land rejoiced under its placid influence.




CHAPTER IV.

     John Knox's House--History of the Reformer--His
     Character--Carlyle's View--Testimony of John Milton.


Let us now descend from the Castle, and, passing down High Street, turn
to the left, at the head of the Nether-bow, where we shall see the house
of that stern but glorious old reformer, John Knox. There it is, looking
mean enough now among those miserable gin-shops, paint-shops, and so
forth; yet hallowed by the recollections of the past. Over the door is
an inscription, invisible from the numerous sign-boards that cover it,
containing the spirit and essence of that lofty Puritanism which Knox
preached:

     "LUFE . GOD . ABOVE . ALL . AND . YOUR . NICHBOUR . AS . YOURSELF."

In this house Knox lived many years; here also he died in holy triumph;
and from that little window he is said frequently to have addressed the
populace. A rude stone effigy of the Reformer may be seen at the corner,
and near it, cut in the stone, the name of God, in Greek, Latin, and
English. It is gratifying to know that measures have recently been taken
to erect a monument to Knox, near this spot, which shall be worthy of
his memory.

The character of Knox has been terribly blackened by heartless and
infidel historians, and especially by sickly sentimentalists of the
Werter school. Nevertheless, he was a noble-hearted, truth-loving,
sham-hating, God-fearing, self-sacrificing man; a hero in the proper
sense of the word, a minister of righteousness, an angel of Reform. Not,
indeed, a soft, baby-faced, puling sentimentalist; but a lofty,
iron-hearted man, who "never feared the face of clay," and did God's
will, in spite of devils, popes, and kings. His history possesses the
deepest and most romantic interest. It is one of the most magnificent
passages in Scottish story. Bruce battled for a crown; Knox battled for
the truth. Both conquered, after long toils and struggles; and conquered
mainly by the might of their single arm. But the glory which irradiates
the head of the Reformer far outshines that of the hero of Bannockburn,
for the latter is earthly and evanescent; the former celestial and
immortal.

John Knox was born in Haddington, not far from Edinburgh, of poor but
honest parents, in the year 1505; grew up in solitude; was destined for
the church; received a thorough collegiate education; became an honest
friar; wore the monk's cowl for many years; adopted silently and
unostentatiously the principles of the Protestant Reformation; spent
much of his time in teaching, and in the prosecution of liberal studies,
of which he was considered a master; was suddenly and unexpectedly
called, at St. Andrews, by the unanimous voice of his brethren, to the
preaching of the Word, and the defence of their religious liberties;
after a brief struggle with himself yielded to the call, nobly threw
himself into the breach, at the hazard of his life, attacked "Papal
idolatry" with unsparing vigor, was seized by the authorities, and sent
a prisoner to France in 1547, where he worked in the galleys as a slave,
but evermore maintaining his lofty courage and cheerful hope; was set at
liberty two years afterwards; preached in England in the time of Edward
the Sixth; refused a bishopric from the best of kings; retired to the
continent at the accession of Mary, residing chiefly at Geneva and
Frankfort; returned to Scotland in 1555; labored with indomitable
perseverance to establish Protestantism; rebuked the great for
immorality, profaneness and rapacity, and succeeded in greatly
strengthening the cause of truth and freedom. At the earnest
solicitation of the English congregation in Geneva, he went thither a
second time; there he published "The First Blast of the Trumpet against
the Monstrous Regiment (Government) of Women," directed principally
against Mary, Queen of England, and Mary of Guise, Regent of Scotland,
two narrow-minded miserable despots; returned to Scotland in 1559;
continued his exertions in behalf of Christ's truth; did much to
establish common schools; finally saw Protestantism triumphant in
Scotland; and died in 1572, so poor that his family had scarce
sufficient to bury him, but with the universal love and homage of his
countrymen, a conscience void of offence, and a hope full of
immortality. "He had a sore fight of an existence; wrestling with popes
and principalities; in defeat, contention, life-long struggle; rowing as
a galley-slave, wandering as an exile. A sore fight, but he won it.
'Have you hope?' they asked him in his last moment when he could no
longer speak. He lifted his finger, 'pointed upwards with his finger,'
and so died. Honor to him! His works have not died. The letter of his
work dies, as of all men's; but the spirit of it never."[13]

[Footnote 13: Carlyle--"Hero Worship," p. 174.]

Knox has been much abused for his violent treatment of Queen Mary. His
addresses and appeals to her have been characterized as impudent and
cruel; but, thoroughly inspected, they will be found the reverse. Strong
and startling they were, but neither impudent nor cruel. Doubtless they
fell upon her ear like the tones of some old prophet, sternly rebuking
sin, or vindicating the rights of God. Mary was a woman of matchless
beauty; and had she been educated differently, might have blessed the
world with the mild lustre of her Scottish reign; but she was the dupe
of bad counsels, in spirit and practice a despot, the plaything of
passion, and the reckless opposer of the best interests of her country.
Her beauty and sufferings have shed a false lustre over her character;
above all, have aided in concealing the terrible stain of infidelity to
her marriage vows, and the implied murder of her wretched husband,
charges which her apologists can extenuate, but not deny. But, forsooth,
it is an insufferable thing for a plain honest-hearted man like John
Knox to tell the truth to such an one! She was young, beautiful,
fascinating; and however recklessly, madly, ruinously wrong, he must
not advise her--above all, must not warn her! Now, such a notion may
possibly commend itself to your "absolute gentlemen, of very soft
society, full of most excellent differences and great showing; indeed,
to speak feelingly of them, who are the card and calendar of gentry;"
but it cannot be imposed upon our plain common sense. Mary was a queen,
however, and John Knox a poor plebeian! Aye, aye! that is a difficulty!
Kings and queens may do what they please. The people are made for them,
not they for the people. And sure enough it is a vulgar thing to oppose
them in their ambitious schemes, or to tell them the honest truth
be-times! Poor John Knox! thou must fall down and worship "a painted
bredd" after all. A beautiful queen must be spared, if Scotland should
perish. But looking at the matter from the free atmosphere of New
England, we maintain that John Knox was of higher rank than Mary Queen
of Scots. He was more true, more heroic, more kingly, than all the race
of the Stuarts. He had a right, in God's name, to speak the truth, "to
reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with all long-suffering." Hence, though his
words were stern and appalling, they were uttered with a kind and
generous intention. "Madame," said Knox, when he saw Mary burst into
tears from vexation and grief, "in God's presence I speak; I never
delighted in the weeping of any of God's creatures, yea, _I can scarcely
well abide the tears of mine own boys_, when mine own hands correct
them, much less can I rejoice in your Majesty's weeping; but seeing I
have offered unto you no just occasion to be offended, I must sustain
your Majesty's tears, rather than I dare hurt my conscience, or betray
the commonwealth by silence."

Yes, he was a stern old puritan, a lion of a man, who made terrible
havoc among the "painted bredds" of Popery, and turned back the fury of
wild barons and persecuting priests. "His single voice," says Randolph,
"could put more life into a host than six hundred blustering trumpets."
Single handed, he met the rage of a disappointed government and an
infuriated priesthood, and conquered by the silent might of his
magnanimous audacity. In the wildest whirl of contending emotion, he
never lost sight of the great end of his being, as a servant of God, nor
swerved a hair's breadth from truth and right.

Yet this stern old Covenanter was not without a touch of gentleness and
even of hilarity. He loved his home, his children, and his friends. An
honest, quiet laugh often mantled his pale earnest visage. "They go far
wrong," says Carlyle, whose thorough appreciation of such men as Luther,
Cromwell, and Knox, is truly refreshing amid the vapid inanities or
coarse prejudices of ordinary historians, "who think that Knox was a
gloomy, spasmodic, shrieking fanatic. Not at all. He is one of the
solidest of men. Practical, cautious, hopeful, patient; a most shrewd,
observing, quietly discerning man. In fact, he has very much the type of
character we assign to the Scotch at present: a certain sardonic
taciturnity is in him; insight enough; and a stouter heart than he
himself knows of. * * An honest-hearted, brotherly man; brother to the
high, brother also to the low; sincere in his sympathy with both."

Knox, doubtless, had his faults; and what of that? He made some
mistakes! and what, too, of that? Was he not a true man, and a true
minister of God's Word? Did he not accomplish a great and beneficial
work of Reform; and, having done this, did he not die a sweet and
triumphant death? God has set his seal upon him, and upon his work; and
that is enough for us.

We hesitate not, with Carlyle, to name the Reformation under Knox as the
great era in Scottish history, as the one glorious event which gave life
to the nation. Thence resulted freedom, activity, purity of morals,
science, national and individual greatness. Previous to this event
Scotland possessed only a rough, tumultuous physical life; her
politics--dissensions and executions; her religion--a puerile
superstition;--her literature--ballads and monkish legends; her
joy--hunting, fighting, and drinking! But the Reformation breathed into
her the breath of a spiritual existence. Her national prosperity dates
from that era. Thence proceeded faith and order, education, industry,
and wealth. "It was not a smooth business; but it was welcome surely,
and cheap at that price, had it been far rougher. On the whole, cheap at
any price, as life is. The people began to _live_; they needed first of
all to _do that_, at what cost and costs soever. Scottish literature and
thought, Scotch industry, James Watt, David Hume, Walter Scott, Robert
Burns. I find Knox and the Reformation acting in the heart's core of
every one of these persons and phenomena; I find that, without the
Reformation, they would not have been. Or what of Scotland? The
Puritanism of Scotland became that of England, of New England. A tumult
in the High Church of Edinburgh spread into a universal battle and
struggle over all these realms; and there came out of it, after fifty
years' struggling, what we all call 'the Glorious Revolution,' a Habeas
Corpus Act, Free Parliaments, and much else."

It has become fashionable of late, in certain quarters, to undervalue
the Reformation, and contemn those great and rugged spirits by whom it
was accomplished. A sentimental, baby-hearted, superstition-smitten
generation, cannot appreciate those mighty men, and mightier reforms of
the olden time. But how well and worthily does the large-hearted and
ethereal Milton speak of it: "When I recall to mind, at last, after so
many dark ages, wherein the huge over-shadowing train of error had
almost swept all the stars out of the firmament of the church; how the
bright and blissful Reformation, by Divine power, struck through the
black and settled night of ignorance and anti-Christian tyranny,
methinks a sovereign and reviving joy must needs rush into the bosom of
him that reads or hears, and the sweet odor of the returning Gospel
imbathe his soul with the fragrancy of Heaven. Then was the sacred Bible
sought out of the dusty corners, where profane falsehood and neglect
had thrown it, the schools opened, divine and human learning raked out
of the embers of forgotten tongues; the princes and cities trooping
apace to the new-erected banner of salvation; the martyrs, with the
unresistible might of weakness, shaking the powers of darkness, and
scorning the fiery rage of the red old dragon."[14] A noble testimony
like this far outweighs all the cant of a whining sentimentalism. Its
truth, as well as its eloquence, all must admit.

[Footnote 14: "Of Reformation in England." By John Milton.]




CHAPTER V.

     Edinburgh University--Professor Wilson--His Life and Writings,
     Genius and Character.


We will now re-enter High Street, and thence turn at right angles into
South-bridge Street, and proceed to the University. It is a large and
imposing structure, but fails to produce its proper impression from the
circumstance of being wedged in among such a mass of other buildings. We
enter by a magnificent portico on the right, supported by Doric columns,
twenty-six feet in height, each formed of a single block of stone, and
find ourselves in a spacious quadrangular court, surrounded by the
various college edifices. The buildings are of free stone, beautifully
polished, and of recent erection, the old buildings, which were
unsightly and incommodious, having been taken down to make way for this
elegant and spacious structure. The University itself was founded by
King James the Sixth, in the year 1582, and has enjoyed uninterrupted
prosperity to the present time. The average number of students is from
ten to twelve hundred. The Rev. Dr. Lee, one of the most amiable and
learned men, is at present Principal of the University, and the various
chairs are filled by gentlemen of distinguished talent. The students are
not resident within the college, but choose their boarding-houses, at
pleasure, in any part of the city. They are not distinguished, as at
Glasgow and Oxford by any peculiar badge; are of all ages, and enjoy the
liberty of selecting the classes which they attend. Those however who
take degrees are required to attend a particular course, but this is not
done by more than one-half or at most two-thirds of the students. The
government of the University is not particularly strict. The
examinations are limited and imperfect; and hence it is very possible
for a young man to slip through the University, without contracting any
great tincture of scholarship. It is mainly the talent of the
professors, and the high literary enthusiasm they inspire, which sustain
the institution. There are thirty-four foundations for bursaries or
scholarships, the benefit of which is extended to eighty students. The
aggregate amount is about fifty dollars a year, for each. The Annual
Session lasts from October to May, with an occasional holiday, and a
week or two's vacation at Christmas. The rest of the year which includes
most of the summer and autumn is vacation, which gives the professors an
opportunity for rest and preparation, and the students facilities either
for private study, or for teaching and other employments. This order
prevails in all the other Scottish Universities, and is attended with
many advantages. But a truce to general remarks.

We have not time to visit the Museum, which is quite extensive and
admirably arranged, nor the Library, which is distinguished by its ample
dimensions and beautiful decorations. Neither can we dwell upon the
celebrated men who have encircled this Institution with a halo of
literary and scientific glory. But we will step into that door in front
of us, ascend the stairs, and enter the lecture-room of Professor
Wilson, the far famed "Christopher North," poet and novelist, orator,
critic and philosopher. The young gentlemen have assembled, but the
Professor has not yet come in. Good looking but noisy fellows these!
Some of them, you perceive, are very young, others are considerably
advanced in years. Most of them are well dressed, some poorly so. A few
look studious and care-worn, but the majority hearty and joyous. How
their clear loud laugh rings through the hall! They are from all ranks
of society, some being the sons of noblemen, others of farmers and
mechanics. Most of them probably have wherewithal to pay their college
expenses, but not a few, you may rely on it, are sorely pinched. The
Scots are an ambitious, study-loving race, and quite a number of these
young men are struggling up from the depths of poverty; and if they do
not die in the effort, will be heard of, one of these days, in the
pulpit, or at the bar.

But there comes the Professor, bowing graciously to the students, while
he receives from them a hearty "ruff," as the Scots call their energetic
stamping. What a magnificent looking man! Over six feet high, broad and
brawny, but of elegant proportions, with a clear, frank, joyous looking
face, a few wrinkles only around the eye, in other respects hale and
smooth, his fine locks sprinkled with gray, flowing down to his
shoulders, and his large lustrous eye beaming with a softened fire. His
subject is "the Passions." He commences with freedom and ease, but
without any particular energy,--makes his distinctions well, but without
much precision or force; for, to tell the honest truth, philosophical
analysis is not his particular forte. Still, it is good, so far as it
goes, and probably appears inferior chiefly by contrast. But he begins
to describe. The blood mantles to his forehead, thrown back with a
majestic energy, and his fine eye glows, nay, absolutely burns. And now
his impassioned intellect careers, as on the wings of the wind, leaping,
bounding, dashing, whirling, over hill and dale, rises into the clear
empyrean, and bathes itself in the beams of the sun. His audience is
intent, hushed, absorbed, rapt! He begins, however, to descend, and O!
how beautifully, like a falcon from "the lift," or an eagle from the
storm-cloud. And, now he skims along the surface with bird-like wing,
glancing in the sunlight, swiftly and gracefully. How varied and
delicate his language, how profuse his images, his allusions how
affecting, and his voice, ringing like a bell among the mountains. At
such seasons his style, manner and tone, are unequalled. Chaste and
exhilarating as the dew of the morning in the vale of Strathmore, yet
rich and rare as a golden sunset on the brow of Benlomond. But listen,
he returns to his philosophical distinctions,--fair, very fair, to be
sure, but nothing special, rather clumsy perhaps, except in regard to
his language. True, undoubtedly, but not profound, not deeply
philosophical, and to me, not particularly interesting. His auditors
have time to breathe. You hear an occasional cough, or blowing of the
nose. A few of the students are diligently taking notes, but the rest
are listless. This will last only a moment, and now that he is
approaching the close of his lecture, he will give us something worth
hearing. There, again he is out upon the open sea. How finely the sails
are set, and with what a majestic sweep the noble vessel rounds the
promontory, and anchors itself in the bay.[15]

[Footnote 15: The writer describes not an imaginary, but an actual
lecture of Professor Wilson's, which he heard some years ago.

We have honestly given our own impressions relative to Wilson's
metaphysical powers, and stated simply what we heard and saw while
attending his Lectures in Edinburgh University. Others however may have
different impressions; and we cheerfully append the following from
_Gilfillan_ as an offset to our strictures:

"It is probable that the very variety and versatility of Wilson's powers
have done him an injury in the estimation of many. They can hardly
believe that an actor, who can play so many parts, is perfect in all.
Because he is, confessedly, one of the most eloquent of men, it is
doubted whether he can be profound: because he is a fine poet, he must
be a shallow metaphysician;--because he is the Editor of _Blackwood_, he
must be an inefficient professor. There is such a thing on this round
earth, as diffusion along with depth, as the versatile and vigorous mind
of a man of genius mastering a multitude of topics, while others are
blunderingly acquiring one, or as a man 'multiplying himself among
mankind, the Proteus of their talents,' and proving that the Voltairian
activity of brain has been severed, in one splendid instance, at least,
from the Voltairian sneer and the Voltairian shallowness. Such an
instance as that of our illustrious Professor, who is ready for every
tack,--who can, at one time, scorch a poetaster to a cinder, at another
cast illumination into the 'dark deep holds' of a moral question, by a
glance of his genius; at one time dash off the picture of a Highland
glen, with the force of a Salvator, at another, lay bare the anatomy of
a passion with the precision and force of an Angelo,--write, now, the
sweetest verse, and now the most energetic prose,--now let slip, from
his spirit, a single star, like the 'evening cloud,' and now unfurl a
_Noctes_ upon the wondering world,--now paint Avarice till his audience
are dying with laughter, and now Emulation and Sympathy till they are
choked with tears,--write now 'the Elder's Deathbed,' and now the
'Address to a Wild Deer,'--be equally at home in describing the
Sufferings of an Orphan girl, and the undressing of a dead Quaker, by a
congregation of ravens, under the brow of Helvellyn."--_Literary
Portraits_, p. 209.]

Instead of spending our time gazing at public buildings, let us continue
our conversation about the Professor, whose life has been a tissue of
interesting and romantic events. We shall find it profitable as well as
pleasant, to glance at the principal points in his history, as they tend
to throw light on the Genius of Scotland.

John Wilson is the oldest son of a wealthy manufacturer in the city of
Paisley, and was born there in the year 1788, and is now therefore
fifty-eight years of age. He was reared and educated, with almost
patrician indulgence, and inherited from his father a considerable
amount of property, variously estimated from twenty to fifty thousand
pounds sterling. Of course he enjoyed the best facilities for acquiring
a thorough and polished education. His instructor in classical learning
was Mr. Peddie of Paisley, to whom a public dinner was given in 1831 by
his friends and pupils. Professor Wilson was present, and on proposing
the health of his venerable preceptor, delivered a brilliant oration,
not the least interesting portion of which had reference to his somewhat
erratic course at school. "Sometimes," said he, "I sat as dux--sometimes
in the middle of the class--and I am obliged to confess, that on some
unfortunate occasions, I was absolutely _dolt_!" The confession was
received, of course, with roars of laughter.

From this school he was entered at the University of Glasgow, when he
was little more than thirteen years of age. But he was tall for his
years, and possessed an original and remarkably exuberant mind; and
though distinguished at this time, more for the vigor of his physical
constitution, and the buoyancy of his spirits, than for any particular
attainments in literature, he generally kept his standing among his
fellow students, many of whom were greatly his seniors.

From Glasgow he was transferred to Oxford, and here he first
distinguished himself as a man of genius. He contended in the annual
competition for the Newdigate prize of fifty guineas for the best fifty
lines of English verse, and though the contest was open to not less than
two thousand individuals, he carried off the palm from every competitor.

At Oxford as at Glasgow he was distinguished for his fine athletic
frame, his joyous and even boisterous spirits, and his excessive
devotion to all sorts of gymnastics, field sports and frolicking. This
however was blended with an extraordinary devotion to literature, and a
peculiar simplicity and frankness of character, which rendered him a
universal favorite. It is well known that at Oxford great latitude is
enjoyed, especially by "gentlemen commoners," as they are called, to
which class Wilson chose to belong. It is expected that the "gentlemen
commoners" shall wear a more splendid costume,--spend a good deal more
money,--and enjoy various immunities, which amount occasionally to a
somewhat unbridled license. "Once launched on this orbit," says a fellow
student of Wilson's, writing to a friend in America, "Mr. Wilson
continued to blaze away for four successive years. * * * Never did a
man, by variety of talents and variety of humors, contrive to place
himself as the connecting link between orders of men so essentially
repulsive of each other; from the learned president of his college, Dr.
Routh, the Editor of parts of Plato, and of some theological selections,
with whom Wilson enjoyed unlimited favor, down to the humblest student.
In fact from this learned Academic Doctor, and many others of the same
class, ascending and descending, he possessed an infinite gamut of
friends and associates, running through every key; and the diapason
closing full in groom, cobbler, stable boy, barber's apprentice, with
every shade and hue of blackguard and ruffian. In particular, amongst
this latter kind of worshipful society, there was no man who had any
talents, real or fancied, for thumping, or being thumped, but had
experienced some taste of his merits from Mr. Wilson. All other
pretensions in the gymnastic arts he took a pride in humbling or in
honoring, but chiefly did his examinations fall upon pugilism; and not a
man who could either 'give,' or 'take,' but boasted to have been
punished by Wilson of _Mallens_ (corruption of Magdalen) College."

Whether the statement of Wilson's pugilistic attainments is not somewhat
exaggerated we have not the means of deciding. All reports however go to
confirm its general accuracy. His career was certainly a wild and
hazardous one, and would have ruined an ordinary man. But underlying the
wild exuberance of Wilson's nature, there was a solid foundation of good
feeling and good sense, which ever and anon manifested itself, and
finally formed the principal element of his character. Besides, he could
never forget the holy instructions of his childhood. Scotland throws a
thousand sacred influences around the hearts of her children; and hence,
wild and wayward in their youth, they not unfrequently live to be the
safeguards of virtue and the ornaments of society.

It may be well supposed that on leaving Oxford, in the very hey-day of
youth, with an amazing exuberance of animal spirits, and the command of
an ample fortune, he must have run a somewhat extravagant career. He
purchased a beautiful estate on the banks of Windermere, not far from
the residences of Southey, Coleridge and Wordsworth, and yielded himself
to the full enjoyment of every pleasure. Having built upon his estate a
new and splendid edifice, he furnished it with every appliance of taste
and luxury, and succeeded by his "magnificent" style of housekeeping,
in spending a large amount of his property. He gave himself up to the
most diversified pursuits, now conning his literary treasures, and now
frolicking in sailor jacket and trowsers, with the young men of the
country.

The following, from a writer already quoted, will give a lively idea of
Wilson's habits and appearance, at this period of his life. "My
introduction to him--setting apart the introducee himself--was memorable
from one circumstance, viz., the person of the introducer. _William
Wordsworth_, it was, who in the vale of Grasmere, if it can interest you
to know the place, and in the latter end of 1808, if you can be supposed
to care about the time, did me the favor of making me known to John
Wilson. I remember the whole scene as circumstantially as if it belonged
to but yesterday. In the vale of Grasmere--that peerless little vale
which you, and Gray, the poet, and so many others have joined in
admiring as the very Eden of English beauty, peace, and pastoral
solitude--you may possibly recall, even from that flying glimpse you had
of it, a modern house called Allan Bank, standing under a low screen of
woody rocks, which descend from the hill of Silver Horn, on the western
side of the lake. This house had been recently built by a wealthy
merchant of Liverpool; but for some reason, of no importance to you or
me, not being immediately wanted for the family of the owner, had been
let for a term of three years to Mr. Wordsworth. At the time I speak of,
both Mr. Coleridge and myself were on a visit to Mr. Wordsworth, and
one room on the ground floor, designed for a breakfasting room, which
commands a sublime view of the three mountains, Fairfield, Arthur's
Chair, and Seat Sandal, was then occupied by Mr. Coleridge as a study.
On this particular day, the sun having only just risen, it naturally
happened that Mr. Coleridge--whose nightly vigils were long--had not yet
come down to breakfast; meantime and until the epoch of the Coleridgean
breakfast should arrive, his study was lawfully disposable to profane
uses. Here, therefore, it was, that opening the door hastily in quest of
a book, I found seated, and in earnest conversation, two gentlemen, one
of them my host, Mr. Wordsworth, at that time about thirty-eight years
old; the other was a younger man, by at least sixteen or seventeen
years, in a sailor's dress, manifestly in robust health--_fervidus
juventa_, and wearing upon his countenance a powerful expression of
ardor and animated intelligence, mixed with much good nature. _Mr.
Wilson of Elleray_--delivered as the formula of introduction, in the
deep tones of Mr. Wordsworth--at once banished the momentary surprise I
felt on finding an unknown stranger where I had expected nobody, and
substituted a surprise of another kind. I now understood who it was that
I saw; and there was no wonder in his being at Allan Bank, as Elleray
stood within nine miles; but (as usually happens in such cases) I felt a
shock of surprise on seeing a person so little corresponding to the one
I had half unconsciously prefigured to myself."

Mr. Wilson here appears in a comparatively grave and dignified aspect.
The same writer describes him in quite a different scene. Walking in the
morning, he met him, with a parcel of young "harum skarum" fellows on
horseback, chasing an honest bull, which had been driven off in the
night from his peaceful meadow, to furnish sport to these "wild
huntsmen." About this time, also, he was the leader of a "boating club,"
which involved him in great expense. They had no less than two or three
establishments for their boats and boat-men, and innumerable appendages,
which cost each of them annually a little fortune. The number of their
boats was so great as to form a little fleet, while some of them were
quite large and expensive. One of these in particular, a ten-oared
barge, was believed at the time to have cost over two thousand dollars.
In consequence of these and other expenses, and perhaps the loss of some
of his patrimony by the failure of a trustee, subjected him to the
necessity of seeking a change of life. This led to his becoming a
candidate for the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of
Edinburgh.

Previous to this he had formed plans of extensive travel. One was a
voyage of exploration to Central Africa and the sources of the Nile.
Another was concocted with two of his friends, with whom he proposed to
sail from Falmouth to the Tagus, and landing wherever accident or fancy
might determine, to purchase mules, hire Spanish servants, and travel
extensively in Spain and Portugal, for eight or nine months; then, by
such of the islands in the Mediterranean as particularly attracted them,
they were to pass over into Greece, and thence to Constantinople.
Finally, they were to have visited the Troad, Syria, Egypt, and perhaps
Nubia!

But the reduction of his means, and his marriage with a young and
beautiful English lady, to whom he was greatly attached, broke up these
extravagant schemes. His marriage took place in 1810. Two sons and three
daughters were the fruits of it; and the connection has doubtless proved
one of the happiest events in the Professor's life. Death however has
entered this delightful circle. "How characteristic of him," says
Gilfillan, "and how affecting, was his saying to his students, in
apology for not returning their essays at the usual time, 'I could not
see to read them in the Valley and the Shadow of Death.'"

His application in 1820 for the professorship of Moral Philosophy which
he now fills, was successful, notwithstanding he had for his competitor
one of the profoundest thinkers, and most accomplished writers of the
age, Sir William Hamilton, who conducted himself in the affair with the
greatest dignity and urbanity. Many things were said, at the time,
derogatory to Wilson's personal character, and his fitness to fill the
chair of Moral Philosophy. The matter probably was decided, more with
reference to political considerations than any thing besides, as at that
time party politics ran exceedingly high. Professor Wilson has
disappointed the expectations of his enemies, to say the least, and has
been gaining in the esteem and good will of all classes of the
community.

His splendid career as a poet, editor, critic and novelist, is well
known. His poems, the principal of which are the "Isle of Palms," and
the "City of the Plague," are exquisitely beautiful, but deficient in
energy, variety and dramatic power. He excels in description, and
touches, with a powerful hand, the strings of pure and delicate
sentiment. Nothing can be finer than his "Address to a Wild Deer"--"A
Sleeping Child"--"The Highland Burial Ground," and "The Home Among the
Mountains" in the "City of the Plague." His tales and stories, such as
"Margaret Lindsay," "The Foresters," and those in "The Lights and
Shadows of Scottish Life," are well conceived, and charmingly written.
They breathe a spirit of the purest morality, and are highly honorable
not only to the head but to the heart of their eloquent author. But it
is in criticism and occasional sketching in which he chiefly excels. In
this field, so varied and delightful, he absolutely luxuriates. His
series of papers on Spenser and Homer are remarkable for their delicate
discrimination, strength and exuberance of fancy. No man loves Scotland
more enthusiastically, or describes her peculiar scenery and manners
with more success. Here his "meteor pen," as the author of the Corn Law
Rhymes aptly called it, passes like sunlight over the glowing page. His
descriptions of Highland scenery and Highland sports are instinct with
life and beauty. In a word, to quote the eulogy of the discriminating
Hallam, "Wilson is a writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius,
whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters."

Professor Wilson's nature is essentially poetical. It is sensitive,
imaginative and generous. It is also said to be deeply religious. Age
and experience, reflection, and the Word of God, which he greatly
reveres, have tamed the wild exuberance of his youth, strengthened his
better principles, and shed over his character the mellow radiance of
faith and love. "The main current of his nature," says Gilfillan, "is
rapt and religious. In proof of this we have heard, that on one
occasion, he was crossing the hills from St. Mary's Loch to Moffat. It
was a misty morning; but as he ascended, the mist began to break into
columns before the radiant finger of the rising sun. Wilson's feelings
became too much excited for silence, and he began to speak, and from
speaking began to pray; and prayed aloud and alone, for thirty miles
together in the misty morn. We can conceive what a prayer it would be,
and with what awe some passing shepherd may have heard the incarnate
voice, sounding on its dim and perilous way."




CHAPTER VI.

     The Calton Hill--Burns's Monument--Character and Writings of "the
     Peasant Poet"--His Religious Views--Monument of Professor Dugald
     Stewart--Scottish Metaphysics--Thomas Carlyle.


Let us take a walk on the Calton Hill, this afternoon; we shall find
some objects of interest there. At the termination of Prince's Street,
commences Waterloo Place, in which are situated the Stamp Office, Post
Office, Bridewell and the Jail. This also leads to Calton Hill, and is
one of the most delightful promenades in the city. We skirt around the
Hill, a little to the right, pass the beautiful and spacious buildings
of the Edinburgh High School on the left, one of the best educational
institutions in Scotland, continue our walk a short distance, and come
to a round building on the farther declivity of the hill. That is
"Burns's Monument." By giving a small douceur to the keeper, we are
permitted to enter the interior, in the center of which stands a statue
of the poet, by Flaxman. Beautiful and expressive certainly, as a work
of art, but it is not quite equal to one's conception of the poet. The
forehead is particularly fine--open, massive and high, with an air of
lofty repose. The mouth is unpoetical and vulgar--at least _something_
of this is visible in its expression. It wants the chiseled delicacy, as
well as gracious expression of noble and generous feeling which we
naturally look for in the countenance of Burns. But the likeness, we
understand, is defective. In his best days, Burns had a noble, and
almost beautiful countenance. In stature he was about five feet ten
inches, of great agility and muscular vigor. His countenance was open
and ruddy, with a fine, frank, generous expression, eyes large and
radiant, forehead arched and lofty, with curling hair clustering over
it, and his mouth, especially when engaged in animated conversation, or
lighted with a smile, wreathed with intelligence and good humor.

Burns has been termed "the Shakspeare of Scotland." And certainly no
poet has ever been regarded, in that country, with such enthusiastic
love and reverence. With all his faults, some of which were bad enough,
all classes of the Scottish people, from the noble to the peasant,
cherish him in their heart of hearts. Indeed he is a sort of national
idol, to whom all feel bound to do reverence, notwithstanding his
admitted failings. Nor is this a matter of surprise. For, taken as a
whole, the poetry of Burns is the poetry of nature--of the heart--and
especially of the Scottish heart. It represents the genius of the
nation--wild, beautiful and free, shaded by thoughtfulness, and set off
by devotion, at once merry as her mountain brooks, yet deep, strong and
passionate as the stormy ocean which encircles her coast. "Tam
O'Shanter," or "Halloween," the "Cotter's Saturday Night," or "Mary in
Heaven," are the two extremes of the picture. In Burns, Scotland saw
incarnated her poetry and song, her music and passion, her love and
devotion, her seriousness and merriment, her strong-hearted adherence to
integrity and truth, her occasional recklessness and madness of spirit,
her love of nature, her veneration for God. The grave and the gay, the
old and the young, the religious and the reckless, all saw themselves
represented in the glorious fragments of his witching poetry. Hence the
enthusiasm with which his first volume of poems was received. It seemed
as if a new realm had been added to the dominions of the British muse--a
new and glorious creation fresh from the hand of nature. There the humor
of Smollett, the pathos and tenderness of Sterne and Richardson, the
real life of Fielding, and the description of Thomson, were all united
in delineations of Scottish manners and scenery by the Ayrshire
ploughman! The volume contained matter for all minds--for the lively and
sarcastic, the wild and the thoughtful, the poetical enthusiast and the
man of the world. So eagerly was the book sought after, that when copies
of it could not be obtained, many of the poems were transcribed and sent
round in manuscript among admiring circles. His songs are the songs of
Scotland. A few have been furnished by Tannahill, Fergusson, Ramsay and
others; but the main body of the most exquisite and most popular
Scottish melodies are from the pen of Burns. Evermore they echo among
her heathy hills and bosky dells. You hear them by the sides of her
"bonnie burns," and along the shores of her silver lakes and "rivers
grand." At evening gray, they are heard resounding from gowan'd braes
and "birken shaws," in the shadow of haunted woods, and hoary ruins; and
especially, on winter nights, and "tween and supper times" from her ten
thousand happy "inglesides." In Burns's "Cotter's Saturday Night" are
seen his reverence for religion "pure and undefiled," combined with
exquisite description and melodious verse; in "Tam O'Shanter," his vivid
fancy and dramatic energy; in "Halloween," his spirit of humor and fun;
in his "Lines to a Mountain Daisy," his fine moral sense and tenderness
of spirit; and in his "Address to Mary in Heaven," his true heartedness,
and sweet lyric power. His native country is beautifully pictured in all
his poetry. The "Banks of the Dee," "Edina's lofty seat," "Old Coila's
hills and streams"--the "Braes of Yarrow"--"Allan Water"--"Bonnie
Doon"--"Sweet Afton among her green braes"--"Auld hermit Ayr," "Stately
Irwine," "The birks of Aberfeldy,"--where "summer blinks o'er flowery
braes," the "lovely Nith, with fruitful vales and spreading
hawthorns,"--"Gowrie's rich valley and Firth's sunny shores," "the clear
winding Devon,"--"Castle Gordon,--where waters flow and wild woods
rave,"--"the banks and braes and streams around the Castle of
Montgomery,"--Bannockburn, Ellerslie and Sheriff Muir;--these, and a
thousand other beautiful or storied scenes, mirror themselves in the
stream of his sweet and varied verse.

Some vulgar and foolish things he has written; and we condemn them as
heartily as others. But his poetry embodies much that is pure and
beautiful and true, much of which Burns had no occasion to repent, even
on a deathbed, and much of which his native country may well be proud.
He was somewhat intemperate, but not to the extent which is generally
supposed. Strong temptations,--the habits of the times--the folly of his
friends, who thoughtlessly introduced him to the gaities of the
metropolis, and then left him to contempt and penury, broke down his
constitution, and consigned him to a premature grave. But he was not a
man of base and vulgar passions. His was not the cold heart of the
sceptic, nor the envenomed spirit of the villain. It was a wild and
wayward heart, I grant, but honest and true, generous and kind. The
temple was shattered by the lightnings of Heaven, but it was a temple
still; and from its broken altars ever and anon ascended the sweet
incense of prayer and praise. Burns could never forget his good old
father, and the hallowed influences of religion, shed upon his young
heart. He loved the Psalms of David, and the holy melodies of his native
land; and we presume often sang them, of an evening, accompanied, as he
himself intimates, with "the wild woodland note," of his beloved wife.
Several of his letters to Miss Dunlop and others indicate a strong
conviction of the Divine existence and the immortality of the soul, his
struggles against the doubts which haunted his spirit, and his earnest
longing for purity and perfection. "You may perhaps think it an
extravagant fancy," he says in a letter to Mr. Aiken, "but it is a
sentiment which strikes home to my very soul; though sceptical on some
points of our current belief, yet I think, I have every evidence for the
reality of a life beyond the stinted bourn of our present existence;"
and then adds--"O thou great, unknown Power, thou Almighty God! who has
lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality! I have
frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the
perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me."
Having expressed to Mrs. Dunlop his strong conviction of the immortality
of the soul, he writes as follows, "I know not whether I have ever sent
you the following lines, or if you have ever seen them; but it is one of
my favorite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress
through life, in the language of the Book of Job,

    "Against the day of battle and of war."--

spoken of religion:

    "'Tis _this_ my friend that streaks our morning bright,
    'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night.
    When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few;
    When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;
    'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart,
    Disarms affliction, or repels her dart;
    Within the breast bids purest raptures rise.
    Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies."

One of the most beautiful letters ever written by Burns has reference to
this subject, and was addressed to the same lady, on New Year's
day.--"This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes; and would to God that I
came under the Apostle James's description!--'the prayer of the
righteous man availeth much.' In that case, Madam, you should welcome in
a year full of blessings: everything that obstructs or disturbs
tranquillity and self-enjoyment should be removed, and every pleasure
that frail humanity can taste should be yours. I own myself so little a
Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and seasons of more than
ordinary acts of devotion for breaking in on that habitual routine of
life and thought, which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of
instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little
superior to mere machinery.

"This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy, blue skyed noon, sometime
about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the
end of Autumn,--these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of
holy day. * * * * I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the
Spectator, "The Vision of Mirza;" a piece that struck my young fancy
before I was capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables. 'On
the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my
forefathers, I always _keep holy_, after having washed myself, and
offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, in
order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer.'

"We know nothing, or next to nothing of the substance or structure of
our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them, that
one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that,
which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary impression.
I have some favorite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain
daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild brier rose, the budding
birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular
delight. I never heard the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a
summer noon, or the wild, mixing cadence of a troop of gray plover in an
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the
enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can
this be owing? Are we a piece of machinery, which like the Aeolian harp,
passive, takes the impression of the passing accident? Or do these
workings argue something within us above the trodden clod? I own myself
partial to such proofs of those awful and important realities--a God
that made all things--man's immaterial and immortal nature--and a world
of weal or woe beyond death and the grave."

A fit comment on this and other passages of similar import in his
letters is the following affecting poem, entitled "A Prayer in the
Prospect of Death." It seems to us to utter the deep throbbings of the
poet's spirit:

    "Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
      Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
    Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between;
      Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms;
    Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
      Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
    For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
      I tremble to approach an angry God,
    And justly smart beneath his sin avenging rod.

    Fain would I say, 'forgive my foul offence!'
      Fain promise never more to disobey;
    But should my Author health again dispense,
      Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
    Again in folly's path might go astray;
      Again exalt the brute and sink the man.
    Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray;
      Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan,
    Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

    O thou great Governor of all below,
      If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
    Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
      Or still the tumult of the raging sea;
    With that controling power assist ev'n me,
      Those headlong furious passions to confine,
    For all unfit I feel my powers to be,
      To rule their torrent in the allowed line;
    O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!"

After writing thus far, we read for the first time, "The Genius and
Character of Burns," by Professor Wilson, the richest garland yet
wreathed around the poet's brow; and we are happy to find the views
expressed above fully corroborated by that distinguished writer. It is
true that Wilson delineates the character of Burns with enthusiastic
admiration; but his views are so discriminating, and withal backed by
such an array of facts, that no candid man can deny their correctness.
We cannot therefore resist the temptation of making the following
extract, in which the finest discrimination is blended with the largest
charity. Long may the Literature of Scotland be guarded by such a
critic! But one thing must not be forgotten here, namely, that no one,
and especially one personally unacquainted with Burns, can pronounce in
regard to his actual spiritual state. Whether he was truly 'born of
God,' and notwithstanding the errors of his life, died a Christian and
went to heaven, is happily not a question which we are called to decide.

"We have said but little hitherto of Burns's religion. Some have denied
that he had any religion at all--a rash and cruel denial--made in the
face of his genius, his character, and his life. What man in his senses
ever lived without religion? "The fool hath said in his heart, There is
no God"--was Burns an atheist? We do not fear to say that he was
religious far beyond the common run of men, even them who may have had a
more consistent and better considered creed. The lessons he received in
the "auld clay biggin" were not forgotten through life. He speaks--and
we believe him--of his "early ingrained piety" having been long
remembered to good purpose--what he called his "idiot piety"--not
meaning thereby to disparage it, but merely that it was in childhood an
instinct. "Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name!" is
breathed from the lips of infancy with the same feeling at its heart
that beats towards its father on earth, as it kneels in prayer by his
side. No one surely will doubt his sincerity when he writes from Irvine
to his father--"Honor'd sir--I am quite transported at the thought,
that ere long, perhaps soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the
pains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life; for I
assure you I am heartily tired of it, and, if I do not very much deceive
myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. It is for this reason
I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th
chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the
whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they
inspire me, for all that this world has to offer. '15. Therefore are
they before the throne of God and serve him day and night in his temple;
and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 16. They shall
hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on
them, nor any heat. 17. For the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne
shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters;
and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'" When he gives
lessons to a young man for his conduct in life, one of them is, "The
great Creator to adore;" when he consoles a friend on the death of a
relative, "he points the brimful grief-worn eyes to scenes beyond the
grave;" when he expresses benevolence to a distressed family, he
beseeches the aid of Him "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;" when
he feels the need of aid to control his passions, he implores that of
the "Great Governor of all below;" when in sickness, he has a prayer for
the pardon of all his errors, and an expression of confidence in the
goodness of God; when suffering from the ills of life, he asks for the
grace of resignation, "because they are thy will;" when he observes the
sufferings of the virtuous, he remembers a rectifying futurity;--he is
religious not only when surprised by occasions such as these, but also
on set occasions; he had regular worship in his family while at
Ellisland--we know not how it was at Dumfries, but we do know that there
he catechised his children every Saturday evening;--Nay, he does not
enter a Druidical circle without a prayer to God.

He viewed the Creator chiefly in his attributes of love, goodness and
mercy. "In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or distracted with
anxiety, the ideas of a superintending Deity, an Almighty protector, are
doubly dear." Him he never lost sight of, or confidence in, even in the
depths of his remorse. An avenging God was too seldom in his
contemplations--from the little severity in his own character--from a
philosophical view of the inscrutable causes of human frailty--and most
of all, from a diseased aversion to what was so much the theme of the
sour Calvanism around him; but which would have risen up an appalling
truth in such a soul as his, had it been habituated to profounder
thought on the mysterious corruption of our fallen nature.

Sceptical thoughts as to revealed religion had assailed his mind, while
with expanding powers it "communed with the glorious universe;" and in
1787 he writes from Edinburgh to a "Mr. James M'Candlish, student in
physic, College, Glasgow," who had favored him with a long
argumentative infidel letter, "I, likewise, since you and I were first
acquainted, in the pride of despising old women's stories, ventured on
'the daring path Spinoza trod;' but experience of the weakness, not the
strength of human powers, _made me glad to grasp at revealed religion_."
When at Ellisland, he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, "My idle reasonings
sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart
always give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for the heart
weaned from earth; the soul affianced to her God; the correspondence
fixed with heaven; the pious supplication and devout thanksgiving,
constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn; who thinks to meet with
these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life! No: to find
them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search
among the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty and
distress." And again, next year, from the same place to the same
correspondent, "That there is an incomprehensibly Great Being, to whom I
owe my existence, and that he must be intimately acquainted with the
operations and progress of the internal machinery, and consequent
outward deportment of this creature he has made--these are, I think,
self-evident propositions. That there is a real and eternal distinction
between vice and virtue, and consequently, that I am an accountable
creature; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as
from the evident imperfection, nay positive injustice, in the
administration of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there
must be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave, must, I
think, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment's
reflection. I will go farther and affirm, that from the sublimity,
excellence, and purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled, by
all the aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, though
_to appearance_ he was himself the obscurest and most illiterate of our
species: therefore Jesus was from God." Indeed, all his best letters to
Mrs. Dunlop are full of the expression of religious feeling and
religious faith; though it must be confessed with pain, that he speaks
with more confidence in the truth of natural than of revealed religion,
and too often lets sentiments inadvertently escape him, that, taken by
themselves, would imply that his religious belief was but a
Christianized Theism. Of the immortality of the soul, he never expresses
any serious doubt, though now and then, his expressions, though
beautiful, want their usual force, as if he felt the inadequacy of the
human mind to the magnitude of the theme. "Ye venerable sages, and holy
flamens, is there probability in your conjectures, truth in your
stories, of another world beyond death; or are they all alike baseless
visions and fabricated fables? If there is another life, it must be only
for the just, the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea this
of the world to come! Would to God I as firmly believed it as I ardently
wish it."

How, then, could honored Thomas Carlyle bring himself to affirm, "that
Burns had no religion?" His religion was in much imperfect--but its
incompleteness you discern only on a survey of all his effusions, and by
inference; for his particular expressions of a religious kind are
genuine, and as acknowledgments of the superabundant goodness and
greatness of God, they are in unison with the sentiments of the
devoutest Christian. But remorse never suggests to him the inevitable
corruption of man; Christian humility he too seldom dwells on, though
without it there cannot be Christian faith: and he is silent on the need
of reconcilement between the divine attributes of Justice and Mercy. The
absence of all this might pass unnoticed, were not the religious
sentiment so prevalent in his confidential communications with his
friends in his most serious and solemn moods. In them there is frequent,
habitual recognition of the Creator; and who that finds joy and beauty
in nature has not the same? It may be well supposed that if common men
are more ideal in religion than in other things, so would be Burns. He
who has lent the colors of his fancy to common things, would not
withhold them from divine. Something--he knew not what--he would exact
of man--more impressively reverential than anything he is wont to offer
to God, or perhaps can offer in the way of institution--in temples made
with hands. The _heartfelt_ adoration always has a grace for him--in the
silent bosom--in the lonely cottage--in any place where circumstances
are a pledge of its reality; but the moment it ceases to be _heartfelt_,
and visibly so, it loses his respect, it seems as profanation. "Mine is
the religion of the breast;" and if it be not, what is it worth? But it
must also revive a right spirit within us; and there may be gratitude
for goodness, without such change as is required of us in the gospel. He
was too buoyant with immortal spirit within him not to credit its
immortal destination; he was too thoughtful in his human love not to
feel how different must be our affections if they are towards flowers
which the blast of death may wither, or towards spirits which are but
beginning to live in our sight, and are gathering good and evil here for
an eternal life. Burns believed that by his own unassisted
understanding, and his own unassisted heart, he saw and felt those great
truths, forgetful of this great truth, that he had been taught them in
the Written Word. Had all he learned in the "auld clay biggin" become a
blank--all the knowledge inspired into his heart during the evenings,
when "the sire turned o'er wi' patriarchal air, the big ha'-bible, ance
his father's pride," how little or how much would he then have known of
God and Immortality? In that delusion he shared more or less with one
and all--whether poets or philosophers--who have put their trust in
natural Theology. As to the glooms in which his sceptical reason had
been involved, they do not seem to have been so thick--so dense--as in
the case of men without number, who have, by the blessing of God, become
true Christians. Of his levities on certain celebrations of religious
rites, we before ventured an explanation; and while it is to be
lamented that he did not more frequently dedicate the genius that shed
so holy a lustre over "The Cotter's Saturday Night," to the service of
religion, let it be remembered how few poets have done so--alas! too
few--that he, like his tuneful brethren, must often have been deterred
by a sense of his own unworthiness from approaching its awful
mysteries--and above all, that he was called to his account before he
had attained his thoughtful prime."

Speaking of Burns's last sickness, Professor Wilson says: "But he had
his Bible with him in his lodgings, and he read it almost
continually--often when seated on a bank, from which he had difficulty
in rising without assistance, for his weakness was extreme, and in his
emaciation he was like a ghost. The fire of his eye was not
dimmed--indeed fever had lighted it up beyond even its natural
brightness; and though his voice, once so various, was now hollow, his
discourse was still that of a Poet. To the last he loved the sunshine,
the grass, and the flowers; to the last he had a kind look and word for
the passers-by, who all knew it was Burns. Laboring men, on their way
from work, would step aside to the two or three houses called the Brow,
to know if there was any hope of his life; and it is not to be doubted
that devout people remembered him, who had written the Cotter's Saturday
Night, in their prayers. His sceptical doubts no longer troubled him;
they had never been more than shadows; and he had at last the faith of a
confiding Christian."

Leaving Burns's Monument, we ascend the hill, in the opposite direction,
pass the unfinished Parthenon, consisting only of a few elegant columns,
and intended to commemorate the battle of Waterloo, the Observatory, and
the Monument of Professor Playfair, the celebrated mathematician and
astronomer, and reach the elegant though not imposing monument of
Professor Dugald Stewart, not the most acute, but certainly the most
finished and instructive of all the writers of the Scottish metaphysical
school. Let us linger here, a few moments, for the name of Professor
Stewart is peculiarly dear to Scotland. No man was ever more
enthusiastically regarded by his pupils, or more generally loved and
revered by the community. Dr. Reid of Glasgow University, the immediate
predecessor and preceptor of Stewart, was a man of an acute and original
mind, though not possessed of half the grace and fluency of his
illustrious pupil. It was Reid however that first gave clearness and
method to the metaphysics of Scotland. His writings on first principles,
or, as he called them, principles of Common Sense, gave a death-blow, at
least in Scotland, to the _ideal theory_ of Berkeley and Hume, and
greatly affected the course of philosophical investigation not only in
England but in France. In fact, his philosophy supplanted, for a time,
the infidel metaphysics of Hume and the French rationalists. It cut the
roots equally of idealism and sensualism, and was eagerly received by
thoughtful men in Europe and in this country. It can be seen running
like a sunbeam, through the speculations of Royer Collard, Constant,
Jouffroy and even of Cousin. Based on the Baconian method, it proceeded,
modestly and unostentatiously, to ascertain, and then to classify the
facts of mind; and, because it projected no splendid theories, or
blazing fancies, it has been rejected by superficial and visionary
thinkers, with some degree of contempt. After all, it may yet be
recognized, by all genuine philosophers, as the only true scientific
method. In the hands of Stewart and of Brown, his colleague and
successor, it began to assume a lofty and attractive position; but alas!
it has remained stationary for the want of strong and true-hearted
defenders. Stigmatized by the Germans as "pallid and insular--timid and
cold," it has been forsaken, of late, by the more popular metaphysical
writers, for the brilliant and astounding, but ever varying visions of
the Transcendental School. Smitten with the love of Ontology, or the
doctrine of "the absolute and the essential," scorning the methods of
Bacon and Newton as empirical and shallow, and setting their foot on the
modest, perhaps timid speculations of Reid and Stewart, metaphysicians
have plunged one after another into the abyss of an absolute
Spiritualism, where, amid the glimmerings of a half-dark and lurid
radiance, may be seen the disciples of Kant and Fichte, Hegel and
Schelling, floundering in the gloom, changing places continually, now
rising towards the light of heaven, and then sinking in the "abysmal
dark."

The writings of Reid, Stewart and Brown have exerted a great influence
on the thinking of Scotland, which, even among the common people, has a
somewhat metaphysical turn. Combining with religion and poetry, it has
given to both a peculiar depth and earnestness of tone. In some it is
deeply practical, in others speculative and visionary.

Thomas Carlyle, the product chiefly of Scotland, but partly also of
Germany--or perhaps, rather, a magnificent "lusus naturae," has a large
amount of Scottish shrewdness, enthusiasm and speculation, overlaid and
burnished with German spiritualism and romance. A native of Annandale,
and imbued with the religion of the Covenant, and the poetry of the
hills, he has wandered off into the fields of metaphysical speculation,
where, amid dreams of gorgeous and beautiful enchantment, he is evermore
uttering his burning oracular words, of half pagan, and half Christian,
wisdom. A genuine _Teufelsdroeckh_,--he is yet a genuine _Scot_, and
cannot therefore forget the holy wisdom of his venerable mother, and his
Annandale home.[16]

[Footnote 16: The following graphic description of the residence,
personal appearance and conversation of Carlyle is from the pen of
Elizur Wright, Junr. "Passing the long lines of new buildings which have
stretched from Westminster up the Thames, and engulphed the old village
of Chelsea, in omnivorous London, you recognize at last the old Chelsea
Hospital, one of the world-famous clusters of low brick palaces, where
Britain nurses her fighting men when they can fight no more. A little
past this and an old ivy-clad church, with its buried generations lying
around it, you come to an antique street running at right angles with
the Thames, and a few steps from the river, you find Carlyle's name on
the door. A Scotch lass ushers you into the second story front chamber,
which is the spacious workshop of the world-maker. Here are lots of
books--ponderous tomes in Latin, Greek, and black letter English,--some
are on shelves occupying nearly all the walls, and some are piled on
tables and a reading rack as having just been read. The furniture speaks
of Scotch economy, and the whole face of things of more than common
Scotch tidiness. In fact, a superbly wrought bell-rope indicates that
the wife is a true hero worshipper. Carlyle is a mere man, ordinary
size, lofty and jutting brow, keen--exceedingly keen eye, and modest
unassuming manners. His voice is melodious, and with its rich Scotch
cadence, and rapid flow, reminds you of Thalberg's music in some strange
out of the way key. Just set him agoing, and he runs without stopping,
giving you whole masses of history, painting and poetry, and a great
mass of the boundless system of Carlyleism. There is nothing which he
does not touch; and figures of speech come tumbling in from all corners,
top and bottom of the universe, as the merest matter of course. Doubt,
hesitation or qualification have no place among his opinions, he having
kicked them all out of doors when he began his philosophy."

Many inquiries have been made respecting Carlyle's religious opinions;
but it is difficult to say anything very decisive in reply. That he has
a deep reverence for the Christian faith,--that he strongly inclines to
a sort of transcendental orthodoxy,--that he loves, moreover,
true-hearted piety, and is himself a model of integrity and affection
cannot be doubted. He often speaks of Jesus as divine,--as the most
perfect of all heroes--as the God man--as the Divine man. He possesses a
profound sympathy for the higher and more beautiful forms of Christian
virtue, and describes the lives and characters of good men with the
liveliest relish. We incline therefore to believe, that notwithstanding
his transcendental speculations, and philosophical doubts, he has a true
(though not thoroughly defined) heart faith in the essential doctrines
of the Christian system. Clouds and darkness hang upon the horizon of
his spiritual vision, but gloriously irradiated with light from heaven,
and here and there opening into vistas of serene and ineffable beauty.
Many of his followers, we think, do not understand him, and we fear,
will never reach his purity and elevation of mind. They are more likely
to be led astray, by the magnificent illusions of his gifted but
somewhat erring fancy. Instead of resting in the simple-hearted and
heroic faith which he loves so much to describe, they may plunge into
the abysses of doubt and despair.]




CHAPTER VII.

     Preaching in Edinburgh--The Free Church--Dr. Chalmers--A Specimen
     of his Preaching--The Secret of his Eloquence.


Edinburgh has ever been distinguished for its preachers. In former times
the classic Blair, the fervid Walker, the impassioned Logan, the
judicious Erskine, the learned Jamieson, the exquisite Alison, the
candid Wellwood and the energetic Thomson delighted and instructed all
classes of the community. To these have succeeded a host of learned and
truly eloquent men, some of whom are members of "the Kirk," others of
the Episcopal communion, and others of the various bodies of
Presbyterian "Seceders," Congregationalists and Baptists. Among the
clergymen of the Free Church, Dr. Chalmers of course is "_facile
princeps_;" Dr. Candlish, in effectiveness and popularity probably
stands next, while Drs. Cunningham, Bruce, Gordon and Buchanan, the Rev.
James Begg, and one or two others form a cluster of influential and
eloquent preachers. Among the Congregationalists, Rev. William L.
Alexander is the most learned and polished. He has written ably on the
Tractarian controversy and on the connection of the Old and New
Testaments, and recently received a pressing invitation to become
associated with Dr. Wardlaw of Glasgow, as assistant pastor and
Professor of Theology. He is a fine looking man, being some six feet
high, with expressive features, dark penetrating eyes, and massive black
hair, clustering over a fair and lofty forehead. His manner is dignified
and agreeable, but not particularly impassioned.

Among the "seceding" Presbyterians, Dr. John Brown, minister of
Broughton Place, and one of the Professors of Theology in the United
Secession Church, the Rev. Dr. Johnstone and the Rev. James Robertson of
the same communion are among the most effective preachers in Scotland.
The Baptists are justly proud of the learned and polished Christopher
Anderson, author of an able work on the "Domestic Constitution," and an
elaborate "History of the English Bible"--the Rev. William Innes, one of
the most amiable and pious of men, and the Rev. Jonathan Watson, whose
earnest practical discourses are well appreciated by his intelligent
audience. Mr. Innes at one time was a minister of the established
Church, with a large salary and an agreeable situation, but abandoned it
for conscience' sake, as he could not approve of the union of Church and
State, nor of some of the peculiarities of Presbyterianism. His pious,
consistent course, and liberal, catholic spirit, have won for him the
admiration of all denominations of Christians.

Bishop Terrot of the Episcopal Church is somewhat high in his church
notions, but is regarded as an amiable and learned man, while the Rev.
Mr. Drummond and others of the same church, are able and influential
preachers. Among those who adhere to "the Kirk" as it was, the Rev. Dr.
Muir is one of the most accomplished, and the Rev. Dr. Lee, of the
University, the most learned and influential.

Taken as a whole, the Edinburgh clergy are fair representatives of the
Scottish preachers generally. Those therefore who wish to form a just
estimate of the spirit and power of the pulpit in Scotland, have only to
hear them repeatedly, in their respective places of worship. They hold
doctrinal views somewhat diverse, though essentially one, adopt
different styles of preaching, and in certain aspects different styles
of life. Yet they manifestly belong to the same great family, and preach
the same glorious gospel. They are remarkably distinguished for their
strong common sense, laborious habits, pious spirit and practical
usefulness. Occasionally they come into keen polemical strife; but it
amounts to little more than a gladiatorial exhibition, or rather a light
skirmishing, without malice prepense, or much evil result. Generally
speaking, they are not pre-eminently distinguished for their learning,
though certainly well informed, and devoted to the great work of their
ministry. They are more practical than speculative, more devout than
critical, more useful than renowned. They live in the hearts of their
flocks, and the results of their labors may be seen in the integrity,
good order and industry of the people. It is not our purpose to say much
on the subject of the recent "break" in the Scottish church, in which,
as the members of the "Free Church" assert, the supremacy of Jesus
Christ is concerned. The intrusion by lay patrons, of unpopular
ministers upon the churches, is certainly a vicious practice, and ought
to be abolished. But this is only a fragment of a greater and more vital
question, pertaining to the spirituality and authority of Christ's
church, which must be settled one of these days. The Free Church
movement has developed much fine enthusiasm, and no small amount of
self-denial; and the results will doubtless be favorable to the progress
of spiritual freedom; but this is only a single wave of a mighty and
ever increasing tide, which is destined to sweep, not over Scotland
alone, but over the world. In this place, however, we cannot refrain
from expressing our conviction that this division in the Presbyterian
ranks is not properly a schism or a heresy. It breaks up an existing
organization, but affinity remains. The doctrines and discipline of the
two churches are essentially the same. The one may be purer and stronger
than the other, but they are members of the same family, professedly
cherish the same spirit, and aim at the accomplishment of the same ends.
This, too, may be said of nearly all the other sects; so that in
Scotland, there is more real unity among Christians than there is in
Papal Rome. The latter is one, only as a mountain of ice, in which all
impurities are congealed, is one. The unity of the former is like that
of the thousand streams which rush from the Alpine heights, proceeding,
as they do, from a common source, and finally meeting and blending in a
common ocean.

But enough of general speculation and description. Dr. Chalmers is to
preach at Dr. Candlish's church, so let us go to hear him. He has lost
something of his early vigor, but retains enough of it to make him the
most interesting preacher in Scotland or the world. Let us make haste,
or we shall fail of obtaining a seat. Already the house is filled with
an expectant congregation. The Doctor comes in, and all is hushed. He is
dressed in gown and bands, and presents a striking and venerable
appearance. His serious, earnest aspect well befits his high office. He
is of the middle height, thick set and brawny, but not corpulent. His
face is rather broad, with high cheek bones, pale, and as it were
care-worn, but well formed and expressive. His eyes are of a leaden
color, rather dull when in a state of repose, but flashing with a
half-smothered fire when fairly roused. His nose is broad and lion-like,
his mouth, one of the most expressive parts of his countenance, firm, a
little compressed and stern, indicating courage and energy, while his
forehead is ample and high, as one might naturally suppose, covered with
thin, straggling grey hair. He reads a psalm in a dry, guttural
voice--reads a few verses of Scripture, without much energy or apparent
feeling, and then offers a brief, simple, earnest, and striking prayer.
By the way, the Doctor's prayers are among his most interesting
exercises. He is always simple, direct, reverent, and occasionally quite
original and striking. You feel while joining in his devotions, that a
man of genius and piety is leading your willing spirit up to the throne
of God. How striking, for example, when he calls us to remember "that
every hour that strikes,--every morning that dawns, and every evening
that darkens around us, brings us nearer to the end of our pilgrimage."
Yet he has no mouthing or mannerism, in this solemn exercise. He is not
_making_, but offering a prayer. His tones are earnest and solemn; most
manifest it is that his soul is holding intimate fellowship with the
Father of Spirits.

But he announces his text--1 John iv. 16. "God is love"--a text from
which he has preached before; but no matter for that.[17] He commences,
with a few broken sentences, pronounced in a harsh tuneless voice, with
a strong Scottish accent. The first feeling of a stranger would be that
of disappointment, and apprehension that the discourse was to prove a
failure. This was the case with Canning and Wilberforce, who went to
hear Dr. Chalmers, when he preached in London. They had got into a pew
near the door, when "the preacher began in his usual unpromising way, by
stating a few nearly self-evident propositions, neither in the choicest
language, nor in the most impressive voice; 'If this be all,' said
Canning to his companion, 'it will never do.' Chalmers went on,--the
shuffling in the congregation gradually subsided. He got into the mass
of his subject; his weakness became strength, his hesitation was turned
into energy; and bringing the whole volume of his mind to bear upon it,
poured forth a torrent of most close and conclusive argument, brilliant
with all the exuberance of an imagination which ranged over all nature
for illustrations, and yet managed and applied each of them with the
same unerring dexterity, as if that single one had been the study of his
whole life. 'The tartan beats us,' said Mr. Canning, 'we have no
preaching like that in England.'"

[Footnote 17: In looking over the Doctor's printed works, we have found
this discourse in a somewhat different garb from that in which we have
presented it. We were not at first aware of this, or we might have
selected some other discourse; for it was our good fortune to hear the
Doctor frequently. This and other delineations, however, are taken from
personal observation.]

It may be well to state here that Chalmers is a slavish reader,--that
is, he reads every thing he says,--but then he reads so naturally, so
earnestly, so energetically, that manuscript and everything else is
speedily forgotten by the astonished and delighted hearer.

He proceeds with his subject--_God is love_. His object, as announced,
is not so much to elucidate the thought or idea of the text, as to
dislodge from the minds of his hearers, the dread and aversion for God,
existing in all unregenerate men. He insists, in the first place, that
it is not as a God of love, that the Deity is regarded by mankind--but
simply as God, as a being mysterious and dreadful, a being who has
displeasure towards them in his heart. This arises from two causes--the
first, that they are ignorant of this great and awfully mysterious
Being--the second, that they have sinned against him. This feeling then
is displaced first by the incarnation of the Deity in the person of his
Son, so that we may know him and love him as a Father and a friend; and
secondly, by the free pardon of our sin, through the sacrifice of the
Cross. The division is rather awkward; but it serves the purpose of the
preacher, who thus brings out some of the most sublime peculiarities of
the Gospel, and applies them with overwhelming force and pathos to the
sinner's heart. Under the first head, he shows, in language of uncommon
energy, that it is impossible for man, in his present state, to regard a
being so vast, so mysterious, and so little known as God, except with
superstitious dread. "All regarding him," says he, "is inscrutable; the
depths of his past eternity, the mighty and unknown extent of his
creation, the secret policy or end of his government--a government that
embraces an infinity of worlds, and reaches forward to an infinity of
ages; all these leave a being so circumscribed in his faculties as man,
so limited in his duration, and therefore so limited in his experience,
in profoundest ignorance of God; and then the inaccessible retirement in
which this God hides himself from the observation of his creatures here
below, the clouds and darkness which are about the pavilion of his
throne, the utter inability of the powers of man to reach beyond the
confines of that pavilion, render vain all attempts to fathom the
essence of God, or to obtain any distinct conception of his person or
being, which have been shrouded in the deep silence of many centuries,
insomuch that nature, whatever it may tell us of his existence, places
between our senses and this mighty cause a veil of interception."

It is not unnatural to dread such a being. Nature, though full of God,
furnishes no clear and satisfying evidence of his designs; for sunshine
and shower, green fields and waving harvests are intermingled with
tempests and hurricane, blight and mildew, destruction and death. "While
in one case we have the natural affection and unnumbered sweets of many
a cottage, which might serve to manifest the indulgent kindness of him
who is the universal parent of the human family; we have on the other
hand the cares, the heart-burnings, the moral discomforts, often the
pining sickness, or the cold and cheerless poverty, or, more palpably,
the fierce contests and mutual distractions even among civilized men;
and lastly, and to consummate all, the death,--the unshaken and
relentless death with which generation after generation, whether among
the abodes of the prosperous and the happy, or among the dwellings of
the adverse and unfortunate, after a few years are visited, laying all
the varieties of human fortune in the dust,--these all bespeak if not a
malignant, an offended, God."

But this vague uncertainty and dread are corrected and displaced by the
incarnation of the Deity in the person of Christ--"the brightness of the
Father's glory and the express image of his person." "The Godhead then
became palpable to human senses, and man could behold, as in a picture,
and in distinct personification, the very characteristics of the Being
that made him."

Upon this idea, a favorite one with Dr. Chalmers, he dwells with the
profoundest interest, presenting it with a strength of conception and
exuberance of illustration which makes it clear and palpable to the
minds of all. How his heart glows, almost to bursting, with the sublime
and thrilling idea that God is manifest in the flesh. How he pours out,
as in a torrent of light, the swelling images and emotions of his
throbbing spirit. "We could not scale the height of that mysterious
ascent which brings us within view of the Godhead. It is by the descent
of the Godhead unto us that this manifestation has been made; and we
learn and know it from the wondrous history of him who went about doing
good continually. We could not go in search of the viewless Deity,
through the depths and vastnesses of infinity, or divine the secret, the
untold purposes that were brooding there. But in what way could a more
palpable exhibition have been made, than when the eternal Son, enshrined
in humanity, stepped forth on the platform of visible things, and there
proclaimed the Deity? We can now reach the character of God in the human
looks, in the human language of Him who is the very image and visible
representative of the Deity; we see it in the tears of sympathy he shed;
we hear it in the accents of tenderness which fell from his lips. Even
his very remonstrances were those of a deep and gentle nature; for they
are remonstrances of deepest pathos--the complaints of a longing spirit
against the sad perversity of men bent on their own ruin."

Not content with this clear and ample exhibition of his views, he
returns to it, as if with redoubled interest, and though presenting no
new conception upon the point, delights to pour upon it the exuberant
radiance of his teeming imagination. The hearers, too, are as interested
as he, and catch with delight the varying aspects of his peculiar
oratory. In fact, their minds are in perfect sympathy and harmony with
his; and tears start to every eye, as he bursts out, as if applying the
subject to himself, in the following beautiful and affecting
style:--"Previous to this manifestation, as long as I had nothing before
me but the unseen God, my mind wandered in uncertainty, my busy fancy
was free to expatiate, and its images filled my heart with disquietude
and terror; but in the life and person and history of Jesus Christ, the
attributes of the Deity are brought down to the observation of the
senses, and I can no longer mistake them, when, in the Son, who is the
express image of his Father, I see them carried home to my understanding
by the evidence and expression of human organs--when I see the kindness
of the Father, in the tears that fell from the Son at the tomb of
Lazarus--when I see his justice blended with his mercy, in the
exclamation, 'O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!' by Jesus Christ, uttered with a
tone more tender than human bosom or human sympathy ever uttered--I feel
the judgment of God himself flashing conviction on my conscience, and
calling me to repent, while his wrath is suspended, and he still waiteth
to be gracious!"

But a more distinct and well-grounded reason for distrust and fear in
reference to the Deity arises from the consciousness of guilt. In spite
of ourselves, in spite of our false theology, we feel that God has a
right to be offended with us, that he is offended with us, and not only
so, but that we deserve his displeasure. This he shows is counteracted
by the doctrine of the atonement: "Herein is love, not that we loved
him, but that he loved us, and sent his Son into the world to be a
propitiation for our sins." By the fact of the incarnation, a conquest
is gained over the imagination haunted with the idea of an unknown God;
so also by that of the atonement, a conquest is gained over the solid
and well-grounded fear of guilt. This idea the Doctor illustrates with
equal force and beauty, showing that by means of the Sacrifice of the
Cross, justice and mercy are brought into harmony, in the full and free
pardon of the believing penitent. By this means the great hindrance to
free communion with God is taken away. Guilt is cancelled, for the sake
of Him who died, and the poor trembling sinner is taken to the bosom of
Infinite Love. "In the glorious spectacle of the Cross, we see the
mystery revealed, and the compassion of the parent meeting in fullest
harmony with the now asserted and now vindicated prerogative of the
Lawgiver. The Gospel is a halo of all the attributes of God, and yet the
pre-eminent manifestation there is of God as love, which will shed its
lustre amid all the perfections of the Divine nature. And here it should
be specially remarked, that the atonement was made for the sins of the
whole world; God's direct and primary object being to vindicate the
truth and justice of the Godhead. Instead of taking from his love, it
only gave it more emphatic demonstration; for, instead of love, simple
and bending itself without difficulty to the happiness of its objects,
it was a love which, ere it could reach the guilty being it groaned
after, had to force the barriers of a necessity which, to all human
appearance, was insuperable." With this fine idea the Doctor concludes
his discourse, presenting it with a mingled tenderness and vehemence of
style and tone perfectly irresistible. "The love of God," he exclaims,
"with such an obstacle and trying to get over it, is a higher exhibition
than all the love which radiates from his throne on all the sinless
angels. The affirmation that God is love, is strengthened by that other,
to him who owns the authority of Scripture, that God _so_ loved the
world--I call on you to mark the emphatic _so_--as to give his
only-begotten Son. 'He spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for
us all;' or that expression, 'herein is love, not that we loved God, but
that he loved us, and gave his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.'
There is a moral, a depth, an intensity of meaning, a richness of
sentiment that Paul calls unsearchable, in the Cross of Christ, that
tells emphatically that God is righteousness, and that God is love."

Such is a feeble and imperfect outline of a rich and eloquent discourse,
from one of the richest and most expressive texts in the Bible. But we
cannot transfer to the written or printed page the tone, look and
manner, the _vivida vis_, the natural and overwhelming energy, the
pathos and power of tone, which thrill the hearer as with the shocks of
a spiritual electricity. It is this peculiar energy which distinguishes
Chalmers, and which distinguishes all great orators. His mind is on fire
with his subject, and transfers itself all glowing to the minds of his
hearers. For the time being all are fused into one great whole, by the
resistless might of his burning eloquence. In this respect Chalmers has
been thought to approach, nearer than any other man of modern times, the
style and tone of Demosthenes. His manner has a torrent-vehemence, a
sea-like swell and sweep, a bannered tramp as of armies rushing to
deadly conflict. With one hand on his manuscript, and the other jerked
forward with electric energy, he thunders out his gigantic
periods, as if winged with "volleyed lightning." The hearers are
astonished,--awed,--carried away,--lifted up as on the wings of the
wind, and borne "whithersoever the master listeth."




CHAPTER VIII.

    Biographical Sketch of Dr. Chalmers.


As an evangelical divine, a preacher of great strength and earnestness,
a man of a truly devout and generous spirit, of great independence,
energy and perseverance, a leader of the Free Church of Scotland, and a
successful advocate of the doctrine of Christ's supremacy, Dr. Chalmers
may be regarded as a fair embodiment of the religious spirit of his
native land. In his mode of thinking, in his doctrinal belief and
practice, especially in his devout and fervid eloquence, the Doctor is
eminently Scottish. His whole spirit is bathed in the piety of "the
Covenant." On this account a brief sketch of his history will not be
inappropriate in this place.

Thomas Chalmers, D. D., was born about the year 1780, in the town of
Anstruther in Fifeshire, the birth-place of another man of genius,
Professor Tennant, of St. Andrews, the celebrated author of "Anster
Fair," one of the most facetious poems in the language, and making a
near approach to the dramatic energy of "Tam O'Shanter." Young Chalmers
gave decided indications of genius and energy, and was sent to the
College of St. Andrews, and soon became "a mathematician, a natural
philosopher, and though there was no regular professor of that science
at St. Andrews, a chemist." After having been licensed as a preacher, he
officiated for sometime, as assistant minister, at Cavers in
Roxburghshire. He was subsequently called to the care of the parish
church in Kilmany, beautifully situated "amid the green hills and
smiling valleys," of his native county. He was ordained on the 12th of
May, 1803, and soon displayed the vigor and activity of his mind. In
addition to his regular parochial engagements, he devoted much attention
to botany and chemistry; lectured on the latter science and kindred
subjects in the neighboring towns; became an officer in a volunteer
corps; assisted the late Professor Vilant in teaching the mathematical
class in the College of St. Andrews; on the succeeding session opened a
private class of his own, on the same branch of science, to which all
the students flocked; and wrote one or two books, and several pamphlets
on the topics of the day. His first publication appeared at Cupar in
Fife on what was called the Leslie Controversy. It was written in the
form of a letter addressed to Professor Playfair; and abounds in talent,
wit and humor. It was published anonymously, and for a long time was not
known to be his. He vindicates in it very powerfully, the divines of the
Church of Scotland, from the imputation of a want of mathematical
talent, a reproach which he thought Professor Playfair had thrown upon
them. He also wrote a volume on the resources of the country, which
attracted much attention, as a work of ability and eloquence.

From these statements it must be evident that Dr. Chalmers had but
little time to devote to the spiritual interests of his parish. He
performed his _stated_ duties, it is true, but devoted his energies
chiefly to literary and scientific pursuits. Indeed he was in religious
belief a rationalist, and had not yet adopted those profound and
spiritual convictions which subsequently formed the main-spring of his
ministry. In 1805 he offered himself as a candidate for the vacant chair
of Mathematics in the University of Edinburgh, with considerable chances
of success, but afterwards withdrew his name at the earnest solicitation
of his friends, who wished to retain him in the Church.

When Dr. Brewster's Edinburgh Encyclopedia was projected Dr. Chalmers
was engaged as one of the contributors, and wrote the article
"Christianity," which was subsequently published in a separate form. It
was about this time that his mind underwent a radical change on the
subject of vital religion. He discovered the utter inefficiency of a
utilitarian morality, for the renovation and guidance of man, and
eagerly embraced those peculiar views of evangelical faith, which
recognize the sacrifice and intercession of Christ as a ground of hope
to the fallen, the necessity of "being born of the Spirit," and the
ineffable beauty and blessedness of "a life hid with Christ in God." It
is said that this change took place while writing the article referred
to; he then felt the necessity of acting upon his own principles, of
yielding his heart absolutely and forever, to the truths of that
Revelation, the reality and authority of which he was called to prove.
It will be remembered by those acquainted with the article in question,
that he takes the ground that a divine revelation must necessarily be
mysterious; that coming from God, it must belong to the infinite
and the obscure, and thus contain many things which shock our
preconceptions,--that _a priori_ objections to its doctrines are
therefore null and void, and that the whole must be received, without
exception or modification. He insists that while we have experience of
man, we have little or no experience of God, that the thoughts of such a
Being must infinitely transcend ours, and in all probability contradict
ours, especially with reference to the great problem touching the
salvation of the guilty. If then the genuineness and authenticity of the
sacred books can be proved as historical facts, we have nothing to do
with the revelation which they contain, but to receive it with adoring
gratitude and submission. The incarnation of the Godhead, the sacrifice
of the Cross, justification by faith, the re-birth of the soul by the
Holy Spirit, the resurrection of the body, and eternal judgement are
revealed facts or truths, already proved, and must therefore constitute
the heart's-creed of every true believer. These doctrines consequently
were embraced by Chalmers himself, and formed thenceforward the subjects
of his preaching to the people. A great excitement ensued. The community
was aroused--multitudes were converted. Chalmers preached with the
greatest fervor and unction, and hundreds flocked to hear him from the
neighboring parishes. This produced inquiry, and he found it necessary
to give explanations in reference to the causes which had effected such
a change in his ministry. In this view the following will be read with
interest and profit:

"And here I cannot but record the effect of an actual though undesigned
experiment which I prosecuted upwards of twelve years amongst you. For
the greater part of that time I could expatiate on the meanness of
dishonesty, on the villany of falsehood, on the despicable arts of
calumny--in a word upon all those deformities of character which awaken
the natural indignation of the human heart against the pests and the
disturbers of society. Now, could I, upon the strength of these warm
expostulations, have got the thief to give up his stealing, and the evil
speaker his censoriousness, and the liar his deviations from truth, I
should have felt all the repose of one who had gotten his ultimate
object. It never occurred to me that all this might have been done, and
yet every soul of every hearer have remained in full alienation from
God; and that even could I have established in the bosom of one who
stole such a principle of abhorrence at the meanness of dishonesty that
he was prevailed upon to steal no more, he might still have retained a
heart as completely unturned to God, and as totally unpossessed of a
principle of love to Him as before. In a word, though I might have made
him a more upright and honorable man, I might have left him as destitute
of the essence of religious principle as ever. But the interesting fact
is that during the whole of that period in which I made no attempt
against the natural enmity of the mind to God, while I was inattentive
to the way in which this enmity is dissolved, even by the free offer on
the one hand, and the believing acceptance on the other, of the Gospel
salvation; while Christ, through whose blood the sinner, who by nature
stands afar off, is brought near to the Heavenly Lawgiver whom he has
offended, was scarcely ever spoken of, or spoken of in such a way as
stripped him of all the importance of his character and offices, even at
this time I certainly did press the reformations of honor, and truth,
and integrity among my people; but I never even heard of any such
reformations being effected amongst them. If there was anything at all
brought about in this way, it was more than I ever got any account of. I
am not sensible that all the vehemence with which I urged the virtues
and the proprieties of social life had the weight of a feather on the
moral habits of my parishioners. And it was not till I got impressed
with the utter alienation of the heart in its desires and affections
from God; it was not till reconciliation to Him became the distinct and
the prominent object of my ministerial exertions; it was not till I took
the scriptural way of laying the method of reconciliation before them;
it was not till the free offer of forgiveness through the blood of
Christ was urged upon their acceptance, and the Holy Spirit given
through the channel of Christ's mediatorship to all who ask him, was
set before them as the unceasing object of their dependence and their
prayers; it was not, in one word, till the contemplations of my people
were turned to these great and essential elements in the business of a
soul providing for its interest with God, and the concerns of its
eternity, that I ever heard of any of those subordinate reformations
which I aforetime made the earnest and the zealous, but I am afraid, at
the same time, ultimate object of my earlier ministrations. To servants,
whose scrupulous fidelity has now attracted the notice and drawn forth,
in my hearing, a delightful testimony from your masters, what mischief
ye would have done, had your zeal for doctrines and sacraments been
accompanied by the sloth and remissness, and what, in the prevailing
tone of moral relaxation, is counted the allowable purloining of your
earlier days! But a sense of your heavenly Master's eye has brought
another influence to bear upon you; and while you are thus striving to
adorn the doctrine of God your Saviour in all things, you may, poor as
you are, reclaim the great ones of the land to the acknowledgment of the
faith. You have, at least, taught me that to preach Christ, is the only
effective way of preaching morality in all its branches; and out of your
humble cottages have I gathered a lesson, which I pray God I may be
enabled to carry with all its simplicity into a wider theatre, and to
bring, with all the power of its subduing efficacy upon the vices of a
more crowded population."

In 1815 Dr. Chalmers was translated to the Tron church of Glasgow, and
here displayed all the resources of his brilliant and vigorous mind.
Fired with a generous ardor for the salvation of souls, he poured the
truth of God upon rapt and crowded congregations. In addition to the
indefatigable performance of his ministerial duties, he embarked with
eagerness in plans for the amelioration of the condition of the poor. He
urged the importance of free school education, and although he had to
encounter much prejudice, he accomplished a large amount of good for the
city of Glasgow. His views upon this subject are developed in a large
work, published at the time, on the "Christian and Civic Condition of
Large Towns,"--a production somewhat elaborate and diffuse, but
abounding in important suggestions and earnest appeals.

In 1816 he was invited to preach before the King's Commissioner in the
High Church of Edinburgh. His discourse on that occasion comprised the
essence of his astronomical sermons, and was probably "as magnificent a
display of eloquence as was ever heard from the pulpit." The effect upon
the audience was immediate and electric. It broke upon them like a
shower of light from the opening heavens. By means of this discourse his
fame was perhaps first widely established. From that day crowds followed
him wherever he went, and, to quote his own words, he began to feel the
burden "of a popularity of stare, and pressure and animal heat."

In 1819 Dr. Chalmers removed to the new church and parish of St.
John's, in which place the writer, while a student at Glasgow College,
had the pleasure of hearing some of his thrilling discourses. He was
then in the hey-day of life, full of mental and bodily vigor, and
preached with a rapidity, force, and pathos perfectly overwhelming. He
continued to devote himself to the interests of the poor, and indeed
took part in every plan which contemplated the welfare of society.

In 1823 he was elected Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University
of St. Andrews, "where he imparted a very different character to this
course from the mere worldly cast which it too generally assumes in our
universities." Firmly convinced of the great truths of the Gospel, he
infused into his prelections the spirit of a profound and earnest
godliness. While here, he also delivered a separate course of lectures
on Political Economy, as connected with the chair of Moral Philosophy.

It may be supposed from his frequent changes that Dr. Chalmers was
either a fickle or an ambitious man. But those best acquainted with the
circumstances, feel assured that this could not possibly have been the
case. He neither increased his income nor his popularity by means of
these changes, and all, we doubt not, were made with a view to greater
usefulness. In one instance, certainly, he proved his disinterestedness
by refusing the most wealthy living in the Church of Scotland, the west
parish of Greenock, which was presented to him by the patron.

He was more than once offered an Edinburgh church, but uniformly
declined it; as he had long conceived that his widest sphere of
usefulness was a theological chair. He was accordingly elected to this
office, in the University of Edinburgh, and soon attracted the attention
of a large and enthusiastic class of students. His lectures were able
and brilliant; but this, in our judgment, was not the principal cause of
his success. It consisted, as we believe, in his own ardor and
enthusiasm, and the consequent ardor and enthusiasm which he inspired in
his pupils. "At one time the object of the young men seemed to be to
evade attendance on the Divinity Lecture; now the difficulty became to
get a good place to hear their eloquent instructor." By this means much
good was accomplished for the Church of Scotland, by diffusing amongst
its ministry a true evangelical spirit. Still we believe that Dr.
Chalmer's true sphere of labor was the pulpit, and that here alone he
could exert his widest influence. It is true he preached occasionally
while occupying the chair of Divinity, and gave a series of lectures on
Church Establishments, which at that time he earnestly defended. "He
considered that each established _church_ throughout the land may be
termed a centre of _emanation_, from which Christianity, with proper
zeal, be made to move by an aggressive and converting operation, on the
wide mass of the people; whilst a dissenting _chapel_ he views as a
centre of _attraction_ only for those who are religiously disposed."
Recently the Doctor has found his _centre_ of _emanation_ sadly
curtailed. The union of church and state has proved, even to him, a
prodigious hindrance and difficulty--a proof this, that theory and fact
are very different things.

It was while Professor of Theology in Edinburgh, as we believe, that he
visited London, and attracted so much attention by his sermons and
lectures. While there, Mr. Canning, Lord Castlereagh, Lord Eldon, the
Duke of Sussex, with several branches of the Royal Family, whom, as the
journals remarked, "they were not accustomed to elbow at a place of
worship," were found anxiously waiting to hear this modern Chrysostom.
Caught by the irresistible charm of true genius and piety, they listened
with wonder and delight to his honest and earnest appeals. They felt and
acknowledged that his sermons, "as far transcended those of the mawkish
productions to be frequently met with, as does the genius of Milton or
of Newton surpass that of the common herd of poets and philosophers." It
was a sublime sight to behold crowds of all ranks and conditions
listening devoutly to the vehement exhortations of this man of God.

                        "Can earth afford
    Such genuine state, pre-eminence, so free,
    As when arrayed in Christ's authority,
    He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand;
    Conjures, implores, and labors all he can
    In resubjecting to Divine command
    The stubborn spirit of rebellious man?"

    WORDSWORTH.

Dr. Chalmers, as all are aware, is the principal leader of the Free
Church movement. He has uniformly asserted the supremacy of Christ in
his own church, and the right of the people to the election of their
pastors. This being denied and withheld by the legal authorities in
Scotland, Dr. Chalmers, and the noble host of ministers and churches
that agreed with him, departed in a body from "the Established Kirk." In
1843 he relinquished his station as Professor of Theology in the
University; and since that time has occupied the same office, in
connection with "the Free Church of Scotland." He is now considerably
advanced in years. His head is silvered with gray, and much of his
natural strength is abated. But his mind is yet clear and strong, his
heart calm and joyful; and we can only hope and pray that he may be
spared many years to come, as an ornament to his country, and an honor
to the Church.

It is not our purpose in this place to say much on the subject of the
published works of Dr. Chalmers. These are quite voluminous. The English
edition of his works consists of twenty-five duodecimo volumes. Of these
the two first volumes on _Natural Theology_, the third and fourth on the
_Evidences of Christianity_, the fifth on _Moral Philosophy_, the sixth,
_Commercial Discourses_, the seventh, _Astronomical Discourses_, and the
last four on _Paul's Epistle to the Romans_, are the most interesting
and valuable.[18] In style and arrangement, in logic and definition,
they possess some obvious defects, but ever indicate a genius of the
highest order, a heart burning with love and zeal, a conscience void of
offence toward God and toward all men; and a devotion, akin to that of
angels and the spirits of just men made perfect.[19]

[Footnote 18: All these, with the addition of four volumes of Sermons,
forming the Theological Works of Dr. Chalmers, have been republished, in
handsome form, by Mr. Carter of New York.]

[Footnote 19: In the introduction to "Vinet's Vital Christianity," I
have given a more elaborate estimate of the mental peculiarities of Dr.
Chalmers, in connection with those of Vinet, "the Chalmers of
Switzerland."

Since the above sketch was written Dr. Chalmers has gone to his rest. He
died suddenly and unexpectedly on the 31st of May, 1847.]




CHAPTER IX.

     Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh--Rev. John Brown of
     Whiteburn--Professor John Brown of Haddington--Rev. Dr.
     Candlish--Specimen of his Preaching.


Before leaving the Edinburgh clergy, I wish to give you some account of
the Rev. Dr. John Brown, minister of Broughton Place Chapel, and
Professor of exegetical Theology in the United Secession Church, one of
the most amiable and accomplished of the Scottish ministers. He is the
son of the Rev. John Brown of Whiteburn, and the grandson of the Rev.
John Brown of Haddington, of whom I shall have something to say before
the close of the chapter.

Dr. Brown is between fifty and sixty years of age, with a fine form and
expressive countenance. Rather tall and slender, he looks much as one
might conceive the Apostle John to have done. His countenance is mild
and dignified, nose slightly aquiline, brow arched and high, eyes dark
and piercing, and his mouth indicative of mingled firmness and delicacy
of character. His hair, once dark as the ravens, bears the marks of age
and thought. In his youth, he was extremely vigorous and active; but he
is evidently passing into "the sere and yellow leaf."

Dr. Brown is a man of decided talent, though distinguished more for
clearness and strength of intellect, than for genius and imagination.
His mind is highly cultivated, but it seldom glows and sparkles. His
discourses are always interesting and instructive, but not often
thrilling or overpowering. They never fall below mediocrity, are always
clear, sensible and useful, but perhaps never rise to the highest heaven
of invention. In this respect he much resembles the celebrated Dr.
Wardlaw, though, as a speaker, he is more effective. Dr. Wardlaw
uniformly reads his sermons, Dr. Brown does not even use notes. He
preaches probably from memory, as is the case with most of the Scottish
clergy. They practice "the committing" of their sermons from their
youth, and acquire astonishing facility in this exercise, on which
account their preaching is often distinguished as much for its accuracy,
as its energy and freedom. Dr. Brown appears to great advantage in the
pulpit. His ease, energy, gracefulness and variety of tone, attitude,
and expression, are equally striking. Occasionally he hesitates for a
word, but never fails to find the right one. His language is remarkably
full and accurate. His topics, too are uniformly well selected, clearly
divided and thoroughly discussed. If he does not, like Chalmers, awe and
subdue his audience, he seldom fails to interest and instruct them. His
style is lucid and vivacious, and well adapted to useful practical
preaching. A tone of deep and fervid piety pervades the whole, giving
the impression that a man of God is addressing to you the messages of
Heaven.

Dr. Brown is orthodox, but liberal in his views and feelings. As a
theologian he belongs to the school of the moderate Calvinists. In
connection with the late amiable and accomplished Dr. Balmer of Berwick,
he was called to account some years ago, for his views of the atonement,
which he regards not as a restricted, but as a universal blessing, that
is to say, as a blessing, intended for the benefit not of a class, but
of the whole world. This gave rise to a war of words, and to much
useless recrimination in the courts of the United Secession Church,
which have left the matter pretty much where it was before. Dr. Brown's
views, however, are becoming prevalent in Scotland.

Dr. Brown has done much to promote the study of Biblical Literature,
which has received comparatively little attention in Scotland. As
theologians the Scottish preachers are sound and practical, but with the
exception of Dr. Campbell of Aberdeen, and Dr. McKnight of Edinburgh,
they have not distinguished themselves for their critical
investigations. A new spirit begins to prevail among them. The highly
respectable denomination with which Dr. Brown is connected, is making
rapid advances in this interesting branch of Biblical study.

Dr. Brown has taken an active part in the discussion of the question
touching the seperation of Church and State, and has published one or
two pamphlets upon the subject. In polemics he has always evinced a
sober and generous spirit.

The family, from which the subject of these remarks is descended, has
been highly distinguished for its talents and piety. The most of its
members have been eminent and useful preachers for several generations.
Dr. Brown's father, the Rev. John Brown, of Whiteburn, was for many
years one of the most devout and useful ministers of the Secession
Church. Indeed, he was a perfect patriarch in the rural district, where
he exercised his ministry. Every one knew him and loved him, as a man of
singular goodness and apostolic zeal. When a boy the writer used to
attend his church, and well does he remember his meek and venerable
countenance, and the thrilling tones of his musical voice. He rode about
his parish on an old white pony, fat and good-natured like his master;
and never failed, when he met one of his youthful parishioners, to stop
and enter into conversation with him. "Weel, my lad," he would say,
patting my head, "how d'ye do--and how's your faither, and how's your
mither? And a' the family, are they weel? Gie them my compliments. And
now you maun be a good boy; dinna forget to say your prayers, and God
will bless you. Gude day!" So off he would amble with a benignant smile,
leaving a sweet and holy impression behind him, not forgotten to this
very day. In preaching, Mr. Brown had a peculiar tone or tune, which at
times was perfectly thrilling. He frequently used the Scottish dialect
in the more pathetic and practical parts of his discourses, and by this
means produced a great impression upon his simple-hearted hearers. His
style, too, was naturally quaint and terse, and this, set off by his
benignant look, his varied and tender tones, often made his sermons very
memorable. Some of his illustrations I remember now, though I ceased to
hear him preach in my eighth year, having been removed to another part
of the country. The following are specimens, perhaps not the best that
might be given, but certainly characteristic. "There are three sorts of
folks in the world; the butterfly, the wasp, and the bee. The butterfly
is the gaudy fool, the wasp is the malicious wicked, but the bee is the
gude Christian!" Imagine this, and the following, uttered with a
peculiar sing-song and most expressive look and emphasis. "When ye see
reek coming out at the chimney, ye may conclude there's fire in the
house; so, when ye hear a man cursing and swearing, ye may be sure that
the fire of hell is kindled in that man's heart!" "O my friends, hold on
and persevere in the good ways of the Lord. A few more losses and
crosses, a few more troubles and trials, and we'll cross the swellings
o' Jordan, and then, O then, we'll sit and sing thegither on the hills
of Zion!" "Fear not, little flock, it is your Father's good pleasure to
give you the kingdom. O the heart of our heavenly Father is a heart of
tenderness and love. He will never leave you, nor forsake you. Why, only
think on't--ye'r his ain dear bairns; he'll tak you by the han', and
lead you through the wilderness, till he bring you safe to the Heavenly
Canaan, the hame of his children, the inheritance of his family!"

Good old man! he has gone, long since, to that blessed "hame" where
faithful ministers meet their beloved flocks, and "sing together on the
hills of Zion!"

Mr. Brown had a brother _Ebenezer_, minister of Inverkeithing, who was
still more distinguished as a preacher. In his boyhood he was "a great
rogue," and used to teaze his "douce" and pious brother John, and
occasion a good deal of trouble to his worthy father. But he was
converted when a young man, and became an exceedingly devout and
eloquent preacher. I had the pleasure of hearing him preach once in the
open air, at a sacramental occasion connected with his brother's
congregation in Whiteburn, but have a very indistinct recollection of
the discourse. But I well remember his earnest look, and the thrilling
tones of his powerful voice. He was of small stature, but spoke with
great force and vehemence, and occasionally with the same sing-song
voice, common among the old Scottish preachers. The congregation was
rapt: a solemn stillness pervaded the atmosphere all around, so that one
could hear the chirpings of the grasshopper, and the song of the bird in
the neighboring woods, during the pauses of his long and earnest
sentences.

The father of John Brown of Whiteburn, and grandfather of Dr. John Brown
of Edinburgh, was the celebrated professor John Brown, author of the
Self-Interpreting Bible, Exposition of the Assembly's Shorter Catechism,
and other works; and teacher of Theology in the United Secession Church.
He was an extraordinary man. When a poor shepherd boy, he conceived the
idea of learning Latin and Greek, and having procured a few old books,
actually accomplished the task, while tending his cattle on the hills.
So successful was he, that some of the old and superstitious people in
the neighborhood concluded that he must have been assisted by "the evil
spirit." On one occasion he went to Edinburgh, plaided and barefoot,
walked into a bookseller's shop, and asked for a Greek Testament. "What
are you going to do with a Greek Testament?" said the bookseller. "Read
it," was the prompt reply. "Read it!" exclaimed the sceptical
bookseller, with a smile; "ye may have it for nothing if ye'll read it."
Taking the book, he quietly read off a few verses, and gave the
translation; on which he was permitted to carry off the Greek Testament
in triumph.

Professor Brown was an eminently holy man. He was equally distinguished
for his simplicity and dignity of character. His preaching was much
admired by old and judicious persons. On one occasion, when he and
others were assisting a brother minister in services preparatory to the
celebration of the Lord's Supper, which services in Scotland usually
take place on the last days of the week preceding the "sacramental
sabbath," and are frequently held in the open air, a couple of gay young
men had been out hunting, and on their return home drew near to the
large congregation who were listening at that moment to the preaching of
an eloquent but somewhat showy divine. After standing a few moments, the
one said to the other, "Did you ever hear such preaching as that?"
"No," he replied with an oath, "but he don't believe a word of it!"
After this preacher had closed, there stood up, in the "tent," (a
temporary pulpit erected in the open air for the accommodation of the
ministers,) an old, humble looking man, who announced his text in a
trembling voice, as if he were afraid to speak in God's name. He went
on, and became more and more interesting, more and more impressive. The
young men were awed, and listened with reverent attention to the close,
when the one, turning to the other, said, "And what d'ye think of that?"
"Think of it," he replied, "I don't know what to think. Why, didn't you
see how every now and then he turned round in the tent, as if Jesus
Christ were behind him, and he was asking, 'Lord, what shall I say
next?'" This preacher was John Brown, the secret of whose pulpit
eloquence was, the inspiration of an humble and contrite heart, touched
by the finger of the Almighty; an eloquence as far transcending that of
the mere orator as the divine and heavenly transcends the human and
earthly. This too, was the eloquence of the early Scottish
preachers,--of Knox and Rutherford, of Guthrie and Erskine, of Cameron
and Boston. This fired the hearts of the people with a holy and
all-conquering zeal; this shed a glory over the death of the martyrs,
and diffused among their descendants the love of "the Covenant" and the
love of God. May this ever continue to be the eloquence not only of the
Church in Scotland but of the Church throughout the world!

There is one other preacher in Edinburgh, of whom it would be desirable
to give a full-length portrait. I refer to Dr. Candlish, certainly one
of the most popular and effective preachers in the Free Church of
Scotland. But I am not in possession of the materials for such a
portrait, having heard him preach only once, and being imperfectly
acquainted with the events of his life. He is probably about forty-five
years of age, rather short of stature, and not particularly imposing or
prepossessing in appearance. His face is rather long and sallow, but set
off by an immense forehead, dark bushy hair, and a pair of fine black
eyes. He stands bolt upright in the pulpit, and speaks in a clear,
strong, deliberate, yet rapid voice. Judging from his published
discourses, and the single specimen which I heard, I should think him
destitute of pathetic power. He is evidently most at home in the regions
of ratiocination. His language is copious, energetic, and harmonious. In
clearness and finish it is decidedly superior to that of Chalmers, and
little inferior to Robert Hall's. It possesses a stateliness, combined
with a bounding energy, which render it very effective. His method is
remarkably lucid, and his reasoning strong and convincing. In fancy, in
touching pathos, in overwhelming energy, in the vivid lightning flashes
of genius, he is greatly inferior to Chalmers; but in clearness of
definition, in compactness and purity of style, in strength of logic,
and in completeness of arrangement and finish, he must be acknowledged
superior. His discourses are highly evangelical. They abound in clear
and instructive statements, and defences of the cardinal truths of the
Gospel. If deficient, it is in directness and pungency of appeal, in
holy pathos, in solemn and subduing unction.

As a debater, Dr. Candlish stands pre-eminent. He may not possess the
ponderous strength of Cunningham, the overpowering energy of Chalmers,
the quick and versatile humor of Guthrie, or the eloquent polish of
Buchanan. But he possesses, in unusual combination, clearness of method,
logical acumen, force and beauty of style, and an easy, graceful,
commanding elocution. When Chalmers dies, we predict that Candlish will
be the leader in the courts of the Free Church of Scotland.

Dr. Candlish has published quite a number of occasional sermons, and a
volume of lectures on the record of the Creation in the book of Genesis.
These lectures are interesting and instructive, but to our taste, they
are too diffuse and elaborate, and not sufficiently critical, or rather
exegetical and compact. They say much about a thing, without actually
saying the thing itself. But this is rather the fault of their design or
plan, than of their execution, which as a whole indicates a high degree
of talent. They contain many fine passages, and valuable suggestions.

Among his published discourses, one of the best is on the "Incompetency
of Reason, and the Fitness of Revelation;" from Acts xvii. 23. "Whom
therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you." The following
passage from that discourse will give a fair idea of his power. Speaking
of the mournful condition of those who delight to investigate the works
of God, but have never found God himself, he says:--"They may feel a
proud and high satisfaction, arising from the importance of the
knowledge acquired in the successful employment of their powers and
faculties of mind. But brethren, they scarcely meet, in all the various
and diversified tracks which they take, and in all the endless varieties
of objects which encounter their judgments--they scarcely ever meet
their God; they scarcely ever find him in the way; they scarcely ever
seek him. In the wondrous elements, the richly scattered treasures of
power, and wisdom and goodness, through which they make their progress,
they cannot shut their eyes to the presence of God; they must
acknowledge a God: but it is God with attributes of their own choosing,
not the God of Scripture,--the God of nature, not the God of justice.
_Him_ they exclude from their view; _Him_ they do not like to retain in
their thoughts; and in the circumstances in which they cultivate the
idea of a God, if mingling in their researches at all, they strip their
ideas of all which might remind them of their unsettled controversy with
Him. Conceive of a man in such a state, so blind as to have exercised
his powers of discovery, in the full blaze of all the glory and the
terrible majesty of a just God and a Saviour, without really finding
him, condemned to carry on his future work of discovery with a clear and
startling apprehension of all the moral attributes of God--his
holiness,--his justice,--his truth--all as manifested in the cross of
Christ, and all still carried on in a carnal mind and a self-condemned
heart. Where now will be the joy of his lofty inquiries? Where now the
triumph of his lofty powers of knowledge? Every object he contemplates
now, is connected with the idea of a righteous God; every subject he can
examine now, is fraught with the presence of a righteous God; every new
ray of light that meets his eye, reveals to him a righteous God; every
sound carries to his ear the name of God, repeated by a thousand echoes.
He can make no experiment now that will not show him more of the wonders
and terrors of God. He can look at nothing, he can think of nothing,
that does not speak to him of God, and remind him of his justice: and
all the bold traces of his profound discoveries regarding nature, now do
but suggest reminiscences of nature's God as a God of judgment; and so
the very faculty which was ever his pride and admiration,--the capacity
of deep reflection and enlightened inquiry, does but add new sting and
torture to his reprobate mind, by suggesting always, everywhere, and in
all things, new images and representations of that awful, that Almighty
Being, whom he has chosen to make his foe."




CHAPTER X.

     Ride into the Country--The Skylark--Poems on the Skylark by Shelley
     and the 'Ettrick Shepherd'--Newhall--'The Gentle
     Shepherd'--Localities and Outlines of the Story--Its Popularity in
     Scotland.


'Tis a beautiful morning in early June. The sun is peeping over Arthur's
Seat, and glancing from the turrets of the old Castle. The carriage is
ready, and Sandy the driver is cracking his whip with impatience. So,
take your place, and let us be off. Passing 'Bruntsfield Links' we
plunge into the very heart of the country, so rich and varied, with park
and woodland scenery, handsome villas, and sweet acclivities. Yonder is
Merchiston Castle, the birth-place of the celebrated Napier, the
inventor of Logarithms. A little further on, we reach the smiling
village of Morningside, and pass some pretty country residences, with
pleasant grounds and picturesque views. We enter a narrow and thickly
wooded dell, through which tinkles a small rivulet, called the Braid
Burn. At the bottom we come to the Braid Hermitage, as sweet a sylvan
retreat as ever greeted the eye of the rural wanderer. Those rocky
heights above us are the Braid Hills, from which can be enjoyed some of
the most splendid views in Scotland. Leaving the carriage a few minutes
we ascend that lofty eminence, and gaze, with delight upon the vast and
beautiful landscape, including the city of Edinburgh, the Firth of
Forth, with its "emerald islands," and the winding shores of Fife in the
distance. Blackford hill, a little to the north of us is the spot
mentioned in "Marmion:"

    "Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd,
    For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd,
    When sated with the martial show
    That peopled all the plains below,
    The wandering eye could o'er it go,
    And mark the distant city glow
      With gloomy splendor red;
    For on the smoke wreaths, huge and slow,
    That round her sable turrets flow,
      The morning beams were shed,
    And tinged them with a lustre proud,
    Like that which streaks a thunder cloud;
    Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,
    Where the huge castle holds its state,
      And all the steep <DW72> down,
    Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
    Piled deep and massy, close and high,
      Mine own romantic town!

    But northward far with purer blaze
    On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
    And as each heathy top they kiss'd,
    It gleamed a purple amethyst.
    Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
    Here Preston Bay, and Berwick-Law,
      And broad between them roll'd
    The gallant Firth the eye might note,
    Whose islands on its bosom float,
      Like emeralds chased in gold."

Descending from the hill we resume our journey, musing on the days of
old, when "shrill fife and martial drum" awakened the echoes of these
peaceful vales, now resounding with the melody of birds. How delightful
the gushing music of those sky-larks, which descends upon us from
"heaven's gates," like a shower of "embodied gladness." Why, it seems as
if a hundred of them were soaring "i' the lift," and singing with a
joyous energy, akin to that of the blessed spirits in heaven. To me, the
lark is the noblest of all birds, the most pure and spirit-like of all
aerial songsters. In Scotland, too, she seems to sing the sweetest and
strongest. Others may praise the nightingale, if they please, and my own
heart has often thrilled, to hear, at the "witching time of night," her
wild and melancholy strain from some English copsewood, or Italian
grove. But nothing so rich and beautiful, so spirit-like and divine ever
greeted my ear as the glad singing of the heaven-aspiring lark. It
seemed as if the very spirit of song had taken wings, and were ascending
to God, in a flood of melody. But listen to the following strains
written by Shelley under the inspiration of the sky-lark's song:

          Hail to thee, blithe spirit,
            Bird thou never wert,
          That from heaven or near it
            Pourest thy full heart
    In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

          Higher still and higher
            From the earth thou springest,
          Like a cloud of fire!
            The blue deep thou wingest,
    And singing, still dost soar; and soaring, ever singest.

          In the golden lightning
            Of the sunken sun,
          O'er which clouds are brightening,
            Thou dost float and run;
    Like an embodied joy, whose race has just begun.

           *       *       *       *       *

          All the earth and air
            With thy voice is loud,
          As, when night is bare
            From one lonely cloud,
    The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

          What thou art, we know not.
            What is most like thee?
          From rainbow clouds there flow not
            Drops so bright to see,
    As from thy presence showers a rain of melody

          Like a poet hidden
            In the light of thought,
          Singing hymns unbidden
            Till the world is wrought
    To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.

           *       *       *       *       *

          Sound of vernal showers
            On the twinkling grass,
          Rain awakened flowers,
            All that ever was
    Joyous and fresh and clear thy music doth surpass.

          Teach me, sprite or bird,
            What sweet thoughts are thine:
          I have never heard
            Praise of love or wine
    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

          Chorus hymeneal
            Or triumphant chaunt,
          Match'd with thine would be all
            But an empty vaunt--
    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

          What objects are the fountains
            Of thy happy strain?
          What fields or waves or mountains?
            What shapes of sky or plain?
    What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?

          With thy clear keen joyance
            Languor cannot be:
          Shadow of annoyance
            Never came near thee:
    Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

          Waking or asleep
            Thou of death must deem,
          Things more true and deep
            Than we mortals dream,
    Or how could thy note flow in such a crystal stream?

          We look before and after,
            And pine for what is not;
          Our sincerest laughter,
            With some pain is fraught:
    Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought.

          Better than all measures
            Of delightful sound,
          Better than all treasures
            That in books are found,
    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

          Teach me half the gladness,
            That thy brain must know;
          Such harmonious madness
            From my lips would flow,
    The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Inferior to this, but still very beautiful, more natural, and more
especially Scottish, are the following lines to the Skylark by the
"Ettrick Shepherd:"

        Bird of the wilderness,
        Blithesome and cumberless,
    Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
        Emblem of happiness,
        Blest is thy dwelling place--
    O to abide in the desert with thee!
        Wild is thy lay and loud,
        Far in the downy cloud,
    Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
        Where on thy dewy wing,
        Where art thou journeying?
    Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

        O'er fell and fountain sheen,
        O'er moor and mountain green,
    O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
        Over the cloudlet dim,
        Over the rainbow's rim,
    Musical cherub, soar singing away!
        Then when the gloaming comes
        Low in the heather blooms,
    Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
        Emblem of happiness,
        Blest is thy dwelling place--
    O to abide in the desert with thee!

Filled with these pleasant images, we pursue our journey, and wind along
the edge of the Pentland Hills, with their thrilling memories of
"Auld-lang-syne;" pass the "bonnie braes" of Woodhouselee, and reach old
Glencorse Church, "bosomed high '<DW41> tufted trees;" cross "a bonnie
burn," called "Logan Water," and get a glimpse of "House of Muir," in
the vicinity of which the old Scottish Covenanters met with a terrible
slaughter, from General Dalzell of Binns, the "bluidy Dalzell," as the
Scots call him to this day. Passing through the humble village of Silver
Burn, we reach Newhall, once the residence of Dr. Pennycuick, a poet
and an antiquary, and subsequently of the Forbes family highly
distinguished for their talents and virtues. Disposing of our carriage,
let us ramble, at our "own sweet will," amid those beautiful grounds.
The mansion of Newhall, once a battlemented castle of the Crichtoun
family, stands on the left bank of the North Esk, within a curvature of
the stream, under the shadow of the Pentland Hills. On either side is a
deep ravine, terminating in the glen of the Esk, one of the most
romantic spots in Scotland. Passing round on the eastern side, we gaze
down into the ravine, overhung by the remains of a small round tower,
and densely shaded with tangled trees. A dark rill gurgles at the
bottom, here and there leaping into beautiful cascades, and flinging its
glittering spray among the dark woods. Passing to the other side, we
come to what was formerly the site of an old prison and chapel,
encircled by a pleasant walk. The ravine beneath is filled with trees
and shrubbery, but has no stream. From this point the eye glances up
through the wooded glen, echoing with the songs of the mavis and the
linnet, and over to a mineral well, sheltered by copsewood and pines.

But Newhall, and the grounds around it, derive their chief interest from
their connection with the well-known pastoral poem of "Allan Ramsay."
The very air seems redolent with the poetry of "The Gentle Shepherd."
Leaving the house, we reach a little "haugh," or low sheltered spot,
where the Esk and the rivulets from the Harbour Craig mingle their
waters. At the side of the stream are some romantic gray crags, directly
fronting the south, and looking up a turn in the glen. These, adorned
with green birches, shrubs, and copsewood, and shading the limpid stream
which makes a curve, and then glides underneath their overhanging
cliffs, form "a shady bield," completely protected from observation. In
this spot is laid the first act of "The Gentle Shepherd."

    "Beneath the south side of a craggy field,
    Where crystal springs the halesome water yield,
    Twa youthful shepherds on the gowans lay,
    Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May."

Ascending the vale, and just behind the house, we come to a considerable
holm or green, with the babbling burn, now gentler in its movement,
winding sweetly among the white pebbles. At the head of this quiet
retreat, on the edge of the burn, are the ruins of an ancient
washing-house, protected by an aged thorn. It was here that the "twa
lasses" proposed to wash their "claes," unseen by their lovers.

    "A flowery howm between twa verdant braes,
    Where lasses use to wash and spread their claes,
    A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground;
    Its channel pebbles shining smooth and round."

A little further up the burn we come to a hollow, a little beyond what
is called "Mary's Bower," where the Esk divides it in the middle, and
forms a linn or cascade, called the "How Burn;" a small enclosure above
is called the "Braehead Park;" and this hollow beneath the cascade with
its bathing pool and little green, its rocks and birches, its wild
shrubs and natural flowers, and general air of sequestered and romantic
beauty, in every respect corresponds with the poet's exquisite
description of the spot called "Habbie's Howe."

    "Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's Howe,
    Where a' the sweets o' spring and summer grow,
    There, 'tween twa birks out ower a little linn,
    The water fa's and mak's a singand din;[20]
    A pule breast deep, beneath as clear as glass,
    Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering grass."

[Footnote 20: Singing noise.]

Ascending yet further, at a place called the "Carlops," (a contraction
of "Carline's Loups," so called, in consequence of a witch or carline
having been seen leaping, at night, from one rock to another,) two tall
rocks shoot up on either side. Near this, by the side of that old ash
tree, stood Mause's Cottage.

    "The open field, a cottage in a glen,
    An auld wife spinning at the sunny end,
    At a sma' distance, by a blasted tree,
    Wi faulded arms and half-raised look, ye see
                              Bauldy his lane!"[21]

    "A green kail-yard; a little fount,
      Where water poplin springs;
    There sits a wife[22] wi' wrinkled front,
      An' yet she spins and sings."

[Footnote 21: Alone.]

[Footnote 22: Old woman.]

With these localities in our mind, let us sit down on this "gowan'd
brae," and run over the story of "The Gentle Shepherd," one of the most
graphic pictures of Scottish manners, and one of the sweetest pastorals
in any language.

Patie or Patrick, a humble shepherd-lad, born and bred in the region we
have entered, about the middle of the seventeenth century, was a
handsome fellow, and remarkably distinguished for his good temper and
rustic accomplishments. He was of a gay-hearted cheerful disposition,
and made the woods and hills ring again with his mirthful songs.
Moreover, he was sensible and well-informed. His mind, indeed, was
superior to his station; still he was contented and happy.

Symon Scott, a worthy man and a wealthy farmer, with whom Patie had
lived from his childhood, was a tenant of Sir William Preston's, owner
of the neighboring lands, who, to save his head, he having taken part
with the royalists, had fled his native country, and was living abroad,
no one knew where.

Patie loved Peggy Forsyth, a "neebor lassie," of excellent character and
great beauty, who fully requited his attachment. This girl was the
reputed niece of Glaude Anderson, a comfortable farmer, and a tenant of
Sir William's. He had found her one summer morning, at his door,
carefully wrapped in swaddling clothes. Being a warm-hearted man, he had
adopted the little stranger as his own relative.

The interviews and conversations of the lovers, and their friends, Roger
and Jenny, who after some embarrassments from Jenny's independence, are
found to be warmly attached to each other are related by the dramatist
with great beauty and simplicity. The reader sees them at early morn, or
amid the shadows of the gloaming, wandering by the "bonnie burnie's
side," and with hearts of innocence, giving themselves up to the full
enjoyment of nature's beauties and their own sweet affections. Glaude
and Symon are fine specimens of the honest and hospitable farmers of
Scotland. The house of the former is such as one often sees in the rural
districts:

    "A snug thack[23] house, before the door a green,
    Hens on the midden, ducks in dubs[24] are seen.
    On this side stands a barn, on that a byre:[25]
    A peat stack joins, an' forms a rural square.
    The house is Glaud's;--there you may see him lean,
    And to his divot[26] seat invites his frien."

[Footnote 23: Thatch.]

[Footnote 24: Pools.]

[Footnote 25: Barn for the cows.]

[Footnote 26: Turf.]

The character and fate of Bauldy are graphically described. He is a
wealthy but vulgar minded farmer, attached to Peggy, and resolved, if
possible, to withdraw her affections from Patie and secure them for
himself. For this purpose he has recourse to Mause, a sensible and
worthy old woman, but reputed a witch, from her superiority to the
common people. Mause agrees to assist him, but secretly resolves to
expose his ignorance and punish his effrontery. The following is
Bauldy's account of the matter:

                "Ah! Sir, the witch ca'd Mause,
    That wins aboon the mill amang the haws,
    First promised that she'd help me wi' her art,
    To gain a bonnie thrawart[27] lassie's heart.
    As she had trysted, I met wi' 'er this night;
    But may nae frien o' mine get such a fright!
    For the curst hag, instead of doing me guid,
    (The very thocht o'ts like to freeze my bluid!)
    Raised up a ghaist, or deil, I kenna whilk,
    Like a dead corse, in sheet as white as milk;
    Black hands it had, and face as wan as death;
    Upon me fast the witch and it fell baith,
    And got me down; while I like a great fool
    Was 'laboured[28] as I used to be at school:
    My heart out o' its hool[29] was like to loup,
    I pithless[30] grew wi' fear, an' had nae houp,
    Till wi' an elritch laugh, they vanished quite;
    Syne I, hauf dead wi' anger, fear and spite,
    Crap up, and fled straught frae them."

[Footnote 27: Wayward.]

[Footnote 28: Belabored.]

[Footnote 29: Place or socket.]

[Footnote 30: Powerless.]

Tidings had arrived that Sir William, who had now been absent several
years, might be expected home, as the king was restored and the royal
party was now predominant.

This tidings created the liveliest sensations of joy among Sir William's
tenantry, as he was much beloved for his kindness and generosity of
disposition. Old Symon Scott and Glaude Anderson were especially
delighted, and resolved, each of them, to celebrate the event with a
feast. Symon however had already begun to make preparations for a
banquet, to which he invited Glaude and all the old and young people of
the neighborhood:

    "It's Symon's house, please to step in,
      And vissy't[31] round and round,
    There's nought superfluous to gie pain,
      Or costly to be found.
    Yet a' is clean--a clear peat ingle[32]
      Glances amidst the floor[33];
    The green horn spoons, beech luggies[34] mingle
      On skelfs[35] foregainst the door.
    While the young brood sport on the green,
      The auld anes think it best,
    Wi' the brown cow[36] to clear their een
      Snuff, crack and tak their rest."

[Footnote 31: Examine it.]

[Footnote 32: A fire of peats.]

[Footnote 33: In Scotland the old peasant houses have the fire in their
centre.]

[Footnote 34: Cups of beech wood.]

[Footnote 35: Shelves opposite the door.]

[Footnote 36: Brown ale.]

While they are engaged Sir William appears among the young people on the
green, in the garb of a fortune teller. Jenny runs into the house and
tells her father, who, particularly good-natured and hospitable at such
an hour, replies:--

    "Gae bring him in; we'll hear what he can say,
    Nane shall gae hungry by my house the day.      [_Exit Jenny._
    But for his telling fortunes, troth I fear
    He kens nae mair o' that than my grey mare.

    _Glaud._--Spae men![37] the truth o' a' their saws I doubt,
    For greater lears never ran thereout.

    [_Jenny returns bringing in Sir William;--with them Patie._

    _Symon._--Ye're welcome honest carle, here take a seat.

    _Sir W._--I gie ye thanks, gudeman, I'se be no blate.[38]

    _Glaud._--Come, t'ye[39] frien. How far came ye the day?

    _Sir W._--I pledge ye, neibour, e'en but little way.

    _Symon._--Ye're welcome here to stay a' night wi' me.
    And tak sic bed and board as we can gie.

    _Sir W._--That's kind unsought.--Weel gin[40] ye hae a bairn.
    That ye like weel, an wad his fortune learn,
    I shall employ the farthest o' my skill,
    To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill.

    _Symon_ (_pointing to Patie_).--Only that lad: alake! I hae nae mae
    Either to mak me joyfu' now or wae.

    _Sir W._--Young man, let's see your hand; what gars[41] ye sneer?

    _Patie._--Because your skill's but little worth, I fear.

    _Sir W._--Ye cut before the point: but, Billy, bide,
    I'll wager there's a mouse-mark on your side.

[Footnote 37: Fortune-tellers.]

[Footnote 38: Bashful.]

[Footnote 39: Your health.]

[Footnote 40: If.]

[Footnote 41: Makes.]

This being the case, all are astonished at the old man's knowledge, who
goes on to predict that Patie, one of these days, will be a rich laird.

    _Elspa._--Hear, ye gudeman, what think ye now?

    _Symon._--I dinna ken! Strange auld man, what art thou?
    Fair fa[42] your heart, it's guid to bode o' wealth
    Come, turn the timmer to laird Patie's health.

    (_Patie's health goes round._)

[Footnote 42: Good befall.]

Old Symon, by the request of the spaeman, goes out to meet him, and they
have much conversation together. At length--

    "Sir William drops his masking beard,
      Symon transported sees
    The welcome knight, wi' fond regard,
      An' grasps him round the knees."

They converse concerning Patie, who is actually Sir William's son and
heir, and agree to make known his true position. This is accordingly
done, and produces great excitement among the parties. Patie is glad and
sorrowful at the same time, and Peggy sees nothing in it but
disappointment and grief. A gulf has intervened between her and Patie,
and she feels that she must give him up for ever. But Patie assures her
of his constant affection, and the "puir thing" absolutely "greets for
joy to hear his words sae kind."

Next morning--

    "While Peggy laces up her bosom fair
    Wi' a blue snood, Jenny binds up her hair;
    Glaud by his morning ingle, taks a beek,[43]
    The rising sun shines motty[44] thro' the reek,[45]
    A pipe his mouth, the lasses please his een,
    An' now and then his joke must intervene."

[Footnote 43: A glass of beer.]

[Footnote 44: Mottled.]

[Footnote 45: Smoke.]

But all parties are sent for to Symon's house--

    "To hear and help to redd[46] some odd debate
    'Tween Mause and Bauldy, 'bout some witchcraft spell,
    At Symon's house: the knight sits judge himsell."

[Footnote 46: Clear up, unravel.]

All then are assembled--

    "Sir William fills the twa armed chair,
      While Symon, Roger, Glaud, and Mause,
    Attend, and wi' loud laughter hear
      Daft Bauldy bluntly plead his cause:
    For now it's tell'd him that the taz[47]
      Was handled by revengeful Madge,
    Because he brak guid breeding's laws,
      And wi' his nonsense raised their rage.

[Footnote 47: _Birch_ or strap.]

Bauldy, however, confesses his wrong, and adds--

                                    "But I had best
    Haud in my tongue, for yonder comes the _ghaist_[48]
    An' the young bonny _witch_, whose rosy cheek
    Sent me, without my wit, the de'il to seek."

    _Sir William_ (_looking at Peggy_).
    --Whose daughter's she that wears the aurora gown,
    With face so fair, and locks o' lovely brown?
    How sparkling are her eyes? What's this I find,
    The girl brings all my sister to my mind.
    Such were the features once adorned a face,
    Which death so soon deprived of sweetest grace.
    Is this your daughter Glaud?

    _Glaud._--Sir, she's my niece,
    An' yet she's not, but I shoud haud my peace.

    _Sir Wil._--This is a contradiction. What d' ye mean?
    She is, and is not! pray thee, Glaud, explain.

    _Glaud._--Because I doubt, if I shou'd mak' appear,
    What I hae kept a secret thirteen year--

    _Mause._--You may reveal what I can fully clear.

    _Sir Wil._--Speak soon; I'm all impatience.

    _Patie._--Sae am I!
    For much I hope, an' hardly yet ken why.

    _Glaud._--Then, since my master orders, I obey.
    This _bonny foundling_, ae' clear morn o' May,
    Close by the lea-side o' my door I found,
    A' sweet an' clean an' carefully hapt[49] 'round,
    In infant weeds, o' rich and gentle make.
    What could they be, thought I, did thee forsake?
    Wha, worse than brutes, cou'd leave exposed to air
    Sae much o' innocence sae sweetly fair,
    Sae helpless young? for she appeared to me
    Only about twa towmands[50] auld to be.
    I took her in my arms; the bairnie smiled,
    Wi' sic a look, wad mak a savage mild.
    I hid the story: she has pass'd sinsyne[51]
    As a poor orphan, an' a niece o' mine:
    Nor do I rue my care about the wean,
    For she's weel worth the pains that I hae tane.
    Ye see she's bonny; I can swear she's guid,
    An' am right sure she's come o' gentle bluid,
    O' wham I kenna.[52] Naething I ken mair,
    Than what I to your honor now declare.

    _Sir Wil._--This tale seems strange!

    _Patie._--The tale delights my ear!

    _Sir Wil._--Command your joys, young man, till truth appear.

    _Mause._--That be my task. Now sir, bid a' be hush;
    Peggy may smile; thou hast nae cause to blush.
    Lang hae I wish'd to see this happy day,
    That I may safely to the truth gi'e way;
    That I may now Sir William Worthy name,
    The best and nearest friend that she can claim:
    He saw 't at first, an' wi' quick eye did trace
    His sister's beauty in her daughter's face.

    _Sir Wil._--Old woman, do not rave,--prove what you say,
    It's dangerous in affairs like this to play.

    _Patie._--What reason, Sir, can an auld woman have
    To tell a lie when she's sae near her grave?
    But how or why, it should be truth I grant
    I every thing that looks like reason want.

    _Omnes._--The story's odd! we wish we heard it out.

    _Sir Wil._--Make haste, good woman, and resolve each doubt.

          [_Mause goes forward, leading Peggy to Sir William._]

    _Mause._--Sir, view me weel; has fifteen years sae plow'd
    A wrinkled face that you hae often viewed,
    That here I as an unknown stranger stand.
    Wha nursed her mother that now hauds my hand?
    Yet stronger proofs I'll gie, if you demand.

    _Sir Wil._--Ha! honest nurse, where were my eyes before?
    I know thy faithfulness, and need no more;
    Yet from the lab'rinth to lead out my mind,
    Say, to expose her, who was so unkind?

          [_Sir William embraces Peggy and makes her sit by him._]

    Yes surely thou'rt my niece; truth must prevail,
    But no more words till Mause relates the tale."

[Footnote 48: Ghost.]

[Footnote 49: Covered.]

[Footnote 50: Two years.]

[Footnote 51: Since then.]

[Footnote 52: Know not.]

Mause then relates how Peggy's life being threatened by a wicked aunt,
who wished to take possession of her estate, she herself had stolen her
away, in the dead of night, and travelled with her some fifty miles, and
left her at Glaud's door; that she had taken a cottage in the vicinity,
and had watched over the child ever since. All of course are delighted
with this discovery. The betrothment of Patie and Peggy is sanctioned by
Sir William; and even Bauldy

                  "the bewitch'd, has quite forgot
    Fell Madge's taz, and pawky Madge's plot,"

and exclaims:

    "I'm friends wi' Mause,--wi' very Madge I'm greed,
    Although they skelpit[53] me when woodly flied:[54]
    I'm now fu' blithe, an' frankly can forgive
    To join and sing, 'Lang may Sir William live.'"

[Footnote 53: Whipt.]

[Footnote 54: Sorely frightened.]

Sir William bestows upon "faithful Symon," and "kind Glaud," and upon
their heirs, "in endless fee," their "mailens," or farms, and takes old
Mause into his family, in peace

                            "to close her days,
    With naught to do but sing her Maker's praise."

Glaud consents to give Jenny to Roger, who says;

    "I ne'er was guid o' speaking a' my days,
    Or ever loo'd to make o'er great a fraise;[55]
    But for my master, father, an' my wife,
    I will employ the cares o' a' my life."

[Footnote 55: Fuss or perhaps flattering speech.]

To which, Sir William adds, summing up the whole:

    "My friends I'm satisfied you'll all behave,
    Each in his station as I'd wish or crave.
    Be ever virtuous, soon or late you'll find
    Reward and satisfaction to your mind.
    The maze o' life sometimes looks dark and wild;
    And oft when hopes are highest, we're beguiled.
    Oft when we stand on brinks of dark despair,
    Some happy turn, with joy, dispels our care."

Thus ends the "Gentle Shepherd," which with all its faults, possesses an
inimitable charm. In Scotland it is a sort of household poem. Every one,
young and old, reads it with delight. Indeed, it is probably the most
popular pastoral drama ever written. The common people, in the rural
districts of Scotland, know it by heart. The Bible, the Pilgrim's
Progress, Robinson Crusoe and "the Gentle Shepherd" are read by them a
thousand times more than any other book.




CHAPTER XI.

     Biographical Sketch of Allan Ramsay--Lasswade--Ramble along the
     banks of the North Esk--Glenesk--A Character--Anecdote of Sir W.
     Scott--Hawthornden--Drummond the Poet--His Character and
     Genius--Sonnets--Chapel and Castle of Roslin--Barons of
     Roslin--Ballad of Rosabelle--Hunting Match between Robert Bruce and
     Sir William St. Clair.


Leaving Habbie's Howe, we will let Sandy drive us along the banks of the
river, through Auchindinny, Roslin and Hawthornden, to the pretty
village of Lasswade, where we will spend the night. Sandy can take the
carriage back to Edinburgh, and to-morrow we will ramble on foot through
the classic shades of Roslin and Hawthornden, visit Dalkeith and some
other places, and return to Edinburgh by the railway. In the meantime I
will give you some account of Allan Ramsay.

Allan was born on the 15th of October, 1686, in Crawford Muir,
Lanarkshire, and died in the city of Edinburgh, in the year 1784. He was
at first a wigmaker, and afterwards a bookseller. In 1726 he kept a
little bookstore opposite Niddry's Wynd in the city of Edinburgh, whence
he removed to another, somewhat more commodious at the east end of the
Luckenbooths, having exchanged his old sign of Mercury for the heads of
Ben Jonson and Drummond of Hawthornden, whom he greatly admired. His
early education was limited. He attended the village school at
Leadhills, where, as he himself informs us, he acquired just learning
enough to read Horace "faintly in the original." Of a vigorous
constitution, and a cheerful temper, he spent his time happily in the
country, till his fifteenth year, though his lot seems to have been a
hard one.

    "Wading through glens wi' chorking feet,
    Where neither plaid nor kilt could fend[56] the weet;
    Yet blithely would he bang out o'er the brae,
    And stend o'er burns as light as ony rae,
    Hoping the morn[57] might prove a better day."

[Footnote 56: Keep off.]

[Footnote 57: To-morrow.]

He went to Edinburgh, a poor country boy, and gradually made his way to
competence, and respectability. Whether he was particularly successful
as a wigmaker we are not informed; but he found the trade of bookseller
infinitely more congenial. Ensconced behind his counter, he could study,
write poetry, chat with his customers, and publish his own lucubrations.
His first principal poem was "Christ's Kirk on the Green," a
continuation of King James's poem of the same name, a rough but graphic
and humorous picture of rustic revelry. Its indelicacy is rather gross,
but it has all the vigor and humor of Hogarth's pictures. His other
poems, containing songs, fables, pastorals, complimentary verses (of
which he has a very large number,) stories and epistles are quite
numerous. They contain a large amount of trash, with here and there
some beautiful gems. He is mainly successful in Scottish verse. His
imitations of the English poets are rather poor. "_The Vision_" is one
of his ablest productions. The Genius of Scotland is painted "with a
touch of the old heroic Muse:"

    "Great daring darted frae his ee,
    A braid sword shaggled[58] at his knee,
      On his left arm a targe;
    A shining spear filled his right hand,
    Of stalwart make in bane and brawnd,
      Of just proportions large;
    A various rainbow  plaid
      Owre his left spaul[59] he threw,
    Down his braid back, frae his white head
      The silver wimplers[60] grew.
        Amazed, I gazed
          To see, led at command,
        A stampant and rampant
          Fierce lion in his hand."

[Footnote 58: Dangled.]

[Footnote 59: Shoulder.]

[Footnote 60: Tassels or dangles.]

But his most popular production is the "Gentle Shepherd" which appeared
in 1725--and was received with enthusiasm, not only in Scotland, but in
England and Ireland. It was much admired by Pope and Gay, the latter of
whom, when on a visit to Scotland, with the Duke and Duchess of
Queensberry, used to lounge in Allan Ramsay's shop, and obtain from him
explanations of the Scottish expressions that he might communicate them
to Pope.

Allan uniformly had an eye to the "main chance." He sedulously courted
the great, and managed to accumulate a good many pennies. "In the
mingled spirit of prudence and poetry," he contrived

    "To theek[61] the out and line the inside
    Of many a douce and witty pash,[62]
    And baith ways gathered in the cash."

[Footnote 61: Thatch.]

[Footnote 62: Head.]

He was foolish enough however to lay out his gains in the erection of a
theatre which was prohibited by the magistrates, as an injury to good
morals. So that Allan lost his cash and his pains together, and not only
so, but his good temper. This exposed him to much obloquy, in part
perhaps deserved. He was somewhat Jacobinical in his views, and hated
the Presbyterian clergy, who were afraid of him, as "a half <DW7>," and
a some what licentious writer. Hence he lampooned them with great
severity, in consequence of which he was pretty well lampooned in his
turn.

After all Allan was a true poet, and by no means a bad man. He was
honest, kind-hearted and cheerful. Some of his poetical strains indicate
much elevation and tenderness of spirit.

In personal appearance he was somewhat peculiar. The following amusing
description he has given of himself:

    "Imprimis, then, for tallness, I
    Am five foot and four inches high,
    A black a viced[63] snod dapper fellow,
    Nor lean, nor overlaid wi' tallow;
    With phiz of a morocco cut,
    Resembling a late man of wit,
    Auld gabbet Spec[64] who was sae cunning,
    To be a dummie ten years running.
    Then for the fabric of my mind,
    'Tis mair to mirth than grief inclined:
    I rather choose to laugh at folly
    Than show dislike by melancholy;
    Well judging a sour heavy face
    Is not the truest mark of grace.
    I hate a drunkard or a glutton,
    Yet I'm nae fae[65] to wine and mutton:
    Great tables ne'er engaged my wishes
    When crowded with o'er many dishes;
    A healthfu' stomach, sharply set,
    Prefers a back-say,[66] piping het,
    I never could imagine 't vicious
    Of a fair fame to be ambitious;
    Proud to be thought a comic poet,
    And let a judge of numbers know it,
    I court occasion thus to show it."

[Footnote 63: Of a dark complexion.]

[Footnote 64: Does this mean Spectator?]

[Footnote 65: Foe.]

[Footnote 66: Sirloin.]

Allan never suffered his poetry to interfere with his business. Indeed
he abandoned verse altogether in the latter part of his life, rightly
judging that he might not equal his earlier productions, and feeling
moreover that other and more serious engagements demanded his attention.
The following epistle to Mr. Smibert, an eminent painter and intimate
friend, dated Edinburgh, 10th May, 1736, is highly characteristic;

     "MY DEAR OLD FRIEND:--

     Your health and happiness are ever _ane_ addition to my
     satisfaction. God make your life ever easy and pleasant. Half a
     century of years have now row'd oe'r my brow, that begins now to
     be _lyart_;[67] yet thanks to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep
     as sound as I did twenty years _syne_;[68] yes, I laugh heartily
     too, and find as many subjects to employ that faculty upon as ever;
     fools, <DW2>s and knaves, grow as rank as formerly, yet here and
     there are to be found good and worthy men, who are _ane_ honor to
     _human_ life. We have small hopes of seeing you again in our world;
     then let us be virtuous and hope to meet in heaven. My good _auld_
     wife is still my bedfellow; my son Allan has been pursuing your
     science since he was a dozen years _auld_--was with Mr. Hyffidg, at
     London, for some time, about two years ago--has been since at home,
     painting here like a Raphael--sets out for the seat of the beast,
     beyond the Alps, in a month hence--to be away about two years. I'm
     _sweer_[69] to part with him, but _canna_ stem the current which
     flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclination. I
     have three daughters, one of seventeen, one of sixteen, and one of
     twelve years of old, and no _rewayled dragle_[70] among them, all
     fine girls. These six or seven years past I have not written a line
     of poetry. I e'en gave over in good time, before the coolness of
     fancy, that attends advanced years, should make me risk the
     reputation I had acquired.

     Frae twenty-five to five and forty,
     My muse was neither _sweer_[71] nor _dorty_,[72]
     My Pegasus wad break her _tether_,[73]
     E'en at the _shagging_ of a feather;
     And _throw_[74] ideas scour like _drift_,
     _Streaking_ his wings up to the lift;
     Then when my soul was in a low[75]
     That gart[76] my numbers safely row;[77]
     But _eild_[78] and judgment _gin_[79] to say,
     Let be your _sangs_ and learn to pray.

     I am, Sir, your friend and servant,
     ALLAN RAMSAY."

[Footnote 67: Wrinkled.]

[Footnote 68: Since.]

[Footnote 69: Loth.]

[Footnote 70: Uncouth sloven.]

[Footnote 71: Reluctant.]

[Footnote 72: Proud or stiff.]

[Footnote 73: Halter.]

[Footnote 74: Through.]

[Footnote 75: Blaze.]

[Footnote 76: Caused.]

[Footnote 77: Roll.]

[Footnote 78: Age.]

[Footnote 79: Begin.]

In 1743 his circumstances were such as enabled him to build a small
octagon shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which he
named Ramsay Lodge, but which some of his witty friends compared to a
goose pie. He told Lord Elibank one day of this ungracious comparison.
"What," said the witty peer, "a goose pie! In good faith, Allan, now that
I see _you_ in it, I think the house is not ill named." He lived in this
odd-looking edifice till the day of his death, enjoying the society of
his friends, and cracking his jokes with perhaps greater quietness, but
with as much gust and hilarity as ever. He was a man of genius, and has
exerted great influence on the lighter literature of Scotland. He was an
immense favorite with Burns, his equal in genius, his superior in depth
of feeling, in tenderness and beauty of expression. But Burns doubtless
owed something to the "wood notes wild," of his illustrious predecessor.
Both have done much to illustrate and beautify their native land.

Next morning at early dawn we are rambling in and around the pretty
village of Lasswade, which lies so sweetly on the left bank of the North
Esk. The river runs in many charming sinuosities through the parish, now
passing over a smooth ledge of rocks, then "wimpling" over shining
pebbles, then gliding with a scarcely perceptible motion "among the
green braes," now wetting the pendant branches of the birch and broom,
anon sleeping in a deep pellucid pool, then leaping "o'er a linn," and
then gushing with a hollow murmur, among the loose gray rocks. Nothing
can be more beautiful and picturesque. Many pretty cottages and handsome
villas adorn the neighborhood. De Quincy, the celebrated English "opium
eater" lives here, and Sir Walter Scott at one time occupied a cottage
in the vicinity. The following is a happy description from his pen, of
the enchanting scenes through which the North and South Esk flow. It is
taken from his ballad of the "Grey Brother."

    Sweet are the paths--O passing sweet!
      By Esk's fair streams that run,
    O'er airy steep, through copsewood's deep,
      Impervious to the sun.

    There the rapt poet's step may rove,
      And yield the muse the day;
    There beauty led by timid love,
      May shun the tell-tale ray.

    From that fair dome[80] where suit is paid,
      By blast of bugle free,
    To Auchindinny's hazel glade,
      And haunted Woodhouselee.

    Who knows not Melville's beechy groove,
      And Roslin's rocky glen,
    Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,
      And classic Hawthornden.

[Footnote 80: Pennycuick House, the romantic and elegant residence of
Sir George Clerk, Baronet. "It stands on a flat, in a curve of the
river, with a picturesque glen behind, carrying up the view to the ruins
of Branstane Castle, and the western extremity of the Pentlands--a a
little plain in front, gemmed with a beautiful artificial pond, and
overhung by ascents which are mantled all over with wood--and swells and
eminences on each side, dissevered by ravines, and moulded into many
curvatures of beauty. On the opposite side of the river, at the end of
an avenue at the top of a bank, stands an obelisk, raised by Sir James
Clerk, to the memory of his friend and frequent inmate, Allan Ramsay."]

It is not surprising that multitudes from Edinburgh come to reside here
in the summer time; for what with the varied scenery of rock and river,
copsewood and fell, the pleasant associations of the present, and the
thrilling memories of "Auld lang syne," no region can be more attractive
and agreeable.

Sauntering along, we approach Glenesk, so called from the deep and
charming glen, formed by the winding river. Yonder is an old man at work
in his garden, who looks quite patriarchal, and I dare say knows a good
deal of the neighborhood. Let us accost him.

"Good morning, sir!"

"Gude mornin' gentlemen!"

"You seem to be quite early in your garden this morning."

"Ou aye, we maun mak hay while the sun shines, ye ken, and this is a
graund time for planting."

"You have lived in the neighborhood a considerable time, I presume."

"A' my days."

"Well, it's a beautiful country."

"Ou aye, it's weel eneuch. My faither before me lived in that bit housie
out yonder amang the trees, and he used aften to say, gude auld man!
that the lines had fallen to us in pleasant places, and that we had a
goodly heritage. For my pairt, I like the country unco weel. The burn
there is verra pleasant, its sae caller[81] like, wimpling amang the
rocks and bushes. And what's mair to the pint, it has got a fouth[82] of
fine fish in 't, though thae new fangled mills are frightening them
awa."

[Footnote 81: Fresh.]

[Footnote 82: Abundance.]

"Trout, I suppose."

"Yes, sir, and fine anes too. Ah! mony's the day I hae paidlt in that
burn, when a wee bit callant, catching the trout amang the stanes, when
the water was low."

"Did you know any thing of Sir Walter Scott? He used to live near
Lasswade, and I dare say often wandered this way to fish."

"Ken him! That I did fu' weel. And an honest freendly man he was. He cam
up the burn every noo and then, sometimes wi' a fishing-rod, and
sometimes wi' a staff in his han. He and I got weel acquaint after a
time, for he was nane o' your upstarts, but an unco frank, freespoken
kind of a man. Not that he talked sae muckle himsel, but he was aye
askin about something or ither, and kept my tongue waggin' a' the time.
Ah yes, Sir Walter was a canny man. He knew the hail kintra side, and
used to spier a great many questions about the ways o' the auld folks.
One day he cam alang the burn side, wi' anither gentleman. I happened to
be working down there. His line got tangled in a stane, and he got me to
fetch it out. He then coost it into the deep pule below, making the flee
skim alang the top o' the water, as skeelfully as onything ye ever saw.
When up louped a muckle spotted trout, and in a moment dragged the line
to the other side, then spanked up the burn at an unco rate, running the
line aff the reel, which birred like a spinnin' wheel. Sir Walter
hobbled after it as weel as he could. He was lame, ye ken, but managed
to move pretty quick. The trout plunged and flounced over the shallow
water, got into another deep pule, and ran into the bank, in the hollow
of twa big stanes that were lying there. Now, cried Sir Walter, I have
you my boy; so he kept jerkin awa at him, and out he cam again, when Sir
Walter gave him a wallop, and laid him flat amang the gowans. 'Twas a
bonny sight, I tell you. The trout was nae less than a fit and a quarter
lang, as thick as my arm, and spotted all o'er wi' shining spots, like a
leopard. Sir Walter was unco pleased--rubbed his hans', and every now
and then broke into a smile, as he cracked some joke about the trout.
Hech! it was a guid sight for sair een--to see Sir Walter after the
trout, and specially to see the trout walloping amang the gowans."

"But don't you think that it was rather cruel sport?"

"Cruel! why man, the fish kens naething ava, and out o' its ain element,
it gets choked in a minute. And, for my pairt, I dinna see what fish is
guid for, if not to be catch'd and eaten, specially the big anes! My
gude auld faither used often to say to us, 'Boys, ye mauna be cruel to
the dumb beasts, and when ye gang a fishing, be sure to let the wee fish
gae.'"

"Your father was a worthy man, I dare say."

"That he was, I can assure you. He was respeckit by the hail kintra
side. When auld and feeble, he wud sit before the door, on a divot seat,
the hail simmer day, wi' a braid bonnet on his head, and a lang staff by
his side, reading the Bible, or maybe 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or takin'
wi' the neebors wha cam to see him."

"Did he belong to the established kirk?"

"Na, na, he was ane o' the auld Covenanters, and used to talk a deal
about Cameron and McMillen, as unco powerfu' preachers. He thocht the
present times were wonderfu' degenerate, that the solemn League and
Covenant o' Scotland was amaist forgotten, and that the people
now-a-days were a sort o' inferior race. But he was a gude man; unco
pleasant to look upon, and unco pleasant to hear, when he talked o' the
faithfulness o' Israel's God, and the comfort and blessedness of being
his children. When he deed, he seemed to fa' asleep. A smile was on his
pale face, and his han' lay upon his breast, as it were in token of
resignation to the will o' heaven. He lies buried in the auld
kirk-yard, o'er yonder, wi' the words on his head-stane at his ain
request, 'Blessed are the deed that dee in the Lord.'"

"Are you too a Cameronian?"

"Why no, to tell ye the honest truth. The auld Cameronians are amaist a'
gane; and I just gang o'er here to the free kirk, where, to my notion,
we hae as guid sound preachin as ye'll meet wi' in the hail kintra side.
I'm no sae gude a man as my faither; but I canna forget his counsels and
his prayers."

"Have you any family, my friend?"

"Ou aye. A bit callant, and twa strapping lasses, one of whom is
married."

"Well, that's a comfort."

"A great comfort, sir, in my auld days. Jeanie is weel married, and has
bairns o' her ain. Marion wad a been married, but she was kind a skary,
and so she stays at hame. The bit callant is no my ain, but a neebor's
son that we adopted frae pity, seeing his mither is puir, and his
faither was lost at sea."

"And your wife, is she well?"

"Well! Aye, that she is--in heaven! She's been gane these five
years--(here the tears started in the old man's eyes.) We maun a' dee.
(A brief pause.) But, as my gude auld faither used to say, 'The Lord
gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

"Yes, my good old friend, the hope of a Christian, which you seem to
cherish, is a source of infinite comfort. It sweetens the cares of life,
and robs death of its sting. Good morning."

"Gude mornin; and the Lord bless you!"

Ascending the river a short distance, we come to Hawthornden, once the
property and residence of the celebrated poet and historian, William
Drummond, the friend of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson. The house, originally
constructed with reference to strength, surmounts the very edge of a
precipitous cliff, which rises above the river. Winding around it are
charming walks, among the green foliage, which fringes the summit and
sides of the rock, down to the very edge of the water. Wild tangled
bushes, flowering shrubs, birches and oak trees, are mingled in most
picturesque and delightful confusion; while the gray cliffs here and
there, peep out from their sylvan garniture as if sunning themselves in
the summer radiance. Below, the stream, impeded in its course by huge
ledges of rocks, hurries unseen, but distinctly heard, amid the woods;
further on, emerges into the light of day, and forms a broad clear pool,
on the banks of which you may see some industrious fisherman plying his
rod.

          "The spot is wild, the banks are steep,
    With eglantine and hawthorn blossomed o'er,
    Lychnis and daffodils, and hare-bells blue.
    From lofty granite crags precipitous,
    The oak with scanty footing topples o'er,
    Tossing his limbs to heaven; and from the cleft,
    Fringing the dark brown, natural battlements,
    The hazel throws his silvery branches down:
    There starting into view, a castled cliff,
    Whose roof is lichen'd o'er, purple and green,
    O'erhangs thy wandering stream, romantic Esk,
    And rears its head among the ancient trees."

Standing in front of it you see certain artificial caves, hollowed with
immense labor, out of the solid rock. These communicate with each other,
and contain a well of prodigious depth bored from the court-yard of the
mansion. The caves are reported by tradition to have been a stronghold
of the ancient Pictish kings, and three of them bear respectively the
name of 'the king's Gallery, the king's Bed-chamber and the king's
Guard-room.' They were doubtless hewn out, as places of refuge, during
the terrible wars between the English and the Picts, or the English and
the Scots. In the reign of David II, when the English had possession of
Edinburgh, they and the neighboring caves of Gorton afforded shelter to
the heroic Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie and his adventurous band.

Adjoining the house, and overlooking the stream, a kind of seat is cut
in the face of the rock, called 'Cypress Grove,' where Drummond is
reported to have sat, in the fine summer weather, and composed many of
his poems. The magnificent woods in the vicinity suggested to Peter
Pindar the caustic remark respecting Dr. Samuel Johnson, that he

    "Went to Hawthornden's fair scene by night,
    Lest e'er a Scottish tree should wound the sight."

Crossing the river at a suitable place, we will saunter towards Roslin
on the other side, and while doing so, will beguile the way by talking
of Drummond, whose genius haunts every nook and corner of the shady
dell.

William Drummond was born in 1585 and died in 1649. His father, John
Drummond, was gentleman usher to King James. He was hence educated in
profound reverence for royalty and its prerogatives. Indeed his feelings
upon this subject were entirely slavish; and it is said that his strong
grief at the death of Charles the First hastened his death.

He was well versed in classic literature, and enjoyed the advantages of
a refined and liberal education. Having studied civil law for four years
in France, he succeeded in 1611 to an independent estate, and took up
his residence in Hawthornden. Its cliffs, caves, and wooded dells were
in harmony with his genius, and he spent many happy years in this
beautiful retreat. His first publication was a volume of occasional
poems, of various merit, to which succeeded a moral treatise, in prose,
called "Cypress Grove," in allusion probably to the fairy nook on the
face of the rock where he meditated and wrote, and a second poetical
work entitled "Flowers of Zion." He also wrote the History of the Five
James's, a production of no great merit, in which he urges, to an
extravagant length, the doctrine of the absolute supremacy of kings.
"The Cypress Grove" contains reflections upon death, written in a solemn
and agreeable strain, and contains some fine passages. "This earth,"
says he, "is as a table book, and men are the notes; the first are
washen out, that new may be written in. They who forewent us did leave
room for us; and should we grieve to do the same to those who should
come after us? Who, being suffered to see the exquisite rarities of an
antiquary's cabinet, is grieved that the curtain be drawn, and to give
place to new pilgrims? And when the Lord of the Universe hath shown us
the amazing wonders of his various frame, should we think it hard, when
he thinketh time, to dislodge? This is his unalterable and inevitable
decree; as we had no part of our will in our entrance into this life, we
should not presume to any in our leaving it; but soberly learn to will
that which he wills, whose very will giveth being to all that it wills."

The death of a beautiful young lady, to whom he was betrothed, affected
him deeply; and he sought relief to his wounded feelings in foreign
travel. On returning, some years afterwards, he met a young lady by the
name of Logan, bearing a strong resemblance to the former object of his
affections; on account of which he solicited and obtained her hand in
marriage.

Drummond was intimate with Drayton and Ben Jonson. The latter paid him a
visit at Hawthornden, and they had much free conversation together.
Drummond kept private notes of these conversations, which subsequently
saw the light, and were found to be somewhat injurious to Jonson's
memory. But Drummond himself had no hand in their publication.

As a poet Drummond belonged to the school of Spenser, though far
inferior to the latter in strength of conception and splendor of
imagination. His poems are distinguished for their singular harmony and
sweetness of versification. They seem to partake of the character of the
quiet romantic scenery amid which they were composed. His "Tears on the
Death of Moeliades," (Prince Henry, son of James I.,) and his "River
Forth Feasting," have been much admired. His sonnets, however, are his
best productions. They flow with as much grace and beauty, (though not
perhaps with the same variety,) as the romantic river which murmurs past
his "wooded seat." His madrigals, complimentary verses, and other short
pieces, abound in foolish conceits, and what is worse, in coarse and
licentious language. But he was one of the best poets of the age, and
only inferior to two or three of his great contemporaries.

The following sonnet--"To His Lute"--is very sweet. It was probably
written after the death of the lady to whom he was betrothed;

    My lute be as thou wert when thou didst grow,
    With thy green mother, in some shady grove,
    When immelodious winds but made thee move,
    And birds their ramage[83] did on thee bestow.
    Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
    Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
    Is reft from earth to join the spheres above,
    What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
    Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
    But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,
    Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
    For which be silent as in woods before;
    Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
    Like widowed turtle still her loss complain.

[Footnote 83: Warbling.]

His sonnet "In Praise of a Solitary Life" was written, we can well
imagine, in his summer bower on the banks of the Esk. It is peculiarly
harmonious:

    Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
    Far from the clamorous world doth live his own,
    Thou solitary, who is not alone,
    But doth converse with that eternal love.
    O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
    Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
    Than those smooth whisperings near a prince' throne,
    Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
    O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
    And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold,
    Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath.
    How sweet are streams, to poison drank in gold!
    The world is full of horror, troubles, slights:
    Woods, harmless shades have only true delights.

The following, "To a Nightingale," is still more beautiful:

    Sweet bird! that singst away the early hours
    Of winters past or coming, void of care,
    Well pleased with delights which present are,
    Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
    To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
    Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
    And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
    A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
    What soul can be so sick as by thy songs
    (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
    Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs,
    And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
    Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
    To airs of spheres--yes, and to angels' lays.

But we have entered the vale of Roslin, and there, in its beauty, stands
the Chapel of Roslin, one of the most exquisite architectural ruins in
Scotland. It was founded in 1484, or even earlier than that, by the
Earl of Caithness and Orkney. The whole Chapel is profusely decorated
with the most delicate sculpture both within and without. The roof, the
capitals, key-stones and architraves, are all overlaid with sculpture,
representing foliage and flowers, grotesque figures, sacred history and
texts of Scripture. The fine fluted column called the "Apprentice's
Pillar," so named from a tradition which no one believes, and which
therefore we do not repeat, is exceedingly beautiful, being ornamented
with wreaths of foliage and flowers twining around it in spiral columns.
So perfect are these alto relievos, that the author of a pamphlet
describing them, says that he can liken them to nothing but Brussels
lace.

How solemn a thing it is in this chequered light, to wander amid these
sounding aisles and ancient monuments! In the vaults beneath lie the
Barons of Roslin, all of whom, till the time of James the Seventh, were
buried without a coffin, in complete armor. This circumstance, and the
vulgar belief that on the night preceding the death of any of these
barons, the chapel appeared in flames, has been finely described by
Walter Scott, in his touching ballad of Rosabelle.

    O listen, listen, ladies gay!
      No haughty feats of arms I tell;
    Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

    "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
      And gentle ladye deign to stay!
    Rest thee in castle Ravensheuch,
      Nor tempt the stormy Firth to-day.

    "The blackening wave is edged with white,
      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
    The fishers have heard the water sprite,
      Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

    "Last night the gifted seer did view,
      A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay!
    Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch;
      Why cross the gloomy Firth to-day?"

    "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir,
      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
    But that my ladye mother there,
      Sits lonely in her castle hall.

    "'Tis not because the ring they ride--
      And Lindesay at the ring rides well--
    But that my sire the wine will chide
      If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle."

    O'er Roslin all that dreary night,
      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam,
    'Twas broader than the watchfire's light,
      And redder than the bright moonbeam.

    It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
      It ruddied all the copsewood glen,
    'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,
      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

    Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,
      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
    Each baron, for a sable shroud,
      Sheathed in his iron panoply.

    Seem'd all on fire, within, around,
      Deep sacristy and altar pale;
    Shone every pillar, foliage bound,
      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

    Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair,--
    So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
      The lordly line of high St. Clair.

    There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold,
      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
    Each one the holy vault doth hold--
      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.

    And each St. Clair was buried there,
      With candle, with book, and with knell,
    But the sea caves rung, and the wild winds sung,
      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

We now pass over a bridge of great height, spanning a deep cut in the
solid rock, and reach Roslin Castle, with its triple tier of vaults,
standing upon a peninsular rock overhanging the romantic glen of the
Esk. This castle was, for ages, the seat of the St. Clairs, or
Sinclairs, descended from William de Sancto Clare, the son of Waldernus
de Clare, who came to England with William the Conqueror, and fought at
the battle of Hastings. The enumeration of their titles, says Sir Walter
Scott, would take away the breath of a herald. Among others, they were
Princes of the Orcades, Dukes of Oldenburgh, Lord Admirals of the
Scottish Seas, Grand Justiciaries of the kingdom, Wardens of the border,
Earls of Caithness, titularies of more than fifty baronies, patrons and
Grand Masters of Masonry in Scotland, &c. &c.

Of the grandeur and opulence of the family, some conception may be
derived from the following description, given in a manuscript in the
"Advocate's Library," of the state maintained by William St. Clare,
founder of the chapel.--"About that time (1440) the town of Roslin,
being next to Edinburgh and Haddington in East Lothian, became very
populous by the great concourse of all ranks and degrees of visitors
that resorted to this Prince, at his palace of the Castle of Roslin; for
he kept a great court, and was royally served at his own table, in
vessels of gold and silver, Lord Dirleton being his master of the
household, Lord Borthwick his cup-bearer, and Lord Fleming his carver,
&c. He had his halls and other apartments richly adorned with
embroidered hangings. He flourished in the reigns of James the First and
Second. His princess, Elizabeth Douglass, was served by seventy-five
gentlewomen, whereof fifty-three were daughters of noblemen, all clothed
in velvets and silks, with their chains of gold and other ornaments, and
was attended by two hundred riding gentlemen in all her journeys; and if
it happened to be dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings
were at the foot of Blackfriars' Wynd, eighty lighted torches were
carried before her."

The old castle is almost entirely gone, and the present structure is a
comparatively modern one. It belongs to the Earl of Rosslyn, descended
from a collateral branch of the St. Clair family.

It is interesting to think of the magnificent old barons who kept state
in the mouldering castles which everywhere adorn the Scottish landscape.
Some of them were noble specimens of humanity, but the greater
proportion of them were but splendid barbarians. They led a sort of rude
animal life, and were distinguished chiefly for their towering pride and
ungovernable passion. The following story of a hunting match between
King Robert Bruce and Sir William St. Clair, throws an interesting
light on the spirit of the age and the history of the St. Clair family.
"The king had been repeatedly baulked by a fleet white deer which he had
started in his hunt among the Pentland Hills; and having asked an
assembled body of his nobles whether any dogs in their possession could
seize the game that had escaped the royal hounds, Sir William St. Clair
promptly offered to pledge his head that two favorite dogs of his called
'Help and Hold,' would kill the deer before she crossed the March burn.
The king instantly accepted the knight's bold and reckless offer, and
promised himself to give the forest of Pentland Moor in guerdon of
success. A few slow hounds having been let loose to beat up the deer,
and the king having taken post on the best vantage-ground for commanding
a view of the chase, Sir William stationed himself in the fittest
position for slipping his dogs, and in the true style of a Romanist, who
asks a blessing upon a sin, and supposes the giver of the blessing to be
a creature, earnestly prayed to St. Katherine to give the life of the
deer to his dogs. Away now came the raised deer, and away in full chase
went Sir William on a fleet-footed steed; and hind and hunter arrived
neck and neck at the critical March burn. Sir William threw himself in a
desperate fling from his horse into the stream; 'Hold,' just at this
crisis of fate, stopped the deer in the brook, and 'Help' the next
instant came up, drove back the chase, and killed her on the winning
side of the stream. The king, who had witnessed the nicely poised
result, came speedily down from his vantage-ground, embraced Sir
William, and granted him, in free forestry, the lands of Logan House,
Kirkton, and Carncraig. Sir William, in gratitude for the fancied
interference of St. Katherine in his favor, built the chapel of St.
Katherine in the Hopes. The tomb of the wildly adventurous knight who
was so canine in his nature as to reckon his life not too high a pledge
for the fleetness and fierceness of his dogs, is still to be seen in
Roslin chapel; and it very properly represents the sculpture of his
armed person to be attended by a greyhound, as a joint claimant of the
honor and fame of his exploits."

In the neighboring moor of Roslin is the scene of a great battle, in
1302, in which the Scottish army gained, in one day, three successive
victories, a circumstance touchingly referred to by _Delta_, Dr. Moir of
Musselburgh, author of 'Casa Wappy,' 'Wee Willie,' and many other
exquisite contributions to Blackwood's Magazine.

    "Three triumphs in a day!
      Three hosts subdued by one!
    Three armies scattered like the spray,
      Beneath one summer sun
    Who pausing 'mid this solitude
      Of rocky streams and leafy trees,--
    Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood,
      Would ever dream of these?
    Or have a thought that ought intrude
      Save birds and humming bees?"

How delightful, as we wander amid these hoary ruins and leafy bowers, so
still and beautiful under the rich light of a summer noon, to think that
the old stormy times of feudal warfare have passed away forever, and
that peace, with balmy wing, is brooding over this and other Christian
lands.

But in this everyday life, the wants of nature must be met. Let us hie
then to the village inn, just beyond the chapel. With our keen
appetites, a snug dinner there will relish better than the most splendid
banquet of the St. Clairs.




CHAPTER XII.

     Ramble through the Fields--Parish Schools--Recollections of Dominie
     Meuross--The South Esk--Borthwick and Crichtoun Castles--Newbattle
     Abbey--Dalkeith--Residence of the Duke of Buccleugh--"Scotland's
     Skaith," by Hector Macneil--His Character and Writings--Extracts
     from the "History of Will and Jean."


Recrossing the North Esk, we ramble through the country in a
north-easterly direction, passing through highly cultivated farms, with
large comfortable homesteads. The fields everywhere are filled with
laborers, hoeing, ploughing, and weeding, most of them cheerful as
larks, and making the woods ring with 'whistle and song.' That plain but
substantial edifice, under the shadow of the great oak tree hard by the
old church, is a parish school-house, in which perhaps are gathered some
fifty or sixty boys and girls, from all ranks of society, plying their
mental tasks, under the supervision of an intelligent schoolmaster.
Every morning in that school-house the Word of God is reverently read,
and earnest prayer offered, exerting upon all minds a healthful moral
influence, and producing impressions of a religious kind, which may last
forever. Any boy may be fitted for college, or for commercial pursuits,
in such a school, and the expense to the parent will be next to nothing.
What then must be the amount of good accomplished by the combined
influence of all the parish schools in Scotland, equally endowed, and
supplied with adequate teachers? Popular education has made great
advances in Scotland within a few years. The greatest zeal for learning
exists among the people, and they require no compulsive acts, as in
Germany, to induce them to send their children to school. Not to be able
to read and write is regarded, in Scotland, as a great disgrace; and
hence the poorest people are equally ready with the rich to avail
themselves of the benefits of instruction. Good teachers are uniformly
secured, because they receive an ample compensation, and none but
well-educated and truly moral men would be accepted. In this respect
their situation is greatly superior to that of parish schoolmasters in
Germany or in the United States. On this subject, Kohl, the German
traveller, mentions an amusing conversation which he had with the parish
schoolmaster at Muthil. Having stated to the latter that the situation
of Scottish teachers was far superior to that of teachers in his
country, he inquired what was the average pay of schoolmasters there.

"It varies a good deal," was the reply of Kohl. "Some have a hundred,
some a hundred and fifty, but many no more than fifty dollars."

"How many pounds go to a dollar?" asked he.

"Seven dollars go to a pound."

"What!" he exclaimed, springing up from his chair, "do you mean to tell
me that they pay a schoolmaster with _seven pounds_ a year?"

"Even so," was the reply, "seven pounds; but how much then do they get
with you?"

"I know no one who has less than from forty to fifty pounds in all
Scotland; but the average is seventy or eighty pounds; and many go as
high as a hundred and fifty pounds."

"What!" cried Kohl, springing up in his turn, "a hundred and fifty
pounds! that makes one thousand and fifty dollars. A _baron_ would be
satisfied in Germany with such a revenue as that; and do you mean to say
that there are schoolmasters who grumble at it?"

"Yes," said he; "but recollect how dear things are with us. Sugar costs
eighteenpence a pound; coffee two shillings; chocolate is still dearer,
and tea not much cheaper. And then how dear are good beef, and pork, and
plums, and puddings, and everything else!"

"I could not deny this," adds Kohl; "but I thought that our poor
schoolmasters were content if they had but bread."

In former times the parish schoolmasters did not receive so much as they
now do; but then they were clerks of the parish, frequently _precentors_
in the church, and received a multitude of little perquisites. Their
support has been made quite ample, having an average salary of a hundred
pounds, with a free house.

But the sight of that school-house brings back the days of "lang syne."
Well do I remember the old parish school--a long thatched building, at
the "Kirk of Shotts," where I received my preparation for college,
under the free and easy, but most efficient, administration of 'Dominie
Meuross,' famed through all the country for his great classical
attainments, his facetious disposition, his kind-heartedness, and his
love of the pure 'Glenlivet.' Those were not the days of temperance
societies, and the Dominie had so much to do with christenings and
weddings, parish difficulties, "roups" and law-suits, that he was
greatly tempted by the bottle. But he was a worthy man, and an
enthusiastic teacher, especially of the classics. Teaching A, B, C, was
rather a dull business to the Dominie; but oh, how _merrily_ he would
construe the Odes of Horace, what jokes he would crack over our lessons,
and what effulgent light he would cast upon the classic page! Yet
Dominie Meuross was a dignified man--no one more so. The boys, indeed,
enjoyed considerable latitude, especially at that end of the school
opposite the one in which the Dominie sat, and many facetious tricks
were played upon the duller boys, the "sumphs," as we used to call them.
But the Dominie had only to pull down his glasses from his forehead,
where they were usually perched, and direct a keen glance to "the other
end," instantly to bring us all to perfect order. Dear old man! he has
long ago "gone to the yird," but his memory is green as the grass which
waves upon his grave.

The school and the church, the light of learning, and the light of
religion, form the glory of Scotland. These have twined around her
rustic brow a wreath of fadeless glory. These have given her stability
and worth, beauty and renown.

But we have reached Dalhousie Castle, with its charming and romantic
grounds, situated on a branch of the South Esk, a stream similar to the
North Esk, and running in the same direction. These streams, after
passing through scenery the most picturesque and beautiful, and watering
a hundred spots consecrated by song and story, as if by a mutual
attraction, unite a little above Dalkeith, and fall near the old town of
Musselburgh into the Firth of Forth. Behind us, at the distance of a few
miles, are the celebrated ruins of Borthwick and Crichtoun castles, the
one on a branch of the South Esk, the other somewhat to the right, in
the vale of Tyne. It was into Borthwick Castle that Queen Mary retired
after the death of Darnley, and her unhappy marriage with Bothwell, and
from which she was obliged, a few days afterwards, to flee to Dunbar in
the guise of a page. Crichtoun Castle is beautifully described by Sir
Walter Scott, in Marmion, and as we cannot visit this interesting ruin,
take his description of it as the best substitute.

    "That castle rises on a steep
      Of the green vale of Tyne;
    And far beneath, where slow they creep
    From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
    Where alders moist, and willows weep,
      You hear her streams repine.
    The towers in different ages rose;
    Their various architecture shows
      The builders' various hands;
    A mighty mass, that could oppose,
    When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
      The vengeful Douglas' bands.

    "Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
      But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
      Thy turrets rude and tottered Keep,
    Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
    Oft have I traced within thy fort,
      Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
      Scutcheons of honor or pretence,
    Quartered in old armorial sort,
      Remains of rude magnificence.
    Nor wholly yet hath time defaced
      Thy lordly gallery fair;
    Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,
    Whose twisted knots with roses laced,
      Adorn thy ruined stair.
    Still rises unimpaired below,
    The court-yard's graceful portico:
    Above its cornice, row and row,
    Of fair hewn facets richly show,
      Their pointed diamond form,
    Though there but houseless cattle go,
      To shield them from the storm.
    And shuddering still may we explore,
      Where oft whilom were captives pent,
    The darkness of thy Massy More;[84]
      Or from thy grass-grown battlement.
    May trace, in undulating line,
    The sluggish mazes of the Tyne."

[Footnote 84: The prison vault.]

Proceeding along the stream, we pass Cockpen, reminding us of the Laird
of Cockpen and his amusing courtship, when

    "Dumb-founder'd was he,
      But nae word did he gae;
    He mounted his mare,
      And he rade cannilie.

    But aften he thought,
      As he gaed through the glen,
    She's a fule to refuse
      The Laird o' Cockpen."

We linger a few minutes by Newbattle Abbey, founded by David I., for a
community of Cistercian monks, brought hither from Melrose, but now the
residence of the Marquis of Lothian; and soon after reach the old "burgh
town" of Dalkeith, most delightfully situated between the two Esks, and
reminding us forcibly of "Mansie Waugh," the _pawkie tailor_ of
Dalkeith, whose amusing history we read in our boyhood. Dalkeith is a
considerable place, and has many elegant residences. In its immediate
vicinity is Dalkeith Palace, seat of the Duke of Buccleugh, standing on
an overhanging bank of the North Esk. Here too, in earlier times, lived
the Grahams, and the Douglases; and into this strong retreat, then
called the "Lion's den," retired the celebrated Regent Morton, who was
subsequently beheaded. We might enter the house, as this favor is often
granted to strangers, but we will not now; though it boasts the
possession of some fine old paintings, and some exquisite pieces of
furniture. But the grounds around it are infinitely more attractive,
adorned, as they are, with magnificent trees and shrubbery, and the
serpentine windings of the two Esks, whose waters unite in the park, a
little distance below the house. How placidly the stream glides through
the verdant meadows, and mirrors the green foliage of the overhanging
trees, or the branching horns of some deer, bent to drink its clear
waters! How softly and delicately the pencil rays of green and yellow
light glimmer through those shady retreats to the right. See the
startled deer bounding through the woods! How softly and lovingly sleeps
the sunshine on that wide pool at the bottom of the green <DW72>, adorned
with flowers and honeysuckles! And see, through that shady vista the
open sky in the distance, "so darkly, deeply, beautifully blue." The
birds too, mavis, lintie, and bulfinch, are caroling among the trees, as
if their little hearts were filled with boundless joy.

The cottage of "Jeanie Gairlace," supposed to be conferred upon her by
the Duchess of Buccleugh, is placed by Macneil, the author of
"Scotland's Skaith," in this beautiful vicinity. As we have yet to wait
some time for the rail cars that are to take us to Edinburgh, let us sit
down on this rustic seat, and I will give you some account of Macneil,
and his touching poem of "Will and Jean."

Hector Macneil was born in 1746, and died in 1818. He was brought up to
mercantile pursuits, but did not succeed in business. He cultivated in
secret his passion for the muses, and published at intervals several
poetical effusions, among which were "The Harp, a Legendary Poem,"--"The
Links of the Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Sterling," and
"Scotland's Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean," his most natural
and successful production. Though not successful in lyrical effusions,
or in song writing, he is the author, we believe, of that exquisite
ballad, "Bonny Wee Mary o' Castlecary." He also wrote some prose tales,
in which he laments the effects of modern changes and improvements. In
the latter years of his life, he resided in comparative comfort, at
Edinburgh, enjoying the congenial society of its refined and literary
circles.

"Scotland's Skaith (curse) or the History of Will and Jean," is intended
to depict the ruinous effects of intemperance, and the possibility of
reform, with the happiness thence resulting. A happy couple, in humble
life are gradually drawn into the vortex of intemperance, and at last
are reduced to the deepest extremities. The husband enlists as a
soldier, and the wife is compelled, with her children, to beg her bread.
In the commencement of the poem Willie is represented as passing a
rustic alehouse, whose attractions prove too much for him. The situation
of the alehouse, and the commencement of Willie's career as a drunkard,
are admirably described. The rhythm of the poem is peculiarly harmonious
and lively.

    In a howm[85] whose bonnie burnie,
      Whimpering rowed its crystal flood,
    Near the road where travellers turn aye,
      Neat and bield[86] a cot house stood.

    White the wa's, wi' roof new theckit,[87]
      Window broads[88] just painted red;
    Lown[89] 'mang trees and braes it reekit,[90]
      Hafflins[91] seen and hafflins hid.

    Up the gavel[92] end thick spreading,
      Crap the clasping ivy green,
    Back owre firs the high craigs cleadin,[93]
      Raised around a cosey screen.

    Down below a flowery meadow;
      Joined the burnies rambling line,
    Here it was that Howe the widow
      That same day set up her sign.

    Brattling[94] down the brae, and near its
      Bottom, Will first marvelling sees
    'Porter, ale, and British spirits,'
      Painted bright between twa trees.

    'Godsake Tam! here's walth for drinking!
      Wha can this new-comer be?'
    'Hout,' quo Tam, 'there's drouth in thinking--
      Let's in Will, and syne[95] we'll see.'

[Footnote 85: Hollow, or glen.]

[Footnote 86: Sheltered.]

[Footnote 87: Thatched.]

[Footnote 88: Boards.]

[Footnote 89: Serene and lonely.]

[Footnote 90: Smoked.]

[Footnote 91: Half.]

[Footnote 92: Gable.]

[Footnote 93: Clothing.]

[Footnote 94: Rattling, or running.]

[Footnote 95: Then.]

The two thoughtless friends have "a jolly meeting," and do not break up
till "'tween twa and three" next morning. A weekly club is set up at the
alehouse, a newspaper is procured, and things move on bravely. Willie
becomes a "pot-house politician," and a hard drinker, the consequence of
which is that he speedily goes to ruin. His wife also, to drown her
sorrows, takes to drinking. The contrast between their past and present
condition is touchingly described by the poet.

    Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace?
      Wha in neeboring town or farm?
    Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
      Deadly strength was in his arm.

    When he first saw Jeanie Miller,
      Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?
    Thousands had mair braws and siller.[96]
      But war ony half so fair?

    See them now! how chang'd wi' drinking!
      A' their youthfu' beauty gane!
    Davered,[97] doited,[98] dazed[99] and blinking--
      Worn to perfect skin and bane.

    In the cauld month o' November,
      (Claise,[100] and cash, and credit out,)
    Cowering o'er a dying ember,
      Wi' ilk face as white's a clout.[101]

    Bond and bill, and debts a' stoppit,
      Ilka sheaf selt[102] on the bent;[103]
    Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit,[104]
      Now to pay the laird his rent.

    No anither night to lodge here--
      No a friend their cause to plead!
    He's ta'en[105] on to be a sodger,
      She wi' weans[106] to beg her bread!

[Footnote 96: Fine clothing and money.]

[Footnote 97: Bewildered.]

[Footnote 98: Foolish.]

[Footnote 99: Stupid.]

[Footnote 100: Clothes.]

[Footnote 101: Cloth.]

[Footnote 102: Sold.]

[Footnote 103: Stubble field.]

[Footnote 104: Sold at auction.]

[Footnote 105: Engaged.]

[Footnote 106: Children.]

Fortunately, Jeanie attracts the attention of the Duchess of Buccleugh,
and obtains from her a pretty cottage, rent free, and such aid and
protection as her circumstances demand. Willie loses a leg in battle,
and returns a changed man, with a pension from government. Finding his
wife and family, he is received to their embrace. The soldier's return,
and the situation of the cottage are beautifully depicted.

    Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin',
      Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth;
    On a cart or in a wagon,
      Hirplin[107] aye towards the north.

    Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly,[108]
      Pondering on his thraward[109] fate,
    In the bonny month o' July,
      Willie, heedless, tent[110] his gate.[111]

    Saft the southland breeze was blowing,
      Sweetly sughed[112] the green oak wood;
    Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing,
      Strack the ear with thundering thud.

    Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating;
      Linties chirped on ilka tree;
    Frae the west the sun near setting,
      Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie.[113]

    Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny!
      Craigs and water, woods and glen!
    Roslin's banks unpeered by ony,
      Save the Muses' Hawthornden!

    Ilka sound and charm delighting,
      Will (though hardly fit to gang,)[114]
    Wandered on through scenes inviting,
      Listening to the mavis' sang.

    Faint at length, the day fast closing,
      On a fragrant strawberry steep,
    Esk's sweet dream to rest composing,
      Wearied nature drapt asleep.

    'Soldier, rise!--the dews o' e'ening,
      Gathering fa' wi' deadly skaith!--
    Wounded soldier! if complaining,
      Sleep na here, and catch your death.'

[Footnote 107: Limping.]

[Footnote 108: Carefully.]

[Footnote 109: Untoward.]

[Footnote 110: Lost.]

[Footnote 111: Way.]

[Footnote 112: Sighed.]

[Footnote 113: High.]

[Footnote 114: Walk.]

Accepting an invitation to take shelter in a neighboring cottage,
slowfully and painfully he followed his guide.

    Silent stept he on, poor fellow!
      Listening to his guide before,
    O'er green knowe, and flowery hollow,
      Till they reached the cot-house door.

    Laigh[115] it was, yet sweet and humble:
      Decked wi' honeysuckle round;
    Clear below Esk's waters rumble,
      Deep glens murmuring back the sound.

    Melville's towers sae white and stately,
      Dim by gloaming glint[116] to view;
    Through Lasswade's dark woods keek[117] sweetly,
      Skies sae red and lift sae blue.

    Entering now in transport mingle,
      Mother fond, and happy wean,[118]
    Smiling round a canty[119] ingle,
      Bleezing on a clean hearth-stane.

    'Soldier, welcome! Come, be cheery!
      Here ye'se[120] rest, and tak' your bed--
    Faint, waes me! ye seem and weary,
      Pale's your cheek, sae lately red!'

    'Changed I am,' sighed Willie till[121] her;
      'Changed nae doubt, as changed[122] can be;
    Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller
      Naught o' Willie Gairlace see?'

    Hae ye mark'd the dews o' morning,
      Glittering in the sunny ray,
    Quickly fa' when, without warning,
      Rough blasts came and shook the spray?

    Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing,
      Drap when pierced by death mair fleet?
    Then see Jean, wi' color deeing,[123]
      Senseless drap at Willie's feet.

    After three lang years' affliction,
      A' their waes now hush'd to rest,
    Jean ance mair, in fond affection,
      Clasps her Willie to her breast.

[Footnote 115: Low.]

[Footnote 116: Gleam.]

[Footnote 117: Peep.]

[Footnote 118: Child.]

[Footnote 119: Merry.]

[Footnote 120: You shall.]

[Footnote 121: To.]

[Footnote 122: As much as possible.]

[Footnote 123: Dying.]

But hark! the first bell rings for the cars; so let us be off, and get
our places. The sun has slipped down behind the trees yonder, and it
will be gloaming, if not ''tween and supper time,' before we get to
Edinburgh.

All is right, and off we go, whirring through the quiet and beautiful
scenery of these highly cultivated regions. We pass through "Samson's
ribs," that is, the granite rocks of Duddingston, by means of a tunnel,
glide along the base of Arthur's Seat, on whose summit linger the last
rays of evening; and land at the upper end of the city, well prepared to
relish a Scottish supper of substantial edibles, and after that, "tired
nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep."




CHAPTER XIII.

     City of Glasgow--Spirit of the place--Trade and Manufactures--The
     Broomielaw--Steam--George's Square--Monuments to Sir Walter Scott,
     Sir John Moore, and James Watt--Sketch of the Life of Watt--Glasgow
     University--Reminiscences--Brougham--Sir D. K. Sandford--Professor
     Nichol and others--High Kirk, or Glasgow Cathedral--Martyrdom of
     Jerome Russel and John Kennedy.


Taking the steam-cars from Edinburgh, we arrive at Glasgow, a distance
of forty-four miles, in a couple of hours. As Edinburgh is the
representative of Scottish literature and refinement, Glasgow is the
representative of its commerce and manufactures. It is an immense city,
and contains a prodigious number of inhabitants. At the period of the
Union it had a population of only twelve thousand: since which time it
has doubled this number twelve or thirteen times, and now contains
nearly three hundred thousand inhabitants. It owes this unprecedented
increase to its trade, domestic and foreign, which is almost
unparalleled in its extent. There is probably not a single inland town
in Great Britain, with the exception of London, which can show such a
shipping list.

Glasgow has ever been distinguished for its mechanical ingenuity, its
industry and enterprise. Its situation doubtless is highly favorable,
but without an intelligent, ingenious and active population, it could
never have reached such a height of prosperity.

But it is not our intention to visit this commercial city as tourists.
There are enough such to describe her agreeable situation, and handsome
public edifices, her long and elegant streets, her beautiful "green,"
and magnificent river. At present we shall not fatigue ourselves with
visiting the Royal Exchange, the Royal Bank, the Tontine and the
Assembly Rooms. Neither shall we trouble our readers to go with us
through Queen street, St. Vincent street, Greenhill Place, or Woodside
Crescent.

It might be worth while however, to look into some of those immense
factories; from which rise innumerable huge chimnies, some of which
overtop the steeples and towers of the churches, and reach far up into
the heavens.[124] Thousands and thousands of spindles and power looms,
with thousands and thousands of human hands and heads are moving there
from morn to night, and from night to morn. What masses of complicated
and beautiful machinery! What prodigious steam-engines, great hearts of
power in the centres of little worlds, giving life energy and motion to
the whole. Here is a single warehouse, as it is called, for the sale of
manufactured goods, containing no less than two hundred clerks. What
piles of silks and shawls, cottons and calicoes! The productions of
Glasgow reach every part of the world. You will find them in India,
China, and the United States, in the wilds of Africa and the jungles of
Burmah, amid the snows of Labrador, and the savannahs of Georgia.

[Footnote 124: One of these chimnies is said to be over 400 feet high.]

But let us go down to the Broomielaw, and take a look at the river
Clyde. That mile of masts, and those immense steamers, plying up and
down the river, connect Glasgow with every part of the British Empire
and the world.

What grand agency has accomplished all this? Steam!--steam, under the
guidance and control of genius and enterprise. The extended prosperity
of Glasgow commenced with the inventions of Watt, the greatest
mechanical genius of the age, and the first man that constructed a
steam-engine of much practical use. Steam has raised all those huge
factories which we have been admiring, and keeps their innumerable
wheels and pistons, spindles and power looms in motion. Steam it is
which brings untold masses of coal and iron from the bowels of the
earth, and converts them into machinery and motive power. Yonder it
comes, rolling and dashing, in a long train of cars and carriages filled
with the produce and population of the land. Here it gives life and
energy to a cotton mill with a thousand looms! There it casts off, from
day to day, the myriads of printed sheets which spread intelligence
through the country. All around us it moves the cranks and pullies,
ropes and wires, wheels and tools, which work such wonders in beating
and grinding, cutting and carving, polishing and dyeing. Steam has added
thousands, nay millions to the annual income of Glasgow. It has
augmented the resources of Great Britain to such an extent that it
saves seventy millions of dollars annually in the matter of motive
power alone! No pen can describe the additions which it has made in
other parts of the world to their manufactures and commerce. It has
brought all nations into more intimate relations, and is yet destined,
in many respects, to revolutionize the world.

Let us go then to George's Square, near the centre of the city, and look
at Chantrey's monument of the man who has done so much to bring about
such a change. The Square contains also a fine monument of Sir Walter
Scott, in the form of a fluted Doric column, about eighty feet high,
surmounted by a colossal statue of "the great magician of the north." He
is represented standing in an easy attitude, with a shepherd's plaid
thrown half around his body. The likeness is said to be remarkably good.
It has that expression of shrewdness, honesty and good nature for which
he was distinguished, but none of that ideal elevation which graces the
countenances of Schiller, Goethe and Shakspeare. Immediately in front of
this monument, is a beautiful pedestrian statue in bronze, by Flaxman,
of Sir John Moore, the subject of Wolfe's exquisite lyric,--

    "Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
      As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried,
    Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
      O'er the grave where our hero we buried."

Sir John Moore was a citizen of Glasgow, and his townsmen have erected
this statue as expressive of their veneration for his memory. To the
right of this monument, in the south-west angle of the square, you see
in bronze, and of colossal magnitude, the noble figure of James Watt. He
is represented in a sitting posture on a circular pedestal of Aberdeen
granite. It is considered one of the happiest productions of the
distinguished Chantrey. The fine meditative features of the great
inventor are strikingly developed. Watt was born in Greenock, on the
19th of January, 1736, but conducted his experiments chiefly in Glasgow.
He came thither in 1757, first as a mathematical instrument maker to the
college, and subsequently as an engineer. In early life he gave
indications of his peculiar genius, by various little mechanical
contrivances. At the age of six years, he was occasionally found
stretched on the floor, delineating with chalk the lines of a
geometrical problem. At other times he greatly obliged his young
companions by making and repairing their toys; and before he had reached
his seventeenth year he had amused them with the wonders of an
electrical machine of his own construction. He had also instructed
himself by making experiments on the steam of a tea-kettle. He
subsequently stored his mind with the wonders of physics, chemistry and
medicine.

In the University of Glasgow, Watt was employed to fit up the
instruments of the Macfarlane Observatory, which gave him an opportunity
of becoming acquainted with Adam Smith, Joseph Black, and Robert Simson,
names immortal in the scientific annals of Scotland. Here also he formed
an intimacy with John Robinson, then a student at college, and
subsequently the celebrated Dr. Robinson, who first called the attention
of Watt to the subject of steam engines, and threw out the idea of
applying them to steam carriages and other purposes.

The steam-engine had existed before this time, but it was extremely
imperfect, and, moreover, of no great practical use. Hence Mr. Watt was
not, properly speaking, the inventor but the improver of the
steam-engine. Still his improvement was equal to an invention of the
highest order. It made the instrument _available_ for the highest
practical purposes. "He found the crazy machines of Savery and Newcomen
laboring and creaking at our mine heads, and occupying the same rank as
prime movers with the wind-mill and the water-wheel; and by a succession
of _inventions_ and _discoveries_, deduced from the most profound
chemical knowledge, and applied by the most exquisite mechanical skill,
he brought the steam-engine to such a degree of perfection as to stamp
it the most precious gift which man ever bequeathed to his race."[125]

[Footnote 125: Edinburgh Review.]

Watt had "a sore fight of existence," at least in the early part of his
career, and he came near being deprived of the emolument which was his
just due as a benefactor of his race. But he eventually triumphed over
all opposition, retired from business, and continued to reside during
the rest of his life on his estate at Heathfield Soho. He was
exceedingly happy in his domestic relations, though called, in 1804, to
suffer a painful bereavement in the loss of his youngest son Gregory,
who had given high promise of literary and scientific eminence. In 1808
he was elected a corresponding member of the Institute of France; and in
1814, he was nominated by the Academy of Sciences as one of its _eight_
foreign correspondents. In 1819 his health suffered a rapid decline, and
he himself felt that this was his last illness. "Resigned, himself, he
endeavored to make others resigned. He pointed out to his son the topics
of consolation which should occupy his mind; and expressing his sincere
gratitude to Providence for the length of days he had enjoyed, for his
exemption from most of the infirmities of age, and for the serenity and
cheerfulness which marked the close of his life; he expired at
Heathfield on the 25th of August, 1819." He was interred in the parish
church of Handsworth; and over his tomb his son erected an elegant
Gothic chapel, containing a beautiful marble bust by Chantrey. Another
bust by the same artist has been placed in one of the halls of Glasgow
College. A colossal statue of Carrara marble, procured at great expense
by public subscription, graces the recesses of Westminster Abbey.

The most useful memorial of Watt, however, exists in Greenock, in the
form of a large and handsome building for a public library, erected by
his son, in which the citizens have caused to be placed a handsome
marble statue, with an inscription from the pen of Lord Jeffrey. Lord
Brougham concluded an eloquent speech on the merits of Mr. Watt, in the
following striking terms:--"If in old times the temples of false gods
were appropriately filled with the images of men who had carried
devastation over the face of the earth, surely our temples cannot be
more worthily adorned with the likenesses of those whose triumphs have
been splendid indeed, but unattended by sorrow to any--who have achieved
victories, not for one country only, but to enlarge the power and
increase the happiness of the whole human race."

Passing up High Street, we come to an arched gateway, and find ourselves
in a quadrangular court, with antique looking buildings on each side.
Beyond this we come to another quadrangle, also surrounded by buildings
of perhaps more recent date. Passing straight on we reach a handsome
edifice of polished freestone, directly in front of us, and standing
alone, which is nothing less than the Hunterian museum. These then are
the buildings of Glasgow University. Beyond us is the college-green,
ornamented with trees, and divided into two parts by a sluggish stream
which passes through the centre. A number of the students, having laid
aside their scarlet gowns, are playing at football, a violent but
delightful and invigorating exercise.

The University of Glasgow was founded in 1450, in the time of James the
Second. Bishop Turnbull was then in possession of the see, and his
successors were appointed chancellors. The history of the institution
has been various; but, generally speaking, it has enjoyed a high degree
of prosperity. Of late years the number of students has declined, from
what cause we know not. The number, in all the departments, does not
exceed a thousand, whereas, in 1824, when the writer was a student in
Glasgow, there were from fourteen to fifteen hundred. Well does he
remember the enthusiasm with which they welcomed their popular candidate
for rector, Henry Brougham, Esq., M. P., as he was then termed, and the
eager interest with which they listened to his inaugural discourse. Sir
James McIntosh, a fine hearty looking man, with bland expressive eyes,
and two of the sons of Robert Burns, tall, good looking young men, but
with no particular resemblance to their illustrious father, were
present, with others, to grace the occasion. Brougham was in the
maturity of his strength, and the hey-day of his fame. Tall, muscular,
and wiry, with searching visage, dark complexion, keen piercing eyes,
ample forehead, and long outstretched finger, he stood up the very
personification of strength and eloquence. But Brougham has been
frequently described, and we therefore pass him by. The next rector that
was chosen was Thomas Campbell, the poet, once a member of the college,
and one of its most distinguished ornaments. A large portion, if not the
whole of the "Pleasures of Hope" was written while he was a student at
college.

Many distinguished men have been professors in this institution. Among
these Dr. Reid and Dr. Hutcheson, Dr. Simpson and Dr. Moore, Adam Smith,
and Professor Sandford stand pre-eminent. Well does the writer remember
the accomplished, but unfortunate Sandford, and the profound enthusiasm
for the Greek classics which he inspired in his students. He was a son
of the venerable Bishop Sandford, a distinguished graduate of Oxford,
and a man of the highest attainments in Greek and English literature. Of
small stature, he yet possessed an elegant and commanding form. His pale
face, finely chiselled mouth, dark eyes, and marble forehead are before
me now. I hear his clear, musical voice, rolling out, _ore rotundo_, the
resounding periods of Homer, or the energetic lines of Eschylus. No man
ever recited Greek with such enthusiasm and energy. It was a perfect
treat to hear him read the odes of Anacreon or the choral hymns of
Eschylus; to say nothing of his elegant translations, or his fine
critical remarks. He was created a baronet by the government, and bade
fair to be one of the most distinguished and influential literary men in
the country. But he was seduced into party politics, was sent as the
representative of Glasgow to parliament, and failed--failed utterly and
forever; for his want of success in the House of Commons preyed upon his
spirits, and caused his death.

Among the distinguished men now occupying places in this university we
find Mr. Lushington, of Trinity College, Cambridge, professor of Greek,
and Dr. Nichol, author of the popular Lectures on the Wonders of the
Heavens, professor of practical astronomy. Mr. Mylne, professor of moral
philosophy, and Mr. Buchanan, professor of logic, are acute and learned
men.

Leaving the college, we ascend High Street, and after reaching the top
of the hill, a little to the right, we see before us the "High Kirk," or
rather the old cathedral of Glasgow, one of the finest remains of
antiquity, surrounded by a vast church-yard, containing many rich and
ancient monumental tombs, and the mouldering bones of many by-gone
generations. It has a superb crypt, "equalled by none in the
kingdom,"--once used as a place of worship, but now as a place for
burying the dead. The author of Waverley has invested it with additional
interest by making it the scene of a striking incident in Rob Roy. The
whole edifice has a most commanding appearance.

At the north-east end of the cathedral the spot is yet to be seen where
papal bigotry and superstition lighted the fires of religious
persecution. There in the year 1538, Jerome Russel, a member of the
convent of Franciscan friars, in Glasgow, a man of considerable talents,
and John Kennedy, a young man from Ayr, of high family, only about
eighteen years of age, were burned for having embraced the doctrines of
the infant Reformation. They sustained the terrible ordeal through which
they passed to glory with a becoming dignity and fortitude. "This is
your hour and power of darkness," said Russel, "now you sit as judges,
and we are wrongfully condemned, but the day cometh which will clear our
innocency, and you shall see your own blindness to your everlasting
confusion--go on and fulfil the measure of your iniquity." Is it
surprising that the reaction of reform which followed such proceedings
should occasionally have gone to unjustifiable lengths, and that the
people should have torn down "the rookeries," which sheltered those
birds of prey, as the papal tyrants of that day might well be termed?
Never were a nobler or more heroic set of men than the martyrs and
confessors of that trying time! Knox, Melville, and Wishart might be
stern, but they were men of godlike temper and heroic zeal, of whom the
world was not worthy; and whatever poetasters and novelists, sentimental
journalists, and infidel historians may say of them, they will be found
at last, occupying an honored place, at God's right hand.




CHAPTER XIV.

     The Necropolis--Jewish Burial Place--Monument to John
     Knox--Monuments of William Macgavin and Dr.
     Dick--Reminiscences--Character and Writings of Dr. Dick--Pollok and
     'the Course of Time'--Grave of Motherwell--Sketch of his Life--His
     Genius and Poetry--'Jeanie Morrison.'--'My Heid is like to rend,
     Willie.'--'A Summer Sabbath Noon.'


East of the Cathedral, a few steps, lies the Necropolis, on the brow of
a hill which overlooks the city and the surrounding regions. We pass
over the "Bridge of Sighs," so named from its leading to the Cemetery,
and consisting of a handsome arch, spanning the "Molendinar Burn," a
brawling rivulet, whose waters, collected into a small basin, dash over
an artificial cascade into the ravine below. The Necropolis covers the
rocky eminence formerly crowned with dark firs, and supposed, in ancient
times to have been a retreat of the Druids, who here performed their
fearful rites. But how sweet and peaceful now, ornamented with fine
trees and shrubbery, shady walks, and beautiful monuments, a serene
retreat for the peaceful dead. In point of situation and appearance, the
Necropolis is superior to "Pere la Chaise," though certainly inferior to
"Greenwood" and "Mount Auburn," in our opinion the most attractive
burying-places in the world. Still, each of these has a beauty of its
own, well fitted to soften and subdue those feelings of grief and
horror naturally excited by death and the grave. Such sweet and
attractive places of burial are in harmony with the genius of the
Gospel. The ancient Greeks, from their very horror of death and their
ignorance of futurity, endeavored to invest the tomb with festal
associations. Why, then, should not we, upon whom the light of
immortality has descended, lay those we love in scenes of quiet beauty,
where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest?" Does
not Holy Writ declare, "_Blessed_ are the dead that die in the Lord?" It
is therefore meet to place their bodies only in scenes which remind us
of rest, of hope, and of Heaven.

                "The Dead cannot grieve,
    Not a sob nor a sigh meets mine ear,
      Which compassion itself could relieve.
    Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;
    Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one here."

Let affection, then, bury her dead and build her tombs amid the trees
and the flowers, which preach to us of the resurrection-morn and the
paradise of God.

      "The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
    And look for the sleepers around us to rise!
      The second to Faith which insures it fulfilled;
    And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,
    Who bequeathed us them both when he rose from the skies!"

This cemetery was founded in 1831, and the first sale was to the Jews,
who require a burying-place for themselves. It lies in the north-west
corner of the grounds. The enclosure contains the requisite
accommodations for washing the bodies before interment as required by
the Jewish law, which also forbids one body to be deposited above
another. The place is ornamented with excellent taste. On the left is a
beautiful pillar, in imitation of Absalom's pillar in the "King's dale."
On the front of this column, and immediately under its capital, is a
piece of fret-work, formed of Hebrew letters, representing the words,
"Who among the gods is like unto Jehovah?" On the shaft of the column
are those touching stanzas from Byron's Hebrew Melodies, concluding
thus:

    "Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
    Where shall ye flee away and be at rest;
    The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
    Mankind their country--Israel but the grave."

On the lower part of the column is the following:

     "Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let
     thy widows trust in me."

On the other side of the gateway are engraved the following verses:

     "A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel
     weeping for her children, refused to be comforted for her children,
     because they were not."

     "Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine
     eyes from tears, for thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord,
     and they shall come again from the land of the enemy."

     "And there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children
     shall come again to their own border."

And on the opposite pillar is the following:

     "How hath the Lord covered the daughter of Sion with a cloud in
     his anger, and cast down from heaven to the earth the beauty of
     Israel, and removed not his footstool in the day of his anger."

     "But though he caused grief, yet will he have compassion according
     to the multitude of his mercies. For he doth not afflict willingly,
     nor grieve the children of men."

On the summit of the hill, and towering above the rest, is the
commanding monument of John Knox, intended to be commemorative of the
Reformation. On a lofty square pedestal, stands the statue of the stern
old Reformer, with the Bible in one hand, and the other stretched out,
as if in the act of addressing the multitude. On one side of the
pedestal is the following inscription:

               To testify gratitude for inestimable services
          In the cause of Religion, Education, and Civil Liberty,
                           To awaken admiration
             Of that Integrity, Disinterestedness and Courage,
                Which stood unshaken in the midst of trials,
              And in the maintenance of the highest objects--
                                 Finally,
      To cherish unceasing reverence for the principles and blessings
         of that Great Reformation, by the influence of which our
            country, though in the midst of difficulties, has
               risen to honor, prosperity, and happiness,
           This Monument is erected by Voluntary Subscription,
                            To the Memory of
                               JOHN KNOX,
           The chief instrument, under God, of the Reformation
                              in Scotland,
                      On the 22d day of Sept. 1825.
    He died rejoicing in the faith of the Gospel, at Edinburgh, on the
              24th of Nov. 1532, in the 69th year of his age.

On the other sides are the following:

     "The Reformation produced a revolution in the sentiments of
     mankind, the greatest as well as most beneficial that has happened
     since the publication of Christianity."

     "In 1547, and in the city where his friend George Wishart had
     suffered, John Knox, surrounded with dangers, first preached the
     doctrines of the Reformation. In 1559, on the 24th of August, the
     parliament of Scotland adopted the confession of faith, presented
     by the reformed ministers, and declared popery no longer to be the
     religion of this kingdom.

     "John Knox became then a minister of Edinburgh, where he continued
     to his death, the incorruptible guardian of our best interests.

     "'I can take God to witness,' he declared, 'that I never preached
     in contempt of any man, and wise men will consider that a true
     friend cannot flatter; especially in a case that involves the
     salvation of the bodies and the souls, not of a few persons, but of
     the whole realm.' When laid in the grave, the Regent said: 'There
     lieth he who never feared the face of man, who was often threatened
     with pistol and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and
     honor.'

     "Patrick Hamilton, a youth of high rank and distinguished
     attainments, was the first martyr in Scotland in the cause of the
     Reformation. He was condemned to the flames in St. Andrews, in
     1528, and the 24th year of his age.

     "From 1530 to 1540, persecution raged in every quarter, many
     suffered the most cruel deaths, and many fled to England and the
     continent. Among these early martyrs were Jerome Russel and
     Alexander Kennedy, two young men of great piety and talent, who
     suffered at Glasgow. William Wishart returned to Scotland, from
     which he had been banished, and preached the Gospel in various
     quarters. In 1546, this heavenly-minded man, the friend and
     instructor of Knox, was committed to the flames at St. Andrews."

Let the thoughtful ponder these interesting memorials, and say whether
the Reformation in Scotland was not a glorious event!

At a little distance from Knox's monument, is one to the memory of Mr.
Macgavin, a banker in Glasgow, and author of "the Protestant;" and
another of great elegance and beauty, to the memory of Dr. Dick, late
professor of theology in the United Secession Church. "Say not that the
good ever die," and "he sleeps a sacred sleep," are engraven, in Greek,
upon the sides of the monument, beautiful and appropriate sentiments for
the tomb of a Christian. Dr. Dick was pre-eminently a good man, and not
only so but a man of the highest attainments. Well does the writer
remember his dignified bearing, fine countenance, and silver hair. But a
few years ago, he sat at the feet of this venerable man, as his
instructor in theology, and received from his lips lessons of holy
wisdom. While professor of theology, the reverend doctor was also pastor
of one of the largest and most influential of the Secession churches in
the city of Glasgow. He was greatly venerated, both by the people of his
charge and by his theological pupils, for his dignity and purity of
character, his clear, well balanced intellect, his calm and consistent
piety. He wrote lucidly and elegantly on the "Inspiration of the
Scriptures," a work which a distinguished English bishop so much admired
that he carried it about with him in his pocket. His "Lectures on the
Acts of the Apostles," though inferior to the production just named, is
also a valuable work. Since his death, his "Theological Prelections"
have been published, and are much esteemed for their clear statement,
and defence of evangelical truth. Always lucid, always logical and
satisfactory, he is never profound or original. His style glides in
pellucid beauty, like a rivulet through the meadow, mirroring in its
calm depths the green foliage which adorns its banks, and the blue
heavens bending above it, but never cutting itself a new channel, or
sweeping onward, with majestic force, like a torrent to the sea. The
labors of Dr. Dick were pre-eminently useful; and a host of young men,
educated under his influence, now fill posts of the highest
responsibility in Scotland, and in other parts of the world. Pollok was
a student of the Doctor's at the same time with the writer, but was not
known to be possessed of any extraordinary genius till after the
publication of "The Course of Time." He was considered a man of talent,
however, and had written two or three sermons, containing passages of
considerable power. But his heart was in his great poem during the whole
of his student life. So intensely did he work upon it, that he had often
to be assisted to bed, from sheer exhaustion. "The Course of Time" has
many obvious faults, but abounds in strokes of genius and power. A great
soul has poured itself into this rugged and sometimes gloomy channel,
which, traversing the whole course of time, finally loses itself in the
ocean of eternity. Pollok was tall, well proportioned, of a dark
complexion, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set
eyes, heavy eyebrows and black bushy hair. A smothered light burned in
his dark orbs, which flashed, with a meteor brilliancy, whenever he
spoke with enthusiasm and energy. He was born in 1798, at North
Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,--

                "'<DW41> hills and streams
    And melancholy deserts, where the sun
    Saw as he pass'd, a shepherd only here
    And there, watching his little flock; or heard
    The ploughman talking to his steers."

His father was an honest farmer, and his early home a scene of much
domestic endearment. To the trees which overshadowed the paternal
mansion he thus pays homage in his verse:

    "Much of my native scenery appears,
    And presses forward, to be in my song;
    But must not now; for much behind awaits,
    Of higher note. Four trees I pass not by,
    Which o'er our house their evening shadow threw;--
    Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were,
    And old; and had been old a century
    Before my day. None living could say aught
    About their youth; but they were goodly trees;
    And oft I wondered, as I sat and thought
    Beneath their summer shade, or in the night
    Of winter heard the spirits of the wind
    Growling among their boughs--how they had grown
    So high, in such a rough, tempestuous place:
    And when a hapless branch, torn by the blast
    Fell down, I mourned as if a friend had fallen."

Pollok had just finished his studies, and was licensed as a preacher, by
the United Secession Church, when he published his poem which thrilled
all hearts in Scotland, and struck his fellow-students with perfect
amazement, not unmingled, however, with delight. But he was then sick.
His over-wrought frame began to yield, and he sought health in a foreign
country, which he did not live to reach. He died in England in the
autumn of 1827, the same year in which he had published his poem,
having lived just long enough to complete it, and receive the applause
of his countrymen.

Before leaving the Necropolis, we must visit a grave at one corner of
the grounds, in a quiet, shady spot, as if retired somewhat from the
rest. There it is, the grave of William Motherwell, one of the sweetest
of the Scottish poets, the author of "Bonnie Jeanie Morrison" and "My
Heid is like to rend, Willie," and many other poems of exquisite grace
and pathos.

William Motherwell was born in the city of Glasgow in the year 1797, and
died there in 1835. In his eleventh year he was transferred to the care
of his uncle in Paisley, who brought him up. Here he received a liberal
education, and commenced the study of law. At the age of twenty-one he
was appointed Deputy to the Sheriff-Clerk of Paisley, a highly
respectable but not lucrative situation. He early evinced a love of
poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany, called "The Harp of
Renfrewshire," which he conducted with much taste and judgment. A relish
for antiquarian research led him to investigate the subject of the
ballad poetry of Scotland, the results of which he published in 1827, in
two volumes, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern." His introduction
to this collection is admirably written, and must form the basis of all
future investigations upon this subject. He seems to have been unusually
successful in recovering many of the old ballads, which were never
committed to writing, and known to very few persons. Some of these,
though rude and grotesque in thought or style, are exquisitely
beautiful. Allan Cunningham, another of Scotland's sweetest poets, had
labored in this field, but not with the same success. But the genius of
both of these poets was deeply imbued with the spirit of the old ballad
rhymes. They had conned them in their minds so frequently that they
naturally wrote their own effusions in the same simple and touching
style. Soon after the publication of his "Ancient Minstrelsy,"
Motherwell became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established
a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his finest poems. The
talent and spirit which he evinced in these literary labors, were the
occasion of his being removed to the city of Glasgow, to the editorial
care of the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his
death. He conducted this paper with great ability.

Motherwell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head
was large and finely formed; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In
mixed society he was rather reserved, "but appeared internally to enjoy
the feast of reason and the flow of soul." Somewhat pensive in his mood,
he lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way
to a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailings
of a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his
lofty aspirations after the beautiful and true.

In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He was also
associated with the Ettrick Shepherd in editing the works of Burns, and
at the time of his death was collecting materials for the life of
Tannahill, an humble weaver in Paisley, but one of the finest
song-writers Scotland has ever produced. "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 a pain in the head, which increased so much
as to render him speechless. Medical assistance 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 and learned of the literary
professions, and by persons of all shades of political opinions. He was
interred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far from the resting-place of
his fast friend, Mr. William Henderson."

Though Motherwell's death was thus sudden and unexpected, he seems to
have had something like a premonition of it. The following touching
lines were given to a friend, a day or two before his decease:

    When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,
                Life's fever o'er,
    Will there for me be any bright eye weeping,
                That I'm no more?
    Will there be any heart still memory keeping,
                Of heretofore?

    When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,
                Sad music make?
    When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,
                Like full hearts break,
    Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing,
                Mourn for my sake?

    When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,
                With purest ray,
    And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining,
                Burst through that clay,
    Will there be one still on that spot repining,
                Lost hopes all day?

    When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,
                On that low mound,
    And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary,
                Its loneness crowned;
    Will there be then one versed in misery's story,
                Pacing it round?

    It may be so,--but this is selfish sorrow,
                To ask such meed--
    A weakness and a wickedness to borrow
                From hearts that bleed,
    The waitings of to-day for what to-morrow
                Shall never need.

    Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,
                Thou gentle heart;
    And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
                Let no tear start;
    It were in vain--for Time hath long been knelling--
                Sad one, depart!

These are mournful, but somewhat hopeful strains; for one who feels
that "time has long been knelling, sad one, depart!" must, if not a
sceptic, have looked beyond the grave, and descried in better worlds,
rest and solace for the aching heart. Here, in his "narrow dwelling," he
gently sleeps, while pilgrims from afar drop tears of sympathy upon its
"grassy mound."

Motherwell was a man of pure genius. His poems are distinguished for
their deep tenderness and exquisite melody. They are gemmed, moreover,
with beautiful conceptions, with original and striking expressions.
There is nothing, in the whole range of Scottish poetry, except Burns's
"Highland Mary," equal in beauty and pathos to


              "JEANIE MORRISON."

    I've wandered east I've wandered west,
      Through mony a weary way;
    But never, never can forget,
      The luve o' life's young day!
    The fire that's blawn on Beltane[126] e'en,
      May weel be black 'gin[127] Yule,[128]
    But blacker fa' awaits the heart
      When first fond luve grows cule.

    O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
      The thochts of bygane years,
    Still fling their shadows o'er my path,
      And blind my een wi' tears:
    They blind my een wi' saut,[129] saut tears,
      And sair and sick I pine,
    As memory idly summons up
      The blithe blinks[130] o' lang syne.

    'Twas then we luvit ilk[131] ither weel,
      'Twas then we twa did part;
    Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at school,
      Twa bairns and but ae[132] heart!
    'Twas then we sat on ae laigh[133] bink,
      To lier[134] ilk ither lear;
    And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
      Remembered evermair.

    I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
      When sitting on that bink,
    Cheek touchin' cheek, loof[135] locked in loof,
      What our wee heads could think.
    When baith bent down o'er ae braid page
      Wi' ae buik on our knee,
    Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
      My lesson was in thee.

    O mind[136] ye how we hung our heads,
      How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
    Whene'er the schule[137] weans laughin' said,
      We cleeked[138] thegither hame?
    And mind ye o' the Saturdays,
      (The schule then skail't[139] at noon,)
    When we ran aff to speel[140] the braes,
      The broomy braes o' June?

    My heid runs round and round about,
      My heart flows like a sea,
    As ane by ane the thochts rush back,
      O' schule time and o' thee.
    O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
      O lichtsome days and lang,
    When hinnied[141] hopes around our hearts,
      Like simmer blossoms sprang!

    O mind ye, luve, how aft we left
      The deavin'[142] dinsome[143] toun,
    To wander by the green burnside,
      And hear its waters croon?[144]
    The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
      The flowers burst round our feet,
    And in the gloamin' o' the wood,
      The throssil[145] whusslit sweet.

    The throssil whusslit in the wood,
      The burn sang to the trees,
    And we wi' Nature's heart in tune,
      Concerted harmonies;
    And on the knowe[146] abune the burn,
      For hours thegither sat:
    In the silentness o' joy, till baith
      Wi' very, very gladness grat.[147]

    Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
      Tears trinkled down your cheek,
    Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
      Had ony power to speak!
    That was a time, a blessed time,
      When hearts were fresh and young,
    When freely gushed all feelings forth,
      Unsyllabled,--unsung!

    I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
      Gin[148] I hae been to thee,
    As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
      As ye hae been to me?
    O! tell me gin their music fills
      Thine ear as it does mine;
    O! say gin e'er your heart grows[149] grit
      Wi' dreamings o' lang syne?

    I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
      I've borne a weary lot;
    But in my wanderings far or near,
      Ye never were forgot.
    The fount that first burst frae this heart,
      Still travels on its way;
    And channels deeper as it runs,
      The luve o' life's young day.

    O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
      Since we were sindered young,
    I've never seen your face, nor heard
      The music o' your tongue;
    But I could hug all wretchedness,
      And happy could I die,
    Did I but ken your heart still dreamed,
      O' bygane days and me!

[Footnote 126: Holyrood day.]

[Footnote 127: Until.]

[Footnote 128: Christmas.]

[Footnote 129: Salt.]

[Footnote 130: Gleams, or flashes.]

[Footnote 131: Each other.]

[Footnote 132: One.]

[Footnote 133: Low bench.]

[Footnote 134: To teach.]

[Footnote 135: Hand.]

[Footnote 136: Remember.]

[Footnote 137: School children.]

[Footnote 138: Clasped.]

[Footnote 139: Dismissed.]

[Footnote 140: Climb.]

[Footnote 141: Honied.]

[Footnote 142: Deafening.]

[Footnote 143: Noisy.]

[Footnote 144: Murmur.]

[Footnote 145: Thrush or mavis.]

[Footnote 146: Knoll.]

[Footnote 147: Wept.]

[Footnote 148: If.]

[Footnote 149: Swells.]

Equally beautiful and still more pathetic, is "_My Heid is like to rend,
Willie_." Indeed, we know of nothing so affecting as the last stanzas of
this exquisite ballad. The poor heart-broken girl gives abundant
evidence of her profound penitence:

    O! dinna mind my words, Willie,
      I downa seek to blame,--
    But O! it's hard to live, Willie,
      And dree a world's shame!
    Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
      And hailin' ower your chin;
    Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,
      For sorrow and for sin.

    I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
      And sick wi' a' I see,--
    I canna live as I hae lived,
      Or be as I should be.
    But fauld unto your heart, Willie,
      The heart that still is thine,--
    And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek,
      Ye said was red lang syne.

    A stoun[150] gaes through my heid, Willie,
      A sair stoun through my heart,--
    O! hand me up, and let me kiss
      Thy brow, ere we twa pairt.
    Anither, and anither yet!--
      How fast my life's strings break!--
    Farewell! farewell! through yon kirk-yard
      Step lichtly for my sake!

    The lav'rock[151] in the lift,[152] Willie,
      That lilts[153] far ower our heid,
    Will sing the morn as merrilie
      Abune the clay-cauld deid;
    And this green turf we're sittin' on,
      Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
    Will hap[154] the heart that luvit thee,
      As warld has seldom seen.

    But O! remember me, Willie,
      On land where'er ye be,--
    And O! think on the leal, leal heart,
      That ne'er luvit ane but thee!
    And O! think on the cauld, cauld mools,[155]
      That file[156] my yellow hair,--
    That kiss the cheek, that kiss the chin,
      Ye never sail kiss mair.

[Footnote 150: A darting pain.]

[Footnote 151: Lark.]

[Footnote 152: Sky.]

[Footnote 153: Sings.]

[Footnote 154: Cover.]

[Footnote 155: Clods.]

[Footnote 156: Soil.]

As a specimen of Motherwell's descriptive powers, the exquisite grace of
his diction, and the deep-toned melody of his verse, and not only so,
but of his high devotional feelings, we give the following:

            A SABBATH SUMMER NOON.

    The calmness of this noontide hour,
      The shadow of this wood,
    The fragrance of each wilding flower
      Are marvelously good;
    O! here crazed spirits breathe the balm,
      Of nature's solitude!

    It is a most delicious calm
      That resteth everywhere,--
    The holiness of soul-sung psalm,
      Of felt, but voiceless prayer!
    With hearts too full to speak their bliss,
      God's creatures silent are.

    They silent are; but not the less
      In this most tranquil hour,
    Of deep, unbroken dreaminess,
      They own that Love and Power,
    Which like the softest sunshine rests,
      On every leaf and flower.

    How silent are the song-filled nests
      That crowd this drowsy tree,--
    How mute is every feathered breast
      That swelled with melody!
    And yet bright bead-like eyes declare,
      This hour is exstacy.

    Heart forth! as uncaged bird through air,
      And mingle in the tide
    Of blessed things, that, lacking care,
      How full of beauty glide,
    Around thee, in their angel hues
      Of joy and sinless pride.

    Here on this green bank that o'er-views
      The far retreating glen,
    Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse,
      On all within thy ken;
    For lovelier scene shall never break,
      On thy dimmed sight again.

    Slow stealing from the tangled brake,
      That skirts the distant hill,
    With noiseless hoof two bright fawns make
      For yonder lapsing rill;
    Meek children of the forest gloom,
      Drink on, and fear no ill!

    And buried in the yellow broom,
      That crowns the neighboring height,
    Couches a loutish shepherd groom,
      With all his flocks in sight;
    Which dot the green braes gloriously,
      With spots o' living light.

    It is a sight that filleth me
      With meditative joy,
    To mark these dumb things curiously
      Crowd round the guardian boy;
    As if they felt this Sabbath hour
      Of bliss lacked all alloy.

    I bend me towards the tiny flower,
      That underneath this tree,
    Opens its little breast of sweets
      In meekest modesty,
    And breathes the eloquence of love,
      In muteness, Lord! to thee.

           *       *       *       *       *

    The silentness of night doth brood
      O'er this bright summer noon;
    And nature, in her holiest mood,
      Doth all things well attune,
    To joy in the religious dreams
      Of green and leafy June.

    Far down the glen in distance gleams,
      The hamlet's tapering spire,
    And glittering in meridial beams
      Its vane is tongued with fire;
    And hark, how sweet its silvery bell,--
      And hark, the rustic choir!

    The holy sounds float up the dell
      To fill my ravished ear,
    And now the glorious anthems swell,--
      Of worshippers sincere,--
    Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed
      Faith's penitential tear.

    Dear Lord! thy shadow is forth spread,
      On all mine eye can see;
    And filled at the pure fountain-head
      Of deepest piety,
    My heart loves all created things,
      And travels home to thee.

    Around me while the sunshine flings,
      A flood of mocky gold,
    My chastened spirit once more sings,
      As it was wont of old,
    That lay of gratitude which burst
      From young heart uncontrolled.

    When in the midst of nature nursed,
      Sweet influences fell,
    On childly hearts that were athirst,
      Like soft dews in the bell
    Of tender flowers, that bowed their heads,
      And breathed a fresher smell.

    So, even now this hour hath sped,
      In rapturous thought o'er me,
    Feeling myself with nature wed,--
      A holy mystery,--
    A part of earth, a part of heaven,
      A part, great God! of Thee.

    Fast fade the cares of life's dull even,
      They perish as the weed,
    While unto me the power is given,
      A moral deep to read,
    In every silent throe of mind,
      Eternal beauties breed.

It would be pleasant, but we have not time, to make the acquaintance of
some of the Glasgow clergy, particularly of the classic Wardlaw, the
vigorous Heugh,[157] the accomplished King, the energetic Robson, the
intelligent Buchanan, the eloquent Willis, the strong "in knee'd"
Anderson, and others of equal distinction. A fair specimen of the
Scottish clergy has been given in the ministers of Edinburgh, and that
must suffice for the present.

[Footnote 157: Since the above was written, the Rev. Dr. Heugh has gone
to his reward in heaven. He was a man of fine talents, deep piety, and
most engaging manners. We met him some years ago on the banks of Lake
Leman, whither he had gone for his health, in company with Merle
D'Aubigne, Joseph J. Gurney and others; on which occasion Dr. Heugh gave
an interesting and graphic account of the Free Church movement, which
was translated for the benefit of those who did not understand English,
by Professor La Harpe. Never shall we forget that interview. There were
present, French and English, German and Swiss, Scots and Americans. Some
of these were Presbyterians, others Episcopalians, and others Baptists,
Lutherans and Quakers; but all were "one in Christ Jesus." Joseph J.
Gurney closed our interview with a prayer in the French language, the
most simple, solemn, and touching we ever heard. Ah! little did we think
that one of the most agreeable of that happy company was so soon to pass
away from the scenes of earth. The following sketch of Dr. Heugh as a
preacher, is from a funeral sermon by Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh.

"As a preacher, he was judicious, faithful, discriminating; not
exclusively doctrinal or practical, or experimental, but all by turns,
and often all in the same discourse. The matter of his discourses was
drawn from the living oracles, and his constant aim was to explain and
to apply the saving doctrines of the cross--to bring the mind and hearts
of men into harmony with the mind and will of God, especially as those
are revealed in the person and work of his incarnate Son. He was
eminently a scriptural preacher, both in substance and in form. The
commands of the Master, 'Divide rightly the word of truth,' 'Feed my
sheep,' 'Feed my lambs,' seemed to be ever present to his mind, and to
guide all his ministerial studies; and hence it was that his pulpit
services were marked by a lucid, pointed, and affectionate inculcation
of those varied truths which the circumstances of his hearers required.
There was nothing trivial or extraneous in his discussions. He stated
massy important thoughts, wide and comprehensive views--the result of
much reflection and experience--illustrative of his subject and suited
to the occasion--in simple and appropriate words; and the hearer was
made to feel that he was not listening to human speculations, but that
Christ was, by the preacher, unfolding his mind and will--'making
manifest the savor of his knowledge.'

"His manner in the pulpit was singularly easy, graceful and pleasing.
All that he said and did was natural and becoming. His fine open
countenance, his animated appearance, his fluency of utterance, the
pleasantly modulated tones of his voice, his graceful action, and the
solemn devotional feeling which obviously pervaded all these, rivetted
attention, and threw a peculiar charm over his whole discourse. There
was no seeking for effect, no going out of the way for ornaments, no
efforts to dazzle and to overwhelm. He was occupied with his subject,
and sought to fill the minds of his hearers with it, as his own mind was
filled with it. There were occasionally passages of great beauty,
touchingly tender statements, stirring suddenly the deeper emotions of
the heart; but the ordinary character of his eloquence was instructive
and pleasing, rather than affecting or overpowering."]




CHAPTER XV.

     Dumbarton Castle--Lochlomond--Luss--Ascent of
     Benlomond--Magnificent Views--Ride to Loch-Katrine--Rob Roy
     Macgregor--'Gathering of Clan Gregor'--Loch-Katrine and the
     Trosachs--The city of Perth--Martyrdom of Helen Stark and her
     husband.


Embarking in a steamer at Glasgow, we glide down the Clyde as far as
Dumbarton Castle, which rises, in stern and solitary majesty, from the
bosom of the river,--

                          "A castled steep,
    Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
    So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it
    A metaphor of peace."

In ancient times, however, those old battlements frequently stood the
shock of invading war. Dumbarton was the "Alcluith" of the ancient
Britons, subsequently "Dumbriton," or "the fortified hill of the
Britons." The vale of the Clyde was called "Strathclutha," and here was
the capital of the kingdom of the "Strathclyde Britons." "Alcluith" is
the "Balclutha" of Ossian; _balla_ signifying a _wall_ or _bulwark_,
from the Latin _vallum_, a _wall_. "I have seen the walls of Balclutha,"
sings Ossian, in the poem of Carron, "but they were desolate. The fire
had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the people is heard no
more. The stream of the Clutha (Clyde) was removed from its place by
the fall of the walls. The thistle shook here its lonely head; the moss
whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows; the rank
grass of the walls waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of
Morna; silence is in the house of her fathers." In the reign of Queen
Mary this stronghold was taken by an escalade. This was accomplished by
Captain Crawford, an officer of great energy and talent, who acted for
the confederated lords who opposed Queen Mary after the death of her
husband, Henry Darnley. Provided with scaling-ladders, and whatever else
was necessary, Crawford set out from Glasgow with a small but determined
body of men. The night was dark and misty, when they reached the
castle-walls. Crawford, and a soldier who acted as a guide, scrambled up
to a ledge of rock, where they fastened a ladder to a tree, which grew
on one of its cliffs. Ascending by this means, the whole party stood
together with their chief on this natural parapet. But they were far
from the point which they hoped to reach. Again the ladder was planted,
and the ascent begun. But all at once one of the foremost soldiers, when
half way up the ladder, was seized with a sudden fit, and clung to the
ladder stiff and motionless. All further progress was at an end. What to
do they knew not. To cut him down would be cruel, and besides might
awaken the garrison. In this emergency, Crawford had the man secured, by
means of ropes to the ladder, which was turned over and all passed up in
safety to the foot of the wall. Day began to break, and they hastened
to scale the wall. The first man who reached the parapet was seen by a
sentinel, who was quickly knocked in the head. The whole party, with
furious shouts, rushed over the wall, and took possession of the
magazine, seized the cannon, and before the besieged could help
themselves, had entire control of the Castle.

But we cannot linger here; so, bidding adieu to Dumbarton, with its
martial associations, we strike off from the river at right angles, and,
after a pleasant ride of four or five miles, through a peaceful and
agreeable country, we reach the south end of Lochlomond, the "Queen of
the Scottish lakes," where we find a little steamer in waiting, which
takes us, and a company of sportsmen, travellers and others, over the
placid waves of this magnificent sheet of water. The lake is some thirty
miles in length, and of unequal breadth, being sometimes four or five
miles, and then again not more than a single mile in width, gorgeously
begemmed with verdant and beautifully wooded islands, of larger and
smaller size, to the number of thirty, and shaded here and there by
mountains, covered with verdure and trees to their summits, or grim
cliffs, towering, in solitary grandeur, above the dark and heaving
waters beneath. How finely our little steamer dashes the water from her
prow, as if she really enjoyed the trip, among the beautiful scenery of
this charming lake! What variety of light and shade! What diversity of
scene, as isle after isle, bold headland, lofty cliff, or wooded
acclivity, meets the gaze! How earth and air and sky, yon fleecy clouds
that skirt the horizon, wild crags, and verdant <DW72>s, clumps of trees
on the water's edge, islands of green mirroring their foliage in the
bosom of the lake, mingle and intermingle in ever varying forms of
beauty and grandeur! Yonder, too, is Benlomond, the genius of the place,
towering above the lesser mountains, and looking down, as if
protectingly, upon the lake he loves. The shores are exceedingly
beautiful; on one side lying low, "undulating with fields and groves,
where many a pleasant dwelling is embowered, into lines of hills that
gradually soften away into another land. On the other side, sloping
back, or overhanging, mounts beautiful in their bareness, for they are
green as emerald; others, scarcely more beautiful, studded with fair
trees, some altogether woods. They soon form into mountains, and the
mountains become more and more majestical, yet beauty never deserts
them, and her spirit continues to tame that of the frowning cliffs."
"The islands," continues Professor Wilson, from whom we make this fine
extract, "are forever arranging themselves into new forms, every one
more and more beautiful; at least so they seem to be, perpetually
occurring, yet always unexpected; and there is a pleasure even in such a
series of slight surprises that enhances the delight of admiration."

The southern part of the lake is the most beautiful, but the northern
the most sublime. The channel narrows, and the mountains rise higher and
higher, casting dark shadows into the water. For a moment it seems
gloomy, but high up in the mountains you discover spots of green; and
the sunlight glancing down, between the masses of shadow, lights up the
waves of the lake with a strange beauty, as if it were something purer
and more spirit-like than the beauty of the ordinary world.

But we will stop at the village of Luss, near the edge of the lake,
surrounded by mountain scenery, in some places rough and bleak, but
charmingly diversified by deep wooded glens, and romantic ravines.

The sun is sinking behind the western hills--the evening shadows are
resting in the vallies, while the tops of those craggy heights around us
are still burning with the last rays of departing day. We wander towards
the southern part of the parish, with feelings subdued by the
magnificent scenery which everywhere meets our gaze, and the solemn
stillness which reigns among the mountains, broken only by the tinkling
of a small stream winding its way to the lake, as if seeking a home in
its bosom, like the soul of a true Christian, which is ever tending
onward to the infinite and immortal. At length, while the sweet and long
continued "gloaming" of the Scottish summer envelopes everything in its
soft and dubious light, we reach the remains of a large cairn, a mound
of stones and earth, called "Carn-na-Cheasoig," the cairn of St. Kessog.
Here then, according to tradition, lies the dust of St. Kessog, who is
said to have suffered martyrdom near the site of this cairn, in the
sixth century, and who anciently was venerated as the guardian saint of
Luss. Was St. Kessog a true martyr? We trust he was, and can easily
imagine the cruel but triumphant death of the holy man. At such an hour,
and in such a scene, with the shadow of these great, sky-pointing
mountains, resting on our spirits, we might almost believe anything;
anything, at least, lofty and heart-stirring. It is not surprising that
the Highlanders are superstitious: but it is surprising that they are
not more religious. An infidel or a fanatic among the hills seems an
impossibility. Nor are the inhabitants of these high regions inclined
either to scepticism or fanatacism. But they are ignorant of
Christianity in its purer forms; and hence are easily subjected to
superstitious fears. But we are not yet among the Highlanders; for Luss
and the regions around are naturally subjected to Lowland influences.

Next morning we pass over the lake in a small boat to Rowardennan, on
the eastern shore, whence we commence the ascent of Benlomond, which
rises to a height of something more than three thousand feet. The
distance from Rowardennan to the top is generally reckoned about six
miles. Wending along the sides of the mountain we gradually ascend to
the bare and craggy summit, but not without resting here and there, and
stopping to gaze upon the expanding landscape, as it spreads further and
further towards the distant seas. We are somewhat fatigued, but how
refreshing the mountain breeze, and how exhilarating the magnificent
scenery which opens on every side, and absolutely reaches from sea to
sea! There, beneath us, like a belt of liquid light, stretches the long
and beautiful Lochlomond, sparkling under the rays of the sun, fringed
with hills, rocks, and woods, and adorned with green isles, reposing on
its heaving bosom, like gems of emerald chased in gold. Far off are the
islands of Bute and Arran, and nearer the fertile Strath-Clutha, through
which flows the river Clyde, adorned with villages, castles and
country-seats, the city of Glasgow, covered with a misty vapor, the
whole of Lanarkshire, the city of Edinburgh, and the vast and delightful
tract of country beyond, the Firth of Forth, Stirling Castle, and the
links of the Forth gliding in peaceful beauty through its green and
wooded vale. To the north a scene presents itself of wild and varied
grandeur, long ranges of Alpine heights, mighty crags towering to the
sky, dark lakes, and deep-cloven ravines, wild and desolate moors,
straggling forests, and rich secluded vales. Near us rises the hoary
Benvoirloich; and further north, among inferior mountains, Bencruachan
and Bennevis lift their lofty heads. Taking a wider range we get a
distant glimpse of the wide Atlantic, and the coast of green Erin, the
mountains of Cumberland, and the German Ocean, washing the north-eastern
coasts of Scotland. But the eye rests, as if by enchantment, upon the
magnificent mountain scenery to the north, inferior only in grandeur and
beauty to the mountains of Switzerland.

    "Crags, knolls and mounds, confusedly hurled,
    The fragments of an earlier world;
    And mountains that like giants stand,
    To sentinel enchanted land."

How elevating such a position, and such scenery. How the soul dilates
and rejoices, as if it were a part of the mighty spectacle. Ah! this
were a place for angels to light upon, and hymn the praise of that
infinite Being "whose are the mountains, and the vallies, and the
resplendent rivers."

But it is time to descend, though it would be pleasant, doubtless, to
linger here till sunset, and see those mountain heights shining like
stars in the departing radiance, while all beneath was covered with
shadow; and if the evening were still, to listen to the mingled murmur
which ever ascends through the calm air, from a region of streams and
torrents.

Coasting along the lake we reach Inversnaid mill at its upper extremity,
and securing some Highland ponies, little tough shaggy fellows,
sure-footed and self-willed, we ramble through a lonely, rock-bound
glen, the scene of the feats of Rob Roy Macgregor. In one of the smoky
huts of this glen we are shown a long Spanish musket, six feet and a
half in length, said to have belonged to the famous outlaw, whose
original residence was in this lonely region. We also pass the hut in
which Helen Macgregor, his wife, was born and brought up. By forgetting
a few years, one can easily imagine the whole region filled with wild
'kilted' Highlanders, shouting the war-cry of Macdonald, Glengarry, or
Macgregor. The spirit of these wild clans has been admirably depicted by
Sir Walter Scott. Nothing can be more spirited than his "Gathering of
Clan-Gregor," which in this rough glen, seems to gather a peculiar
intensity of meaning.

    "The moon's on the lake, the mist's on the brae,
    And the clan has a name that is nameless by day;
            Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!

    Our signal for fight that from monarchs we drew,
    Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo;
            Then haloo, Gregalich, haloo Gregalich!

    Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
    Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
            We're landless, landless, Gregalich!

    But doomed and devoted by vassal and lord,
    Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword;
            Then courage, courage, courage, Gregalich!

    If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
    Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles;
            Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalich!

    While there's leaves in the forest, or foam on the river,
    Macgregor despite them, shall flourish forever!
            Come then, Gregalich! Come then, Gregalich!

    Through the depths of Lochkatrine the steed shall career,
    O'er the peak of Benlomond the galley shall steer,
    And the rocks of Craig-Royston, like icicles melt,
    Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
            Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!"

We reach Lochkatrine, a narrow sheet of water, ten miles in length,
winding, in serpentine turns, among the huge mountains which guard it on
every side. This, and the wild glen called the Trosachs, are embalmed in
the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, whose ethereal genius has imparted to
them a charm which they would not otherwise possess. Wild and grand the
scenery certainly is, secluded so far among the mountains, and guarded
so wondrously by

    "Rocky summits, split and rent,"

which, gleaming under the rays of the morning sun, appeared to the eye
of poetical inspiration,

    "Like turret, dome or battlement,
    Or seemed fantastically set
    With cupola or minaret,
    Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd,
    Or mosque of Eastern minaret."

And not only so, but richly adorned with forest-trees and wild flowers
among the rifted rocks and the "smiling glades between," lovelier by far
than ever met any but a poet's eye.

    "Boon nature scattered free and wild,
    Each plant or flower, the mountains' child.
    Here eglantine embalmed the air,
    Hawthorne and hazel mingled there;
    The primrose, pale and violet flower,
    Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
    Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,
    Emblems of punishment and pride,
    Group'd their dark hues with every stain
    The weather-beaten crags retain.
    With boughs that quaked at every breath
    Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;
    Aloft the ash and warrior oak,
    Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
    And higher yet the pine tree hung
    His shattered trunk, and frequent flung,
    When seemed the cliffs to mount on high,
    His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky.
    Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,
    Where glistening streamers waved and danced,
    The wanderer's eye could barely view
    The summer heaven's delicious blue;
    So wondrous wild, the whole might seem
    The scenery of a fairy dream."

The scenery at the east end of Lochkatrine, where the lake narrows, like
a placid river, under the eye of Benvenue, the lower parts of which are
richly wooded, is exceedingly beautiful. Through the whole of this glen,
the Highland guides point out the localities and incidents mentioned in
the "Lady of the Lake," as if it were a historical verity. Such is the
power of genius, which "gives to airy nothings a local habitation and a
name."

    "Oh! who would think, in cheerless solitude,
      Who o'er these twilight waters glided slow,
      That genius, with a time-surviving glow,
    These wild lone scenes so proudly hath imbued!
    Or that from 'hum of men' so far remote,
      Where blue waves gleam, and mountains darken round,
      And trees, with broad boughs shed a gloom profound,
    A poet here should from his trackless thought
    Elysian prospects conjure up, and sing
      Of bright achievement in the olden days,
      When chieftain valor sued for beauty's praise,
    And magic virtues charmed St. Fillan's spring;
      Until in worlds where Chilian mountains raise
    Their cloud-capt heads admiring souls should wing
      Hither their flight, to wilds whereon I gaze."

Leaving Lochkatrine, we pass in a south-easterly direction, through
Callendar to Auchterarder, a parish famous in the annals of the Free
Church of Scotland, and thence, travelling through a delightful country,
reach "the bonnie town o' Perth," which lies so charmingly on the banks
of the Tay. Surrounded by some of the finest scenery in Scotland, with
Kinnoul House and Kinfauns Castle on the one side, and Scone, the old
palace in which the kings of Scotland were crowned, on the other,
clustering with memories of the olden time, and withal being a
well-built city, with some venerable churches and handsome public
edifices, Perth is one of the most interesting places in Scotland.
Moreover, it was anciently the capital of the kingdom, and contains a
good many relics of its former glory. Here the doctrines of the
Reformation early took root, and some of the citizens suffered martyrdom
for Christ's sake. Helen Stark and her husband, for refusing to pray to
the Virgin Mary, were condemned to die. She desired to be executed with
her husband, but her request was refused. On the way to the scaffold,
she exhorted him to constancy in the cause of Christ, and as she parted
with him, said, "Husband, be glad; we have lived together many joyful
days, and this day of our death we ought to esteem the most joyful of
them all, for we shall have joy forever; therefore, I will not bid you
good night, for we shall shortly meet in the kingdom of Heaven." After
the men were executed, Helen was taken to a pool of water yard by, when,
having recommended her dear children to the charity of her neighbors,
her infant having been taken from her breast, "she was drowned, and
died," says the historian of the town, "with great courage and comfort."

Perth rejoices in the possession of two beautiful "Commons," or
"Inches," as they are called, green as emerald, and bordered by long
avenues of magnificent trees. The Tay gleams through the verdant
foliage, and is seen winding, in serene beauty, far down among the rich
meadows and smooth lawns which adorn its banks. Behind it are the Sidlaw
hills, and looming up, in the distance, the blue ridges of the
Grampians. The lands around it are highly cultivated, and support a
numerous race of farmers, many of whom have grown rich from the produce
of the soil.

But the shadows of evening are beginning to fall upon the landscape;
to-morrow is "the rest of the holy Sabbath," and a comfortable "'tween
and supper-time" awaits us at the house of a friend at some distance
from Perth, which we must immediately leave.




CHAPTER XVI.

     Sabbath Morning-- 'The Sabbath,' by James Grahame--Sketch of his
     Life--Extracts from his Poetry--The Cameronians--'Dream of the
     Martyrs,' by James Hislop--Sabbath Morning Walk--Country
     Church--The old Preacher--The Interval of Worship--Conversation in
     the Church-yard--Going Home from Church--Sabbath Evening.


Sabbath morning dawns upon us, bright and clear, and all around a hushed
stillness pervades the air.

    "With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
    That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still;
    A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
    A graver murmur echoes from the hill,
    And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;
    The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.
    Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
    The sky a placid yellow lustre throws;
    The gales that lately sighed along the grove
    Have hushed their drowsy wings in dead repose;
    The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move,
    So soft the day when the first morn arose."

Thus sang Leyden, the celebrated scholar, poet, and traveller, who, like
all true sons of Scotland, revered the holy Sabbath, regarding it as the
best of days, the sweetest, purest, calmest of the seven! The same
images, borrowed not from Leyden, but from nature and his own heart, are
used by Grahame, in his delightful poem of 'The Sabbath,' a production
not without defects, but one of the most popular in Scotland.

    "How still the morning of the hallowed day!
    Mute is the voice of rural labor, hush'd
    The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
    The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
    Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
    That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze.
    Sounds the most faint attract the ear--the hum
    Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
    The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
    Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud.
    To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
    The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
    And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
    Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
    Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen;
    While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
    O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals
    The voice of psalm, the simple song of praise."

The Rev. James Grahame, the author of 'The Sabbath,' 'The Birds of
Scotland,' 'Biblical Pictures,' and so forth, was born in 1765, in the
city of Glasgow. He studied law, but afterwards took orders in the
Church of England, and officiated as curate in the counties of
Gloucester and Durham. He is said to have been a popular and useful
preacher. Possessed of great simplicity of character, purity of morals,
and kindness of heart, he won the affections of all his parishioners.
Suffering from ill health, he gave up his curacy, and returned to
Scotland, where he acted, we believe, as a school-teacher. His poems,
particularly that of 'The Sabbath,' attracted much attention in his
native land, which he dearly loved. A deep religious vein pervades the
whole. Attached to the ritual of his own church, he could yet appreciate
the solemn 'hill worship' of the Covenanters. His descriptions of
Scottish scenery are accurate and beautiful. His Sabbath is the Sabbath
of Scotland. All its pictures are drawn from real life. His verse may
seem prosaic at times, but it is melodious as a whole. Nothing can be
more natural or agreeable, in its easy gentle flow. Moreover, it often
sparkles with original turns of thought, and felicitous expressions.

An interesting anecdote is told of Grahame in connection with the
publication of 'The Sabbath.' He had finished the poem, and sent it to
the press unknown to his wife. When it was issued he brought her a copy,
and requested her to read it. As his name was not prefixed to the work,
she did not dream that he had anything to do with it. As she went on
reading, the sensitive author walked up and down the room. At length she
broke out in praise of the poem, and turning to him said: "Ah! James, if
you could but produce a poem like this." Judge then of her delighted
surprise when told that he was its author. The effect upon her is said
to have been almost overwhelming.

After describing the solemn and delightful worship of God's house,
particularly the music, ascending in 'a thousand notes symphonious,' he
touchingly adds:

                              "Afar they float,
    Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
    Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
    Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheered;
    He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise--
    Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!
    No lukewarm accents from my lips would flow;
    My heart would sing: and many a Sabbath day
    My steps should thither turn; or wandering far
    In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,
    Then would I bless his name who led me forth
    From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets--
    Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow
    Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye."

His description of the shepherd boy's Sabbath worship among the hills is
a passage of great beauty.

    "It is not only in the sacred fane
    That homage should be paid to the Most High;
    There is a temple, one not made with hands,
    The vaulted firmament. Far in the woods,
    Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
    At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
    When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,
    Save when the linnet lights upon the spray
    When not a flow'ret bends its little stalk,
    Save when a bee alights upon the bloom--
    Then rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love
    The man of God will pass his Sabbath noon;
    Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts
    Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
    Beyond the empyrean.
    Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
    The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy!
    In some lone glen, when every sound is lulled
    To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
    Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
    Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's Son;
    Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
    And wonders why he weeps: the volume closed,
    With thyme sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
    The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned
    With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
    Where humble love is learnt, where humble worth
    Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
    Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
    The shepherd boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
    Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
    Returning homeward from the house of prayer."

The hill worship of the Covenanters is also described with much beauty
and pathos.

    "With them each day was holy, every hour
    They stood prepared to die, a people doomed
    To death--old men, and youths, and simple maids.
    With them each day was holy; but that morn
    On which the angel said, 'See where the Lord
    Was laid,' joyous arose--to die that day
    Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
    O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought
    The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks
    Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks
    A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat
    With greensward gay, and flowers that strangers seem
    Amid the heathery wild, that all around
    Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these
    Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled
    A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws;
    There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array
    That in the times of old had scathed the rose
    On England's banner, and had powerless struck
    The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,
    Yet ranged itself to aid his son dethroned,)
    The lyart veteran heard the Word of God
    By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured
    In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud
    Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased
    Her plaint; the solitary place was glad.
    And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear
    Caught doubtfully at times, the breeze-borne note.
    But years more gloomy followed, and no more
    The assembled people dared, in face of day,
    To worship God, or even at the dead
    Of night, save when the wint'ry storm raved fierce,
    And thunder peals compelled the men of blood
    To crouch within their dens, then dauntlessly
    The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell
    By rocks o'ercanopied, to hear the voice,
    Their faithful pastor's voice: he, by the gleam
    Of sheeted lightning, oped the sacred Book,
    And words of comfort spoke: over their souls
    His accents soothing came--as to her young
    The heathfowl's plumes, when at the close of eve
    She gathers in her mournful brood, dispersed
    By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
    Fondly her wings, close nestling 'neath her breast
    They cherished, cower amid the purple blooms."

This is finely pictured; and, coming from a member of the Episcopal
Church, does honor to his heart and head. Sir Walter Scott has somewhat
injured the memory of the Scottish Covenanters, by presenting the darker
features of their character, and forgetting utterly their earnest piety,
their generous fervor, their heroic endurance. Many of them, doubtless,
were deficient in high-bred courtesy and learned refinement. Others were
narrow-minded and superstitious. But the great mass of them were men of
lofty faith, of generous self-sacrifice. They feared God, and perilled
their lives for freedom, in the high places of the field. "Lately," says
a vigorous writer in Blackwood's Magazine, "the Mighty Warlock of
Caledonia has shed a natural and a supernatural light round the founders
of the Cameronian dynasty; and as his business was to grapple with the
ruder and fiercer portion of their character, the gentle graces of
their nature were not called into action, and the storm and tempest and
thick darkness of John Balfour of Burley, have darkened the whole
breathing congregation of the Cameronians, and turned their sunny
hillside into a dreary desert." It requires men of no ordinary character
to become martyrs for principle, especially when that principle is one
of the highest order, and has been chosen calmly, deliberately, and in
the fear of God. When such men go forth to defend the right, and shed
their life's blood for its enthronement, their's is no vulgar
enthusiasm, no unnatural and infuriate fanaticism. Read the following
from James Hislop, once a poor shepherd boy, and afterwards a
school-teacher, written near the grave of the pious and redoubtable
Cameron, and several of his followers, slain by tyrants in the moor of
Aird's-moss, and say whether such martyrs for truth are worthy of our
reverence!

    "In a dream of the night I was wafted away
    To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay,
    Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,
    Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

    'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
    When the minister's home was the mountain and wood;
    When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
    All bloody and torn '<DW41> the heather was lying.

    'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east
    Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
    On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew,
    Glistened there '<DW41> the heath bells and mountain flowers blue.

    And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,
    The song of the lark was melodious and loud,
    And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
    Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

    And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
    The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
    Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
    And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

    But oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
    Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
    Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
    For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

    'Twas the few faithful ones, who with Cameron were lying
    Concealed '<DW41> the mist where the heathfowl was flying,
    For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
    And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering.

    Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,
    But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed;
    With eyes turned to heaven, in calm resignation,
    They sung their last song to the God of salvation.

    The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
    The curlew and plover in concert were singing:
    But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
    As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.

    Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,
    Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded,
    Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as firm and unbending,
    They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.

    The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
    The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
    The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
    When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

    When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
    A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended,
    Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
    And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.

    A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
    All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
    And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation
    Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

    On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,
    Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
    Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,
    A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!"

But we are forgetting ourselves; and as we propose spending the Sabbath
in a small country hamlet, at some distance, we must be off immediately.
It would be gratifying to return to Perth and hear some of the clergymen
there, Dr. Young especially, who is a preacher of great depth and
energy; but the Sabbath will be sweeter amidst the woods and hills.

We enter a quiet unfrequented road, skirting around those fine clumps of
trees, and that green hill to the west, and after wandering a few miles,
we pass into a narrow vale, through which a small wooded stream makes
its noiseless way, and adorned on either side with rich green <DW72>s,
clumps of birches, and tufts of flowering broom. As you ascend the vale,
it gradually widens, the acclivities on either side recede to a
considerable distance, and the road, taking a sudden turn, runs over the
hill to the left, and dives into a sort of natural amphitheatre, formed
by the woods and braes around it. On the further side you descry a small
antique-looking church, with two or three huge ash trees, and one or two
silver larches shading it, at one end, a pretty mansion built of
freestone, and handsomely slated, at a little distance at the other.
Approaching, we find a few stragglers, as if in haste, entering the
church door; the bell has ceased tolling, and the service probably is
about to commence. We enter, and find seats near the door. How tenderly
and solemnly that old minister, with his bland look, and silver locks,
reads the eighty-fourth psalm, and how reverently the whole
congregation, with book in hand, follow him to the close. A precentor,
as he is called, sitting in a sort of desk under the pulpit, strikes the
tune, and all, young and old, rich and poor, immediately accompany him.
The minister then offers a prayer, in simple Scripture language,
somewhat long, but solemn and affecting. He then reads another psalm,
which is sung, as the first was, by the whole congregation, and with
such earnest and visible delight, that you feel at once that their
hearts are in the service. The preacher then rises in the pulpit and
reads the twenty-third psalm, as the subject of his exposition, or
lecture, as the Scottish preachers uniformly style their morning's
discourse. His exposition is plain and practical, occasionally rising to
the pathetic and beautiful. Ah, how sweetly he dwells upon the good
Shepherd of the sheep, and how tenderly he depicts the security and
repose of the good man passing through the dark valley and the shadow of
death. His reverend look, the tremulous tones of his voice, his Scottish
accent, and occasionally Scottish phrases, his abundant use of
Scriptural quotations, and a certain Oriental cast of mind, derived, no
doubt, from intimate communion with prophets and apostles, invest his
discourse with a peculiar charm. It is not learned; neither is it
original and profound; but it is _good_, good for the heart--good for
the conscience and the life. Old preachers, like old wine, in our humble
opinion, are by far the best. Their freedom from earthly ambition, their
deep experience of men and things, their profound acquaintance with
their own heart, their evident nearness to heaven, their natural
simplicity and authority, their reverend looks and tremulous tones, all
unite to invest their preaching with a peculiar spiritual interest, such
as seldom attaches to that of young divines. Everything, of course,
depends upon personal character, and a young preacher may be truly
pious, and thus speak with much simplicity and power. But, other things
being equal, old preachers and old physicians, old friends and old
places possess qualities peculiar to themselves.

After the sermon, prayer is offered, and the whole congregation unite in
a psalm of praise. The interval of worship, it is announced, will be one
hour. A portion of the congregation return to their homes, but most of
them remain. Some repair to a house of refreshment in the neighborhood,
where they regale themselves on the simplest fare, such as bread and
milk, or bread and beer. Others wander off, in parties, to the green
woods or sunny knolls around, and seated on the greensward, eat their
bread and cheese, converse about the sermon, or such topics as happen to
interest them most. The younger people and children are inclined to
ramble, but are not permitted to do so. Yet the little fellows will
romp, '_a very little_,' and occasionally run off, but not so far as to
be beyond call. A large number of the people have gone into the
grave-yard connected with the church. Some are seated on the old flat
tombstones, others on the greensward, dotted all around with the graves
of their fathers. See that group there. The old man, with "lyart
haffets" and broad bonnet, looks like one of the old Covenanters. The
old lady, evidently his wife, wears a sort of hooded cloak, from which
peeps forth a nicely plaited cap of lace, which wonderfully sets off her
demure but agreeable features. These young people around them are
evidently their children and grandchildren. How contented they look, and
how reverently they listen to the old man. Let us draw near, and hear
the conversation.

"Why, grandfaither," says one of the younger lads, "don't you think the
auld Covenanters were rather sour kind o' bodies?"

"Sour!" replies the old man, "they had eneuch to mak' them sour. Hunted
from mountain to mountain, like wild beasts, it's nae wonder if they
felt waefu' at times, or that they let human passion gain a moment's
ascendancy. But they were guid men for a' that. They were the chosen o'
God, and wrastled hard against principalities and powers, against the
rulers o' the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in
high places. Reading their lives, I've aften thocht they must ha'e been
kind o' inspired. Like the auld prophets and martyrs, they were very
zealous for the Lord God, and endured, cheerfully, mair distress and
tribulation than we can well imagine."

"Weel, weel!" says one of the girls, "I wish they had been a wee bit
gentler in their ways, and mair charitable to their enemies."

"Ah, Nancy," is the quick reply of the old man, "ye ken but little about
it. A fine thing it is for us, sitting here in this peacefu' kirk-yard,
wi' nane to molest us or mak' us afraid, to talk about gentleness and
charity. But the auld Covenanters had to encounter fire and steel. They
wandered over muir and fell, in poverty and sorrow, being destitute,
afflicted, tormented. But oh, my bairns! they loved and served the Lord!
They endured as seeing him who is invisible; and when they cam' to dee,
they rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer for his name. Nae
doot, some of them were carnal men, and ithers o' them had great
imperfections. But the maist o' them were unco holy men, men o' prayer,
men o' faith, aye, and men of charity of whom the world was not worthy."

This answer silences all objections.

But the bell, from the old church tower, begins to toll.

    "Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground,
    The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
    Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
    With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased,
    These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
    The house of God--these, spite of all their ills,
    A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
    They enter in; a placid stillness reigns,
    Until the man of God, worthy the name,
    Opens the book, and reverentially
    The stated portion reads."

The services of the afternoon are much the same as those of the morning,
except that the preacher comments briefly on the portion of Scripture
read at the opening of the service, and delivers a regular discourse,
from a single text. The congregation follow the preacher with evident
attention, and look up in their Bibles, which all have in their hands,
the passages of Scripture cited as proofs and illustrations. This, with
an occasional cough, and a little rustling from the children, are the
only sounds which break the solemn stillness of the scene.

Dismissed, with a solemn benediction, all take their several ways
homeward. The sun is going down; but its mellow light yet lingers upon
the uplands, and tinges the foliage of the trees with supernal tints. A
sabbath stillness reigns over hill and dale. The very trees appear to
slumber; the birds are silent, except a single thrush, which, in the
deep recesses of that shadowy copsewood, appears to be singing "her hymn
to the evening." A little later, you might hear the voice of psalms from
the low thatched cottage, on the hillside or in the glen. For, in
Scotland, family worship is generally maintained, and singing, in which
the whole family join, always forms a part of the exercises.

    "They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
      They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
    Perhaps _Dundee's_ wild warbling measures rise,
      Or plaintive _Martyrs_, worthy of the name,
    Or noble _Elgin_ beets the heavenward flame,
      The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays."

Wandering thus, through the fields, with Sabbath influences all around
us, it is impossible not to be grateful and devout. A holy calm steals
upon the mind--a heavenly beatitude, akin to that of angels and the
spirits of just men made perfect.

    "Oh Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales;
    But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
    Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
    Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song
    Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
    Or when the simple service ends, to hear
    The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man,
    The father and the priest, walk forth alone
    Into his garden plat and little field,
    To commune with his God in secret prayer--
    To bless the Lord that in his downward years
    His children are about him: sweet, meantime
    The thrush that sings upon the aged thorn,
    Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
    When that same aged thorn was but a bush!
    Nor is the contrast between youth and age
    To him a painful thought; he joys to think
    His journey near a close; heaven is his home."

Thus, in his own simple and charming style, Grahame describes the
Sabbath evening. So beautiful it is, so Sabbath-like, in its spirit and
tone, that we venture one extract more.

    "Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
    Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
    Upon the adverse <DW72>, where stalks gigantic
    The shepherd's shadow, thrown athwart the chasm,
    As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
    How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry,
    Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt.
    But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!
    'Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling; now it dies
    Away, now rises full; it is the song
    Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs
    Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear;
    It is the music of the heart, the voice
    Of venerable age, of guileless youth,
    In kindly circle seated on the ground
    Before their wicker door. Behold the man,
    The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
    Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
    Upon the smooth-cropt sward the open book,
    His comfort, stay, and ever new delight;
    While heedless at his side, the lisping boy
    Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch."




CHAPTER XVII.

     Lochleven--Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle--Michael
     Bruce--Sketch of his Life--Boyhood--College
     Life--Poetry--"Lochleven"--Sickness--"Ode to Spring"--Death--"Ode
     to the Cuckoo."


Pursuing our journey southward, next day finds us on the banks of
Lochleven, distinguished not so much from the beauty of its situation,
as from its poetic and historical associations. It is adorned with four
small islands, the principal of which are St. Serf's Isle near the east
end, so called from its having been the site of a priory dedicated to
St. Serf, and another near the shore on the west side, which immediately
attracts the eye, from its containing the picturesque ruins of Lochleven
Castle, in which Mary, Queen of Scots, was confined, and from which she
made her wonderful escape. Here, also, Patrick Graham, Archbishop of St.
Andrews, and grandson of Robert the Third, was imprisoned, in
consequence of a generous attempt to reform the profligate lives of the
Catholic clergy. In this place he died, and was buried in the monastery
of St. Serf. The keys of the castle, thrown into the lake at the time of
Queen Mary's flight, have recently been found by a young man belonging
to Kinross, and are now in the possession of the Earl of Morton.

The castle, with its massive tower yet standing, looks dismal enough,
but how much it is beautified by the fine old trees and shrubbery which
encircle it, and the mellow light which mantles its hoary sides!

    "Gothic the pile, and high the solid walls,
    With warlike ramparts, and the strong defence
    Of jutting battlements: an age's toil!
    No more its arches echo to the noise
    Of joy and festive mirth. No more the glance
    Of blazing taper through its window beams,
    And quivers on the undulating wave;
    But naked stand the melancholy walls,
    Lash'd by the wint'ry tempest, cold and bleak
    That whistles mournful through the empty halls
    And piecemeal crumble down the towers to dust."

This description is by Michael Bruce, whose early promise and premature
death have awakened so much sympathy among all classes in Scotland. He
was born in the vicinity of Lochleven, and has written a poem of
considerable merit descriptive of the lake and surrounding scenery. His
"Ode to Spring," and especially his "Ode to the Cuckoo," now universally
acknowledged to be his, are among the most beautiful poems in the
English language. He was born at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, on the
27th of March, 1746. By going round to the north-east bank of the lake,
we shall find this village, insignificant in itself, but sweetly
situated on the south-west declivity of the Lomond hills. Ascending a
narrow lane, we reach, near its centre, the house in which Bruce was
born. It consists of two stories, with a thatched roof. Michael's
parents were very poor, and occupied only the upper part of the house,
which served them at once for a workshop and dwelling. "A true nestling
place of genius," exclaims his biographer, quoting the words of
Washington Irving respecting the birth-place of Shakspeare, "which
delights to hatch its offspring in bye corners." Mean as it is, an
angelic soul has been here, and a charm lingers upon its homely walls.
Dr. Huie of Edinburgh has given the following touching account of a
visit which he paid to this place, in company with one of Bruce's old
friends. "On returning," says he, "from Portmoak church-yard, where
Bruce is buried, I attended my venerable guide to the lowly dwelling
where the parents of the poet resided. We first entered the garden:
'This,' said Mr. B. 'was a spot of much interest to Michael. Here he
used alternately to work and to meditate. There stood a row of trees
which he particularly cherished, but they are now cut down,' added the
good old man, and as he said this, he sighed. 'Here again,' said he,
'was a bank of soft grass on which Michael was accustomed to recline
after he became too weak to walk; and here his father would sit beside
him in the evening, and read to amuse him.' We next entered the house. I
experienced an involuntary feeling of awe when I found myself in the
humble abode, where neglected worth and talents had pined away and died.
The little square windows cast but a feeble light over the apartment,
and the sombre shades of evening, for the sun had now set, were
strikingly in unison with the scene. 'There,' said my conductor, 'auld
Saunders used to sit at his loom. In that corner stood the bed where the
auld couple slept, in this the bed which was occupied by Michael, and in
which he died,' The good old man's eyes filled as he spoke. I found it
necessary to wipe my own. I was not ashamed of my tears. They were a
tribute to departed genius, and there was nothing unmanly in their
flow."

Saunders Bruce, as he was called, the father of Michael, had eight
children, and as the business of weaving has always been a poor one in
Scotland, it was with extreme difficulty that he was enabled to give
Michael a suitable education, though early perceiving in him the seeds
of genius. Saunders was a pious thoughtful man, universally respected,
and a sort of village chronicle. He is supposed to be referred to in the
poem of Lochleven, in the lines commencing,--

    "I knew an aged swain whose hoary head
    Was bent with years, the village chronicle," etc.

Of his mother we have no means of forming a judgment, and suspect that
her character was not particularly marked. It is his father to whom
Michael himself, and the friends that knew him, chiefly refer in
connection with his early studies and pursuits. Some indeed have
intimated that the stern orthodoxy of the old man was called into
requisition to repress the youthful aspirings of his son, particularly
in the matter of books, but of this not the slightest evidence can be
adduced.

He succeeded in procuring copies of Shakspeare, Pope, Milton, Fontenelle
and Young, all of which he devoured with avidity and delight. The
Scriptures he read at home and at school, and thus became familiar with
the magnificent images and thrilling conceptions of oriental
inspiration.

Michael was a great favorite at school, and made rapid progress in his
studies. But he was frequently called away from school, partly by
sickness, to which he was subject at an early age, and partly by his
fathers straitened circumstances. On this latter account he was employed
for a time as a shepherd, on the Lomond hills, which rise in verdant
beauty behind his native village. This, however, was rather a benefit
than an injury to his mind as well as body. His poem of "Lochleven" is
made up of reminiscences of the romantic scenes with which at that time
he became familiar:--

    "Where he could trace the cowslip-covered bank
    Of Leven, and the landscape measure round."

"The late proprietor of the upper Kinneston, a small estate upon the
south-west declivity of the Lomond hills, used to relate with much
feeling, the amusing stories told him, and the strange questions put to
him by Michael when herding his father's cattle, and how he would offer
his services to carry the boys' meals to the hill, for the sake of
having half an hour's conversation with this interesting youth."[158]
While his progress in learning was much interrupted in this way, his
mind was advancing, nevertheless, by communion with nature and his own
individual heart. Besides, his frequent absence from school was
compensated by the prosecution of his studies on the hillside, or by his
father's ingle, so that when he returned to school, it took him but a
few days to reach the top of his class. Though modest, and even shy, he
had great influence with his school-fellows. Somehow they regarded him
as a sort of superior being, and his word among them was law. This,
doubtless, arose from the originality of his character, which developed
itself at a very early age.

[Footnote 158: Memoir of Bruce, by Dr. Mackelvie, to which I am chiefly
indebted for the facts of which the accompanying sketch is composed.]

        "Silent when glad, affectionate though shy,
      And now his look was most demurely sad,
      And now he laughed aloud, and none knew why,
      And neighbors stared and sighed, and bless'd the lad;
    Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad."

    BEATTIE'S MINSTREL.

The same deference, it is said, was paid him at home. Indeed, he was the
pet of the family, and all vied to make Michael comfortable and happy, a
homage to genius and worth infinitely more precious than the plaudits of
the world.

While attending school, he formed some interesting friendships,
particularly with William Arnot, a peculiarly amiable young man, who
died in early life, and to whom Bruce makes a touching reference in
"Lochleven." Through the son he became acquainted with the father, a
wise and liberal man, who greatly assisted Michael in his studies, and
gave him the free use of his library. It is to him the following
description refers.

    "How blest the man, who, in these peaceful plains,
    Ploughs his paternal field; far from the noise,
    The care and bustle of a busy world!
    All in the sacred, sweet, sequestered vale
    Of solitude, the secret primrose path
    Of rural life he dwells; and with him dwells
    Peace and content, twins of the sylvan shade,
    And all the graces of the golden age.
    Such is Agricola, the wise, the good;
    By nature formed for the calm retreat,
    The silent path of life. Learned, but not fraught
    With self-importance, as the starched fool
    Who challenges respect by solemn face,
    By studied accent, and high-sounding phrase,
    Enamored of the shade, but not morose,
    Politeness, raised in courts by frigid rules
    With him spontaneous grows. Not books alone,
    But man his study, and the better part;
    To tread the ways of virtue, and to act
    The various scenes of life with God's applause.
    Deep in the bottom of the flowery vale,
    With blooming sallows, and the leafy twine
    Of verdant alders fenced, his dwelling stands
    Complete in rural elegance. The door
    By which the poor or pilgrim never passed
    Still open, speaks the master's bounteous heart.
    Then, O how sweet! amid the fragrant shrubs,
    At evening cool to sit; while, on their boughs
    The nested songsters twitter o'er their young;
    And the hoarse low of folded cattle breaks
    The silence, wafted o'er the sleeping lakes,
    Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge
    Of western cloud; while converse sweet deceives
    The stealing foot of time!"

He found an opportunity of acquiring the Latin language and preparing
for college, with a Mr. Dun, who, for the sake of his son, formed a
class of boys, of which Michael was decidedly the best scholar, as all
acknowledged.

But he was of a slender make, and gave early indications of pulmonary
consumption. In his personal appearance he is said to have resembled
Shelley; having yellowish curling hair, a long neck and narrow chest,
skin white and shining, and his cheeks "tinged with red rather than
ruddy." He was "early smitten with the love of song," and began
occasionally to write verses. Possessed of a fine musical ear, he was
impatient to get hold of all sorts of old ballads and songs; and while
the other children of the village or school were amusing themselves with
play, or spending their money on trash, he was poring with delighted
eyes over "Chevy Chase," or "The Flowers of the Forest." When he had
made himself familiar with the music and sentiments of these ballads, he
would endeavor "to supply his lack of novelty with verses of his own."
It is in this way, probably, that his fine ballad of "Sir James the
Ross," and some of his pastorals originated.

After he had left school, and saw no way of pursuing his studies, a
relative left him the sum of two hundred merks Scots, about sixty
dollars, when it was resolved forthwith that Michael should repair to
Edinburgh University. Mr. Arnot encouraged him in this enterprise, and
promised some assistance, in the shape of provisions and so forth.
Accordingly he set out for the metropolis, and entered college. But he
was often subjected to severe privations. Some of his fellow students
who suspected his poverty were willing to share their meals with him,
but he could not bear the thought of being fed out of pity, and whenever
he imagined the invitation to proceed from this feeling he uniformly
declined it. He was high-spirited; and yet he was truly pious. Indeed,
he had devoted himself to Heaven in his boyhood, and never swerved from
the high principles of Christian integrity.

At college Bruce became acquainted with several young men who
subsequently acquired distinction. Dr. Lawson and the Rev. John Logan
were his fellow students and warmly attached friends. His relations with
Logan subsequently became involved, much to the discredit of the latter,
who is suspected of having dealt ungenerously with his friend's poems,
which, after the death of Bruce, were committed to his care. He is
charged particularly with purloining the "Ode to the Cuckoo," and
publishing it as his own. Logan was a singular man--an orator of a high
order, an accomplished scholar, and an elegant poet. Some of his poems,
particularly his "Visit to the Country in Autumn," "The Braes of
Yarrow," "The Lament of Nature," and other odes and hymns, are beautiful
and finished productions. Some of his discourses, preached at Leith,
though not profound, are eloquent and effective. But he was imperfectly
imbued with the high principles which he endeavored to recommend to
others, and he has greatly tarnished his fair fame by the use which he
is supposed to have made of the labors of Bruce. It is probable,
however, that the "Ode to the Cuckoo" was only drafted by Bruce, and
subsequently polished into its present state of perfection by the
classic pen of Logan.

The companion to whom, of all others, Bruce became the most attached at
college, was Mr. William Dryburgh, from Dysart. Like Bruce, he was
possessed of piety and genius, and like him, too, suffered from
pulmonary disease, and died in early life. Both had a presentiment that
they were destined to a premature grave. And this, with their bright
hope of a blessed immortality, was the frequent subject of their
conversations. Dryburgh died in his eighteenth year, and Bruce followed
him in less than a year after. How keenly he felt this separation may be
gathered from the following letter to a friend, written on receiving the
intelligence of Dryburgh's death:--

"I have not many friends, but I love them well. Death has been among the
few I have. Poor Dryburgh!--but he is happy. I expected to have been his
companion through life, and that we should have stepped into the grave
together; but Heaven has seen meet to dispose of him otherwise. What
think you of this world? I think it very little worth. You and I have
not a great deal to make us fond of it; and yet I would not exchange my
condition with any unfeeling fool in the universe, if I were to have his
dull hard heart into the bargain. Farewell, my rival in immortal hope!
My companion, I trust, for eternity! Though far distant, I take thee to
my heart; souls suffer no separation from the obstruction of matter, or
distance of place. Oceans may roll between us, and climates interpose in
vain--the whole material creation is no bar to the winged mind.
Farewell! through boundless ages, fare thee well! May'st thou shine when
the sun is darkened. May'st thou live and triumph when time expires! It
is at least possible that we meet no more in this foreign land, in this
gloomy apartment of the universe of God. But there is a better world in
which we may meet to part no more. Adieu."

But the grief of a true poet embodies itself in verse. The following
lines, on the death of Dryburgh, were found among Bruce's papers.

    Alas! we fondly thought that heaven designed
      His bright example mankind to improve;
    All they should be was pictured in his mind,
      His thoughts were virtue, and his heart was love.

    Calm as the summer sun's unruffled face,
      He looked unmoved on life's precarious game,
    And smiled at mortals toiling in the chase
      Of empty phantoms, opulence and fame.

    Steady he followed virtue's onward path,
      Inflexible to error's devious way,
    And firm at last, in hope and fixed faith
      Through death's dark vale he trod without dismay.

    Whence then these sighs? And whence this falling tear
      In sad remembrance of his merit just?
    Still must I mourn! for he to me was dear
      And still is dear, though buried in the dust.

Bruce's father made great efforts, by means of saving and borrowing, to
assist his son during his college course, and Mr. Arnot continued to
send him occasional supplies from his farm and dairy. But he was sadly
straitened in the matter of books. The following letter upon this
subject is characteristic and striking.

"Edinburgh, Nov. 27, 1764.--I daily meet with proofs that money is a
necessary evil. When in an auction, I often say to myself, how happy
should I be if I had money to purchase such a book! How well should my
library be furnished, 'nisi obstat res angusta domi,'

    'My lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone
    My growing virtues, but my crimes confines.'

Whether any virtues would have accompanied me in a more elevated station
is uncertain, but that a number of vices of which my sphere is
incapable, would have been its attendants, is unquestionable. The
Supreme Wisdom has seen this meet, and the Supreme Wisdom cannot err."

The annual session in the colleges of Scotland lasts only from six to
eight months, and thus leaves considerable time for relaxation and
private study, or for other occupations necessary to recruit the
students' exhausted finances. At the end of each of these terms, Michael
returned home, much exhausted by his application to study. His system,
however, soon recovered its wonted energy in the congenial scenes of his
boyhood, and the kind attentions of the proprietor of Portmoak. Still he
was seldom in perfect health, and often complained of headache and
depression of spirits. Most of his time during the summer months, the
season of vacation, was spent either in reading or in writing poetry.

During his last session at College, Michael accepted a proposal to teach
a small school at Gairney Bridge, which lies on a small stream running
into Lochleven. He finished his collegiate studies honorably, having
distinguished himself chiefly in _rhetoric_ and _belles lettres_. At
Gairney Bridge he had some thirty or forty pupils under his care, whom
he governed entirely without the rod, then pretty thoroughly used in
Scotland. But the compensation was a mere trifle, not exceeding more
than sixty or seventy dollars a year.

It was in this place that he wrote several of his poems, and became
deeply attached to a beautiful young woman in the neighborhood, to whom,
however, he never declared his passion.

About this time he joined the church in Kinross, under the pastoral care
of the Rev. Mr. Swanston, recently appointed professor of Theology in
the United Secession Church. This learned and amiable man conceived a
strong attachment for Michael, and ever treated him with the greatest
consideration and kindness. Subsequently he engaged to teach a school at
Forest Mill, a dreary sort of place, with miserable school
accommodations. His health too, was declining. While fording the Devon
on horseback, the horse stumbled and immersed him in the stream, a
circumstance which greatly aggravated his consumptive tendency. Moreover
he was disappointed in his school, and his health and spirits rapidly
declined. In a letter to Mr. Arnot, he says, "I expected to be happy
here, but I am not. The easiest part of my life is past. I sometimes
compare my condition with that of others, and imagine if I was in theirs
it would be well. But is not everybody thus! Perhaps he whom I envy
thinks he would be glad to change with me, and yet neither would be
better for the change. Since it is so, let us, my friend, moderate our
hopes and fears, resign ourselves to the will of Him who doeth all
things well, and who hath assured us that he careth for us.

    'Si res sola potest facere et servare beatum
    Hoc primus repetas opus, hoc postremus omittas.'

"Things are not very well in the world, but they are pretty well. They
might have been worse, and such as they are may please us who have but a
few short days to use them. This scene of affairs, though a very
perplexed, is a very short one, and in a little while all will be
cleared up. Let us endeavor to please God, our fellow creatures and
ourselves. In such a course of life we shall be as happy as we can
expect in such a world as this. Thus you, who cultivate your farm with
your own hands, and I who teach a dozen blockheads for bread, may be
happier than he, who having more than he can use, tortures his brain to
invent some new methods of killing himself with the superfluity." In
this letter, worthy of Cowper or of Foster, we see a brave spirit
struggling with the direst misfortunes, poverty and disease, and
overcoming both by the silent might of a believing spirit.

Another thing which greatly afflicted Bruce at Forest Mill, was the
total want of agreeable scenery, and it was only by an effort of memory
and imagination that he could, in some measure make up this deficiency,
by recalling the delightful scenery of his early home. To this
combination of unfavorable circumstances he touchingly refers in the
poem of Lochleven, which was actually produced under their influence, as
a means of relaxation and enjoyment.

    "Thus sang the youth amid unfertile wilds,
    And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground!
    Far from his friends he strayed, recording thus
    The dear remembrance of his native fields,
    To cheer the tedious night, while slow disease
    Preyed on his pining vitals, and the blasts
    Of dark December shook his humble cot."

"Lochleven" is his longest, and in most respects, his most beautiful
poem. It has defects, obvious enough to a critical eye, but its general
excellence strikes every reader. Its descriptions and delineations are
natural and striking, its imagery is simple and poetical, and its
measure sweet and melodious. Nearly the whole of it has been "used up,"
in beautiful extracts by different writers of distinction.

But the composition of this poem seems to have been too much for Bruce's
shattered frame; for he was compelled almost immediately to relinquish
his school. He had just strength to walk home to Kinnesswood, a
distance of nearly twenty miles, resting only a short time at Turf-hills
on the way. Though nowhere on earth could he be happier than in the
humble cottage of his parents, it was yet the worst place in the world
for his disease. "The vapors rising from the lake," says his biographer,
"particularly in spring, keep the atmosphere constantly in a state of
moisture, whilst in the mornings and evenings the eastern haars, as the
fogs which come up from the sea are called by the inhabitants, come
rolling down the hills, and hang suspended over Kinnesswood like a
dripping curtain."

He had expected, in the quiet of his father's home and in the vicinity
of his dear Lochleven, a restoration of health; but in this hope he was
disappointed. The mark of death was upon him. The heart of the beauteous
tree was poisoned by disease, and all its leaves faded and fell to the
ground. It was under the consciousness of this fact, that he wrote his
beautiful and affecting "Ode to Spring," which he sent to a dear friend
to apprise him of his approaching dissolution. The following are its
concluding stanzas.

    Now spring returns: but not to me returns
      The vernal joy my better years have known;
    Dim in my breast, life's dying taper burns,
      And all the joys of life with health are flown.

    Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind,
      Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
    Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,
      And count the silent moments as they pass:

    The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
      No art can stop, or in their course arrest;
    Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
      And lay me down in peace with them at rest.

    Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
      And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true;
    Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate,
      And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

    I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo;
      I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
    The sluggish streams that slowly sleep below,
      Which mortals visit, and return no more.

    Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
      Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound,
    Where melancholy with still silence reigns,
      And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.

    There let me wander at the shut of eve,
      When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes;
    The world and all its busy follies leave,
      And talk with Wisdom where my Daphne lies.

    There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay,
      When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes;
    Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,
      Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.

He intimated his approaching death to another friend, in prose, as
affecting as his poetry, and if possible, more instructive.

"A few mornings ago, as I was taking a walk on an eminence which
commands a view of the Forth, with the vessels sailing along, I sat
down, and taking out my Latin Bible, opened by accident, at a place in
the Book of Job, chap, ix: 23, 'Now my days are passed away as the swift
ships.' Shutting the book, I fell a musing on this affecting
comparison. Whether the following happened to me in a dream or waking
reverie I cannot tell, but I fancied myself on the bank of a river or
sea, the opposite side of which was hid from view, being involved in
clouds of mist. On the shore stood a multitude, which no man could
number, waiting for passage. I saw a great many ships taking in
passengers, and several persons going about in the garb of pilots,
offering their service. Being ignorant, and curious to know what all
these things meant, I applied to a grave old man who stood by giving
instructions to the departing passengers. His name, I remember, was the
GENIUS OF HUMAN LIFE. 'My son,' said he, 'you stand on the banks of the
stream of TIME. All these people are bound for ETERNITY, that
undiscovered country whence no traveller ever returns. The country is
very large, and divided into two parts, the one is called the _Land of
Glory_, the other the _Kingdom of Darkness_. The names of those in the
garb of pilots, are _Religion_, _Virtue_, _Pleasure_. They who are so
wise as to choose Religion for their guide, have a safe, though
frequently a rough passage; they are at last landed in the happy climes
where sorrow and sighing forever flee away. They have likewise a
secondary director, _Virtue_; but there is a spurious Virtue, who
pretends to govern by himself; but the wretches who trust to him, as
well as those who have Pleasure for their pilot, are either shipwrecked
or are cast away on the Kingdom of Darkness. _But the vessel in which
you must embark, approaches, and you must be gone._ Remember what
depends upon your conduct.' No sooner had he left me, than I found
myself surrounded by those pilots I mentioned before. Immediately I
forgot all that the old man said to me, and seduced by the fair promises
of Pleasure, chose him for my director. We weighed anchor with a fair
gale, the sky serene, the sea calm. Innumerable little isles lifted
their green heads around us, covered with trees in full blossom;
dissolved in stupid mirth, we were carried on regardless of the past, of
the future unmindful. On a sudden the sky was darkened, the winds
roared, the seas raged; red rose the sand from the bottom of the deep.
The angel of the waters lifted up his voice. At that instant, a strong
ship passed by; I saw Religion at the helm. 'Come out from among these,'
he cried. I and a few others threw ourselves out into his ship. The
wretches we left were now tossed on the swelling deep. The waters on
every side poured, through the riven vessel. They cursed the Lord; when
lo! a fiend rose from the deep, and in a voice like distant thunder,
thus spoke:--'I am Abaddon, the first-born of death;--ye are my prey.
Open thou abyss to receive them!' As he thus spoke they sunk, and the
waves closed over their heads. The storm was turned into a calm, and we
heard a voice saying, 'Fear not, I am with you. When you pass through
the waters they shall not overflow you.' Our hearts were filled with
joy. I was engaged in discourse with one of my new companions, when one
from the top of the mast cried out, 'Courage, my friends, I see the
fair haven, the land that is yet afar off.' Looking up, I found it was a
certain friend, who had mounted up for the benefit of contemplating the
country before him. Upon seeing _you_, (the friend to whom he was
writing,) I was so affected that I started and awaked. Farewell, my
friend,--Farewell!"

See that fragile form, then, with the glowing spirit within, panting for
freedom and its "native skies," borne along in the vessel of Religion,
upon a calm and sunny sea. He looks aloft, and anticipates with serene
and joyful trust, his entrance into the port of everlasting peace. The
vessel glides, with increasing velocity, her sails all set, and gleaming
in the reflected radiance of the spirit-world. Now she enters the port,
and nears that blessed shore,

    "Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar."

The few days which remained to Michael on earth, he spent in correcting
his poem of the "Last Judgment," and in pluming his spirit for its
upward flight. His bodily strength was exhausted, and he was obliged to
keep his bed. His mind was meditative and hopeful, dwelling almost
wholly upon various passages of Holy Writ, which he would repeat and
comment upon to his friends.

Mr. George Lawson, afterwards Dr. Lawson, professor of theology in the
"Secession Church," being called to preach for a settlement in the
neighborhood of Kinnesswood, hastened upon his arrival there, to see his
friend Bruce. He found him in bed, with his countenance pale as death,
while his eyes shone like lamps in a sepulchre. The poet was delighted
to see him, and spoke with as much ease and freedom as if he had been in
perfect health. Mr. Lawson remarked to him that he was glad to see him
so cheerful. "And why," said he, "should not a man be cheerful on the
verge of heaven?" "But," said Mr. L., "you look so emaciated. I am
afraid you cannot last long." "You remind me," he replied, "of the story
of the Irishman, who was told that his hovel was about to fall, and I
answer with him, _Let it fall, it is not mine!_"

This cheerfulness continued during his illness, till his mother, one
morning, announced to him, just as he was awaking out of sleep, that Mr.
Swanston was dead. He looked at her with a fixed stare, as if stunned by
the intelligence. Upon recovering he satisfied himself as to the
correctness of the statement, and was never afterwards seen to smile!
Still we do not attach much importance to this circumstance; for it
often happens that when the countenance is cold and ghastly, the heart
within is warm and serene. He lingered for a month, manifesting little
interest in what was said or done around him, and on the 5th of July,
calmly and imperceptibly fell asleep, aged twenty-one years and three
months.

    So fades a summer cloud away,
      So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,
    So gently shuts the eye of day,
      So fades a wave along the shore.

    Life's labor done, as sinks the clay,
      Light from its load the spirit flies,
    While heaven and earth combine to say,
      How bless'd the Christian when he dies!

His Bible was found upon his pillow, marked down at Jer. xxii: 10, "Weep
ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him;" and on the blank leaf this
homely but expressive verse was written:--

    "'Tis very vain for me to boast,
    How small a price my Bible cost;
    The day of judgment will make clear,
    'Twas very cheap or very dear."

He was buried in the church-yard of Portmoak, in the very centre of the
scenes hallowed and beautified by his muse. A monument has been erected
to Bruce through the subscription of his friends, of which the following
is the simple but appropriate inscription:

                     MICHAEL BRUCE,
              Born in 1747 at Kinnesswood,
               In the County of Kinross,
             Died at the age of twenty-one.
                  In this brief space,
       Under the pressure of indigence and sickness,
               He displayed talents truly
                       Poetical.
        For his aged mother's and his own support
                He taught a school here.
    The village was then skirted with old ash trees,
              The cottage in which he dwelt
            Was distinguished by a honeysuckle
              Which he had trained round its
                      Lashed window.
         Certain inhabitants of his native county,
                      His admirers,
                 Have erected this stone
                    To mark the abode
                           Of
                    Genius and Virtue.

Bruce was designed for the service of the church. In this view, as well
as with reference to the cultivation of his fine poetical talents, his
death may be deemed a calamity. And yet, such a view of the case may
fairly be questioned. For himself, is he not happier, in the bosom of
his God; and for us, does he not, by means of his Christian life, his
heroic death, his ethereal strains, embalmed in blessed memories of the
past, preach more effectually than he could have done, even had he lived
to occupy a material pulpit. "Being dead he yet speaketh," and speaketh
with a power and pathos which can be reached only by the dead.

Had we room we might give many pleasant extracts from his poetry; but we
must content ourselves with his "Ode to the Cuckoo," in our judgment one
of the most beautiful and perfect little poems in any language.

              TO THE CUCKOO.

    Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
      Thou messenger of Spring!
    Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
      And woods thy welcome sing.

    What time the daisy decks the green,
      Thy certain voice we hear;
    Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
      Or mark the rolling year?

    Delightful visitant! with thee,
      I hail the time of flowers,
    And hear the sound of music sweet,
      From birds among the bowers.

    The schoolboy wandering through the wood,
      To pull the primrose gay,
    Starts the new voice of spring to hear,[159]
      And imitates thy lay.

    What time the pea puts on the bloom,
      Thou fliest thy local vale,
    Another guest in other lands,
      Another spring to hail.

    Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
      Thy sky is ever clear;
    Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
      No winter in thy year!

    O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
      We'd make, with joyful wing,
    Our annual visit o'er the globe,
      Companions of the spring.

[Footnote 159: In his own copy Bruce had written, "Starts thy curious
voice to hear;" _curious_ is a Scotticism, being equivalent to
_strange_. This Logan probably altered to save the quantity. But the
original expression is preferred by good judges, as more natural and
poetical. "It marks the unusual resemblance of the note of the cuckoo to
the human _voice_ the cause of the _start_ and _imitation_ which
follow."]




CHAPTER XVIII.

     Dunfermline--Ruins of the Abbey--Grave of Robert Bruce--Malcolm
     Canmore's Palace--William Henryson, the poet--William
     Dunbar--Stirling Castle--Views from its Summit--City of
     Stirling--George Buchanan and Dr. Arthur
     Johnston--Falkirk--Linlithgow--Story of the Capture of Linlithgow
     Castle--Spirit of War--Arrival in Edinburgh.


Bidding adieu to Lochleven, we journey slowly through a pleasant and
highly cultivated region, till we reach the ancient town of Dunfermline,
in which some of the old Scottish kings formerly held court, and which
is yet adorned with the remains of a magnificent abbey. Robert Bruce was
interred here, in complete armor, and much interest was excited, a few
years ago, by the discovery of his skeleton. In the vicinity are the
ruins of Malcolm Canmore's palace and stronghold, standing on the edge
of a deep romantic glen, in which, more than three hundred years ago,
the poet Henryson, a schoolmaster in Dunfermline, was wont to wander,
singing his beautiful lays, in the quaint and difficult dialect of
former times.

    "In myddis of June, that jolly sweet sessoun,
      Quhen that fair Phoebus, with his beamis brycht,
    Had dryit up the clew fra daill and doun,
      And all the land made with his lemys lycht;
      In a morning betwene mid-day and nycht,
    I raiss and put all sluith and sleep on syde;
    Ontill a wod I went allone, but gyd. (glad?)

    Sueit was the smell of flowris quhyt and reid,
      The noyis of birdis rycht delitious;
    The bewis brod blumyt abune my heid;
      The grund gowand with grassis gratious
      Of all pleasans that place was plenteous,
    With sueit odours and birdis armonie;
    The mornyng mild my mirth was mair forthy.

Henryson was contemporary with William Dunbar, a poet, says Sir Walter
Scott, unrivalled by any that Scotland has ever produced. He flourished
at the court of James IV. His poems are of all sorts, allegorical, moral
and comic. The following lines on the brevity of human existence are a
fair specimen of his style.

    This wavering warld's wretchedness,
    The failing and fruitless business,
    The misspent time, the service vain,
          For to consider is ane pain.

    The sliding joy, the gladness short,
    The perjured love, the false comfort,
    The seveir abade (delay), the slightful train (snare),
          For to consider is ane pain.

    The sugared mouths, with minds therefra,
    The figured speech, with faces tway;
    The pleasing tongues, with hearts unplain,
          For to consider is ane pain.

In another poem he takes a more cheerful view of life.

    Be merry, man, and tak' not sair in mind
      The wavering of this wretched world of sorrow;
    To God be humble, to thy friend be kind,
      And with thy neighbors gladly lend and borrow,
      His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow, &c.

From Dunfermline, we cross the country in the direction of Stirling,
and of course linger to view the famous battle-ground of Bannockburn,
immortalized by the prowess of Scotland, and the poetry of Burns.

But we approach Stirling Castle, one of the oldest and most imposing
strongholds in the country. How often have these old rocks rung again,
"with blast of bugle free;" and how frequently has the ground at its
base been soaked with human blood! The castle stands on a huge ledge of
basaltic rock, rising rapidly from the plain, and overlooking the
country far and near, and backed by the rising ground on which the city
is built. Ascending to the summit we pass round it, by a narrow pathway
cut in the sides of the mountain, and thence enjoy the most extensive
and delightful views. How charmingly the Links of the Forth, as the
serpentine windings of the river are called, adorn the rich vale, in
which they love to linger, as if loth to depart. To the north and east
are the Ochil hills, "vestured" in blue, and looking down upon fertile
fields, umbrageous woods, and stately mansions. On the west lies the
vale of Menteith, and far off the Highland mountains, lost in the mist.
On another side are the pastoral hills of Campsie, and underneath our
eye the town of Stirling, the Abbey Craig, and the ruins of
Cambuskenneth Abbey. The Forth, with "isles of emerald," and white sails
skimming its glassy surface, expands into the German Ocean; and
Edinburgh Castle, just descried amid the haze, crowns the distant
landscape. Stirling was a favorite residence of the Stuarts; but the
castle is now employed only as a barracks for soldiery.

Leaving the castle we pass into the city, by High Street, adorned with
several palaces of the old nobility, antique-looking edifices, of a
solid structure. Here was the palace of the Regent, Earl of Mar, whose
descendants were the keepers of Stirling Castle. Here too was the palace
of Sir William Alexander, "the philosophical poet" of the court of James
the Sixth, and tutor to Charles the First, who created him Earl of
Stirling. But an object of still greater interest is the tower where
George Buchanan, the historian of Scotland, and one of the first
scholars of his age, lived and wrote. He was tutor to James the Sixth of
Scotland, and First of England. He wrote a paraphrase of the Psalms in
elegant Latin verse, of which he was a perfect master. Most of this work
was composed in a monastery in Portugal, to which he had been confined
by the Inquisition about the year 1550. It was continued in France, and
finished in Scotland. His prose works, particularly his history of
Scotland, are characterized by clearness and research. His celebrated
contemporary, Dr. Arthur Johnston, was equally distinguished for the
variety of his attainments, and his perfect command of the Latin tongue;
so that the one has been called the Scottish Virgil, and the other the
Scottish Ovid. The Latin version of the Psalms by Buchanan is still used
in some of the Scottish schools. It is elegant and faithful, but
somewhat formal and paraphrastic.

There are many objects of interest in Stirling, and the scenery around
is rich and beautiful, and, moreover, associated in every part, with
recollections of the olden time; but we cannot linger here. The
stage-coach is waiting to take us to Falkirk, a town of great antiquity,
having been the site of one of those military stations on the wall made
by the Romans at their invasion of the country, known by the name of the
Forts of Agricola. It was also the scene of one or two famous battles in
the days of Wallace and Bruce. Being the principal town in the midst of
a rich agricultural country, it is now the scene of immense fairs or
_trysts_, as they are called, to which large droves of Highland cattle
are brought annually for sale, and where an immense amount of business
is transacted. But there is nothing here of sufficient interest to
detain us; so we proceed in the rail-cars to Edinburgh. In passing, we
get a glimpse of the castle and palace of Linlithgow; in the twefth
century one of the most important burghs in Scotland, the residence of
several of the kings of Scotland, and the birth-place of Queen Mary.

    "Of all the palaces so fair
      Built for the royal dwelling
    In Scotland, far beyond compare
      Linlithgow is excelling.
    And in its park, in genial June,
    How sweet the merry linnet's tune,
      How blythe the blackbird's lay,
    The wild buck bells from thorny brake
    The coot dives merry on the lake,
    The saddest heart might pleasure take
      To see a scene so gay."--_Marmion._

When Robert Bruce was lying in Torwood Castle, not far from Falkirk, a
man by the name of Binnoch, a farmer in the neighborhood, who supplied
the garrison at Linlithgow, then in possession of the English king,
proposed to Bruce to take possession of the garrison by a stratagem,
which he accomplished. This incident has been wrought into a lively form
by Wilson, not Professor Wilson, but John Mackie Wilson, author of the
Border Tales, of whom I shall have something to say by and by. The
following is his account of the matter, somewhat condensed.

Having been introduced to Bruce at Torwood, Binnoch intimated that he
had something of great importance to communicate, and inquired whether
he might speak with confidence. Being assured that he might, he
proceeded thus:

"Aweel sir, the business I cam' upon is just this. I supply the
garrison, ye see sir, o' Lithgow wi' hay; now I've observed that they're
a' wheen idle, careless fellows, mair ta'en up wi' their play than their
duty."

Bruce's eye here kindled with a sudden fire, and his whole countenance
became animated with an expression of fierce eagerness that strongly
contrasted with its former placidity. He was now all attention to the
communication of his humble visitor.

"What! the castle of Linlithgow, friend!" exclaimed Bruce, with a slight
smile of mingled surprise and incredulity. "_You_ take the castle of
Linlithgow! Pray, my good fellow, how would you propose to do that?"

"Why sir, by a very simple process," replied Binnoch, undauntedly, "I
wad put a dizen or fifteen stout weel armed, resolute fellows, in my
cart, cover them owre wi' hay, and introduce them into the garrison as a
load o' provender. If they were ance in, an' the cheils were themselves
of the richt stuff, I'll wad my head to a pease bannock that the
castle's ours in fifteen minutes."

"And would you undertake to do this, my good friend?" said Bruce,
gravely, struck with the idea, and impressed with its practicability.

"Readily, and wi' a richt guid will, sir," replied Binnoch, "provided ye
fin' me the men; but they maun be the very wale o' your flock; its no a
job for faint hearts or nerveless arms."

"The men ye shall have, my brave fellow; and if ye succeed your country
will be indebted to you. But it is a perilous undertaking; there will be
hard fighting, and ye may lose your head by it. Have you thought of
that?"

"I have, sir," replied Binnoch, firmly. "As to the fechtin', we are like
to gie them as guid as we get. And for the hangin', the Scotsman is no
deservin' o' the name that's no ready to brave death, in any form, for
his country."

Bruce caught the enthusiasm of the speaker; a tear started into his eye,
and seizing the hand of the humble patriot--

"My noble fellow," he said, "would to God all Scotsmen were like thee.
Beneath that homely plaid of thine there beats a heart of which any
knight in Christendom might be proud. Lose or win, this shall not be
forgotten."

Having made the necessary arrangements, and agreed upon a sign, for
communicating with each other, Binnoch took his departure from the
castle of Torwood.

The next day the men selected by Bruce were at Binnoch's house, having
been admitted through the preconcerted signal. They repaired to the
barn, and were snugly packed away in the hay cart, armed with steel caps
and short swords. Everything being in readiness, Binnoch hid a sword
amongst the hay, for his own use, and in such a situation that he could
easily seize it when wanted. He also provided himself with a poniard,
which he concealed beneath his waistcoat. Thus prepared at all points,
the intrepid peasant set forward with his load of daring hearts, and
having arrived at the castle, he and his cart were immediately admitted.
They proceeded onwards till they came to the centre of the court-yard,
when Binnoch gave the preconcerted signal to his associates, which was
conveyed in the words, spoken in a loud voice--"Forward, Greystail,
forward!" as if addressing his horse, which he at the same time struck
with his whip to complete the deception.

These words were no sooner uttered than the hay, with which the daring
adventurers were covered, was seen to move, and the next instant it was
thrown over upon the pavement, to the inexpressible amazement of the
idlers who were looking on; and, to their still greater surprise,
fifteen armed men leapt, with fearful shouts, into the court-yard, when,
being instantly headed by Binnoch, the work of death began. Every man
within their reach at the moment was cut down. The guard-room was
assailed, and all in it put to death, and passing from apartment to
apartment, they swept the garrison, and took possession of it. The
attack had been so sudden, so unexpected, and so vigorous, that its
unfortunate occupants, six times their number, had no time to rally or
defend themselves, and thus fell an easy prey to the bold adventurers.

We have only to add that Binnoch was rewarded by Bruce, for this
important service, with some valuable lands in the parish of Linlithgow;
and that his descendants had for their arms a _hay-wain_, with the
motto, _virtute doloque_.[160]

[Footnote 160: The following is a different, and probably a more correct
version of Binnoch's adventure, from Sir W. Scott's Tales of a
Grandfather. "Binnoch had been ordered by the English governor to
furnish some cart-loads of hay, of which they were in want. He promised
to bring it accordingly; but the night before he drove the hay to the
castle, he stationed a party of his friends, as well armed as possible,
near the entrance, where they could not be seen by the garrison, and
gave them directions that they should come to his assistance as soon as
they should hear him cry a signal, which was to be, 'Call all, call
all!' Then he loaded a great waggon with hay. But in the waggon he
placed eight strong men, well armed, lying flat on their breasts, and
covered over with hay, so that they could not be seen. He himself walked
carelessly beside the waggon; and he chose the stoutest and bravest of
his servants to be the driver, who carried at his belt a strong axe or
hatchet. In this way Binnoch approached the castle, early in the
morning; and the watchmen, who only saw two men, Binnoch being one of
them, with a cart of hay, which they expected, opened the gates, and
raised up the portcullis, to permit them to enter the castle. But as
soon as the cart had gotten under the gateway, Binnoch made a sign to
his servant, who, with his axe, suddenly cut asunder the _soam_, that
is, the yoke which fastens the horses to the cart, and the horses
finding themselves free, naturally started forward, the cart remaining
behind under the arch of the gate. At the same time Binnoch cried, as
loud as he could, 'Call all, call all!' and drawing his sword, which he
had under his country habit, he killed the porter. The armed men then
jumped up from under the hay where they lay concealed, and rushed on the
English guard. The Englishmen tried to shut the gates, but they could
not, because the cart of hay remained in the gateway, and prevented the
folding doors from being closed. The portcullis was also let fall, but
the grating was caught in the cart, and so could not drop to the ground.
The men who were in ambush near the gate hearing the cry, 'Call all,
call all!' ran to assist those who had leaped out from among the hay;
the castle was taken, and all the Englishmen killed or made prisoners.
King Robert rewarded Binnoch by bestowing on him an estate, which his
posterity long afterward enjoyed. The Binnings of Wallyford, descended
from that person, still bear in their coat armorial a wain loaded with
hay, with the motto, 'virtute doloque.'"]

By the way, these two words, _courage_ and _stratagem_, express the very
spirit and essence of ancient war, and indeed of all war, a relic of
barbarism, the most foul and horrible the world has ever seen.
Defensible, perhaps, in cases of extremity, when it is the last and only
means of protecting our homes and altars, but in all other cases a
fearful atrocity, fit only for cannibals and demons!

But yonder are the peaceful towers of Edinburgh, bathed in the sombre
light of evening. The very castle looks like an image of repose, as it
silently looms up amid the smoke and hum of the busy city. Signs of
peace and prosperity are every where around us, indicating, if we have
not yet reached, that at least we are approaching that happy time when
"men shall beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into
pruning hooks."

    "O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,
    Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,
    Though but in distant prospect, and not feel
    His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?"




CHAPTER XIX.

     Journey to Peebles--Characters--Conversation on Politics--Scottish
     Peasantry--Peebles--"Christ's Kirk on the Green"--A Legend--An old
     Church--The Banks of the Tweed--Its ancient Castles--The Alarm
     Fire--Excursion to the Vales of Ettrick and Yarrow--Stream of
     Yarrow--St. Mary's Lake and Dryhope Tower--"The Dowie Dens of
     Yarrow"--Growth of Poetry--Ballads and Poems on Yarrow by Hamilton,
     Logan and Wordsworth.


On a cold, drizzly morning we start, in a substantial stage-coach, well
lined with cushions inside, for the ancient town of Peebles, which lies
to the south of Edinburgh, some twenty-five miles or more. The
'outsides' are wrapped in cloaks and overcoats, and literally covered in
with umbrellas; and from their earnest talking seem to be tolerably
comfortable. The "Scottish mist," cold and penetrating, would soon reach
the skin of an unsheltered back; all hands, therefore, and especially
the driver in front, and the guard behind, are muffled to the neck with
cravats and other appliances. Eyes and mouth only are visible, not
indeed to the passers by, but to the denizens of the stage-coach, who
cling together for warmth and sociability. Our travelling companions
inside are a Dominie from Auchingray, fat as a capon, with face round,
sleek and shiny, little gray eyes glancing beneath a placid forehead,
and indicating intelligence and good nature; and a south-country laird,
a large, brawny man, with a huge face and huger hat, corduroy breeches
and top boots, a coat that nearly covers the whole of his body, and a
vest of corresponding dimensions. A mighty cravat is tied neatly around
his capacious throat, and a couple of large gold seals dangle from
beneath his vest. In addition to these two, a little man, thin and
wrinkled, but with a clear, quick, restless eye, is sitting in the
corner, squeezed into a rather straight place by the laird and the
dominie. From his appearance and conversation, we should take him to be
a lawyer. With some little difficulty we get into conversation, but once
set agoing, it jogs on at a pretty fair pace. Insensibly it glides into
politics, and becomes rather lively. The lawyer is evidently a whig, the
laird a tory of the old stamp, and the dominie neither the one nor the
other, but rather more of a tory than anything else, as he is dependent,
in some sense, upon 'the powers that be.'

"For my part," says the laird, taking hold of his watch-seals, and
twirling them energetically, "I do not believe in your two-faced
radicals, who have more impudence in their noddles than money in their
pockets, and who go routing about the country, crying up democracy and
all that sort of stuff, to the great injury of her majesty's subjects."

"But, my dear sir," replies the lawyer, "you forget that money is not
the _summum bonum_ of human life, and that the gentlemen to whom you
refer are not impudent radicals, but clear-headed and patriotic whigs."

"All gammon, sir! all gammon!" is the rejoinder of the laird, "I
wouldn't give a fig for the whole pack. One or two of them, I admit, are
tolerably respectable men. Lord John Russel belongs to the old nobility,
and is a man of some sense, but sadly deceived, full of nonsensical
plans and dangerous reforms. As to Dan. O'Connel, he is an old fox, a
regular Irish blackguard, who has not heart enough to make a living by
honest means, but fleeces it out of the starving Irish, in the shape of
repeal rent! Hang the rascal, I should be glad to see him gibbeted! Hume
is a mean, beggarly adventurer. And even Sir Robert Peel, with all his
excellences, has made sad mistakes on the subject of reform and the corn
laws. He's not the thing, after all! Sadly out of joint, sir, sadly out
of joint!"

All this is said with such terrible energy, and such a menacing frown,
that even the lawyer cowers a little, and the dominie is almost
frightened. We think it best, upon the whole, to say little. But,
plucking up courage, the lawyer replies:

"Sir, you come to conclusions that are too sweeping. That Lord John
Russel is a man of clear intellect and admirable forethought no one will
think of denying. His plans are well matured, and, moreover, aim at the
good of his country. Hume is a great political economist: Sir R. Peel is
a man of the highest order of mind; and Daniel O'Connel, with all his
faults, possesses uncommon powers of eloquence, and, doubtless, seeks
the good of his country."

"The good of his country! All humbug, sir! If you had said his own good,
you would have come nearer the mark. He's a rascal, sir, rely on it, a
mean cowardly rascal, who, pretending to benefit the poor Irish, fills
his own pockets with their hard earnings. I appeal to Mr. Cooper here,
my respected friend, the parish schoolmaster of Auchingray."

To which the dominie replies demurely:

"As to my opinion, gentlemen, it is not of much consequence, but such as
it is I give with all candor. In the first place I opine that we are
liable somewhat to yield to our prejudices in estimating the characters
of public men; for, as my old friend, the Rev. Mr. Twist, used to say,
they have 'twa maisters to serve, the government and the public, and
it's unco difficult sometimes to sail between Scylla and Charybdis.'
Moreover, these are trying times, and much of primitive integrity and
patriotism are lost. For myself, I do not approve altogether of the
course of the whigs, and especially of the radicals. Daniel O'Connel is
a devoted Catholic, with no generous aspirations, or enlarged
conceptions of the public weal. A great man, certainly, a wonderful
orator, no doubt, but much tinctured with selfishness, and carried away
by wild and prurient schemes. Lord John Russel is a man of decided
talent and fine character, but I have not much confidence, after all, in
his practical wisdom, and good common sense. Sir Robert Peel, however
is, with some slight exceptions, a model statesman, a man of a
wonderfully clear, well balanced mind, and a deep insight into men and
things. Still, as my friend on the left says, he's somewhat out of joint
just now, and, for my own part, I could never altogether approve his
schemes."

"There sir," quickly interposed the laird, "There sir! didn't I tell
you, sir? All humbug, sir! Nothing safe--nothing useful about the whigs!
Give me the good old days of my grandfather, when the rascals dared not
peep or mutter!"

"But you forget, sir," is the answer of the lawyer, "that your friend,
the schoolmaster here, has admitted nearly all for which I contend."

"Admitted nothing, sir! Comes to nothing, sir! And to tell you the plain
honest truth, I believe the whole pack of them are a set of humbugs! All
sham, sir! nothing but hypocrisy and humbug!"

"But a modification of the corn laws is certainly desirable for the sake
of the poorer classes, many of whom are living upon the merest
trifle:"--we venture to remark.

"All a mistake, sir! all a mistake! An honest, sensible man can always
make his way, and secure bread for his family!"

"Well, but surely you consider a shilling or eighteen pence a day rather
miserable support!"

"Not at all, sir! not at all! They're used to it, and thousands of them
are happier than you or I!"

"Upon this point we beg leave to doubt, and hope the time is not far
distant when the common people will have cheap bread:"--we quietly
rejoin.

"Amen!" responds the dominie. "That I am confident would be an
improvement; but how it is to be brought about is a question of great
difficulty. The common people of Scotland are not so poorly off as
foreigners represent them. Their habits are primitive and simple, and I
certainly have known many families, particularly in the country, make
themselves very comfortable on eighteen pence or a couple of shillings a
day."

"Give us an example, if you please!"

"Why, there is James Thomson, a working man, who makes, upon an average,
say eighteen pence or a couple of shillings sterling (fifty cents)
daily, through the year. He has a wife and four children. He built
himself a kind of stone and turf cottage on the edge of one of Lord B.'s
plantations, with a but and a ben,[161] and a little out-house. One day
I called in to see him about one of his children, and, in the course of
conversation, asked him how he got along."

[Footnote 161: Two apartments.]

"Brawly;"[162] was the reply.

[Footnote 162: Finely.]

"Can you make 'the twa ends meet' at the close of the year?"

"Yes," said he, "and something mair than that. Last Candlemas I laid up
nae less than ten and saxpence."

"But how can you do it. Have you any land to cultivate?"

"A wee bittock," was the answer, "but it's graund for taties and
turnips."

"Have you a cow?"

"O aye, we have a coo, and a gude coo she is."

"Well, what have you for victuals?"

"The best o' parritch and milk in the morning, and at nicht. And as for
denner, we ha' nae great variety, but what's wholesome eneuch. And ye
ken, Dominie C., that hunger's the best sauce."

"True enough, but excuse me, I should like to know what you generally
have for dinner."

"Ou," said he, laughing, "the graundest kail i' the world, made o'
barley, butter and vegetables, wi' a bit o' beef, or a marrow bane in't
once in a while, and mealy tatties, scones and cakes, the very best in
the kintra!"

"Well, you're content!"

"To be sure we are! and gratefu', besides, to the Giver o' a' gude."

"But you have a little pinch occasionally--in the cold and stormy winter
weather?"

"Why ye-s--but it's nae mair than a body may expeck, and it's a great
deal less than we deserve. For mysel' I ha' nae great reason to
complain, but Sandy Wilson, ower the way, has had a sair time on't."

"What's the matter?"

"Why, ye see, Sandy is no very able-bodied, and maybe a little
shiftless, and he fell sick about the middle o' winter. His wife is a
proud kind o' body, and she said naething to the neebors, and I jalouse
they had a sair pinching time on't. The wee bit lassie seemed to be
dwining awa', and Sandy, puir fellow, was just at death's door. But the
minister o' the parish found it out, and Sandy was soon provided for.
Hech sir! we ought to be thankfu' that we hae our health. It's a great
blessing. For if a man only has health and a clear conscience he needna
fear famine or the deevil."

"Sandy then got over his troubles, did he?"

"In a measure," was the cautious reply, "but the puir wee lassie grew
paler and paler; and noo her bonny brown hair is covered wi' the yird.
She was a sweet bit lassie, but she was frail in the constitootion, ye
see, and the hard famishing winter was ower muckle for her feeble frame.
But she was weel cared for on her sick bed. And when she died, the hail
kintra side turned out to attend the funeral, and mony tears were shed
upon her wee bit grave. My Mary, who gaed to school wi' her, canna get
ower it to this day. She was an unco bonny thing--sweet as the mornin'
wat wi' dew, and gentle as a pet lamb. But her grave is green by this
time, and Sandy is better off than he used to be."

The burly laird listened attentively to this narrative, and at the close
of it, a tear dimmed his eye. He gave a slight cough, as if to repress
and to hide his rising emotion, and looking out the coach window,
exclaimed, "There's Peebles, at last, and yonder's the sign of the Black
Bull," as if he were prodigiously relieved.

The day is brightening, and this ancient city on the Tweed, looks quite
agreeable, reminding us of the days of old, when the kings and nobles of
Scotland used to witness, on its beautiful green, games of archery,
golf, and so forth. It is supposed to be the scene referred to in the
opening stanza of "Christ's Kirk on the Green," by James the First, the
royal poet of Scotland.

    "Was never in Scotland hard nor sene,
      Sic dansing nor deray,
    Nouther at Falkland on the green,
      Nor Pebllis in the play;
    As wes of wowarris as I wene,
      At Christ's Kirk on ane day;
    Thair came our kittles washen clene,
      In thair new kirtillis of gray
                      Full gay,
    At Christ's Kirk o' the Grene that day."

This old town was burnt and laid waste more than once during the
invasions of the English. Still, from its sequestered situation, it
never figured largely in any great event. An antique bridge, consisting
of five arches, connects the old and new towns, which lie on either bank
of the river. Rambling through the place, we come to a large massive
building, in a castellated form, known to have belonged to the
Queensberry family, and believed to be the scene of a romantic incident,
thus related by Sir Walter Scott:--"There is a tradition in Tweedale,
that when Nidpath castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of
March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble
family and the son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the
alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went
abroad. During his absence, the young lady fell into a consumption, and
at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented
that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to
pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though
much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house
in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him when he rode
past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs that she
is said to have distinguished his horses' footsteps at an incredible
distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance,
and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on, without recognizing
her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the
shock, and after a short struggle died in the arms of her attendants."

Here are the ruins of some very old churches, one in particular, at the
western extremity of the old town. This was the original parish church
of Peebles, and was built upon the site of one still more ancient,
occupied by the Culdees, (probably from Cultores Dei, worshipers of
God,) an ancient class of monks, whose forms of worship and doctrinal
belief were extremely simple, and, as some suppose, evangelical. They
had monasteries at Jona, and in various parts of Scotland, before the
Anglo-Saxon period, and preserved for many years, the pure worship of
God. An altar in St. Andrew's church, was dedicated to St. Michael, with
a special endowment for the services of "a chapellane, there perpetually
to say mes, efter the valow of the rents and possessions gevin thereto,
in honor of Almighty God, Mary his Modyr, and Saint Michael, for the
hele of the body and the sawl of Jamys, King of Scotts, for the
balyheis, ye burges, and ye communite of the burgh of Peebles, and for
the hele of their awn sawlis, thair fadyris sawlis, thair modyris
sawlis, thair kinnis sawlis, and al Chrystyn sawlis." Part of the tithes
of this church are now used to support a Grammar school, and while the
people still worship Almighty God, they have but little reverence for
"Mary his modyr, and St. Michael."

Let us wander along the banks of this far-famed and beautiful river,
gliding sweetly through one of the most beautiful vales in Scotland, and
once adorned with numerous castles and monasteries, whose mouldering
remains yet diversify the landscape. The whole vale of the Tweed, both
above and below Peebles, was studded with a chain of castles, built in
the shape of square towers, and ordinarily consisting of three stories,
to serve as a defence against the invasion of the English freebooters.
They were built alternately on each side of the river, and at such
distances that one could be seen from the other. A fire kindled on the
top of one of these, to give warning of a hostile incursion, could thus
be perpetuated through the whole, till a tract of country seventy miles
long, "from Berwick to the Bield," and fifty broad, was alarmed in a few
hours. What objects of terror and sublimity these blazing summits,
lighting, in a dark night, the whole valley of the Tweed, and flashing
their ruddy gleam upon copsewood and river, hill-top and castle turret!

                  "A score of fires, I ween,
    From height, and hill, and cliff were seen,
    Each with warlike tidings fraught,
    Each from each the signal caught;
    Each after each they glanced in sight,
    As stars arise upon the night:
    They gleamed on many a dusky tarn
    Haunted by the lonely earn,[163]
    On many a cairn's grey pyramid,
    Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid."

    _Lay of the Last Minstrel._

[Footnote 163: The Scottish eagle.]

But the grey mist of evening is beginning to settle upon the vale of the
Tweed, and the quaint old town of Peebles, "with its three old bridges,
and three old steeples, by three old churches borne."

With fair weather, and in admirable spirits, we set off next morning,
after breakfast, and travel at an easy pace down the fair banks of the
"silver Tweed," till we reach the pretty village of Innerleithen, at the
bottom of a sequestered dell, encircled on one side by high and
partially wooded hills, and enlivened by the clear waters of the Tweed,
rolling in front. Passing a handsome wooden bridge which crosses the
river, we reach the hamlet of Traquair and Traquair house, and naturally
enquire for the far-famed "Bush aboon Traquair." It is pointed out at
the bottom of the hill which overlooks the lawn, where a few birch trees
may be seen, the only remains of that dear old spot, made sacred by
melody and song. Continuing our journey across the country, we get among
the hills, and after travelling some time through a deep glen, we see
before us the "haunted stream of Yarrow," the very name of which has
become a synonym for all that is tender in sentiment and beautiful in
poetry.

    "And is this Yarrow? This the stream,
      Of which my fancy cherished
    So faithfully a waking dream,
      An image that hath perished?"

Following in somewhat pensive mood, "its beautiful meanderings" through
this hill-guarded valley, we come to St. Mary's Lake, lying in solemn
but beautiful serenity among the mountains, whose heathy sides and bare
cliffs are mirrored in her pellucid depths.

                      "Nor fen nor sedge
    Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge;
    Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink
    At once upon the level brink;
    And just a trace of silver sand
    Marks where the water meets the land.
    Far, in the mirror bright and blue,
    Each hill's huge outline you may view;
    Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,
    Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,
    Save where of land, yon slender line
    Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine.
    Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,
    Where living thing concealed might lie;
    Nor point retiring hides a dell
    Where swain or woodman lone might dwell;
    There's nothing left to fancy's guess,
    You see that all is loneliness;
    And silence adds,--though the steep hills
    Send to the lake a thousand rills,
    In summer tide so soft they weep,
    The sound but lulls the ear asleep;
    Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
    So stilly is the solitude."

    _Marmion._

Passing to the eastern extremity of the Lake, we come to Dryhope Tower,
the birth-place of Mary Scott, the famous "Flower of Yarrow." Her lover,
or husband, was slain by Scott of Tushielaw, from jealousy, or from a
desire to secure her fortune, her father having promised to endow her
with half his property. Seized by the imagination of the ancient
Minnesingers, this incident became the subject of a ballad, or ballads
of great beauty and pathos, well known through Scotland, and frequently
sung "amang her green braes." This has invested Yarrow with a deep
poetical charm, and given rise to a great variety of sweet and pathetic
strains, affording a fine exemplification of the manner in which poetry
grows, as by a natural law of progress. A single incident gathers around
itself all beautiful images, all tender thoughts, feelings and passions,
till the region in which it occurred becomes instinct with fantasy, and
absolutely glows with a sort of conscious beauty. The very air is
burdened with a melancholy charm. The stream meandering through the
vale, and the winds whispering through the mountain glens or rippling
the surface of St. Mary's lake, "murmur a music not their own." In a
word, we have come from the real, everyday world, into one that is
ideal, where, in the deep stillness of nature, the voices of the past
reveal themselves to the listening soul. In this view we know not a more
interesting or instructive series of poems than those relating to
Yarrow. The first is the ballad of the "Dowie Dens," or rather, "Downs
of Yarrow." This is variously printed, but we give the version of
Motherwell.

    There were three lords birling at the wine,
      On the Dowie Dens of Yarrow;
    They made a compact them between,
      They would go fecht to-morrow.

    "Thou took our sister to be thy wife,
      And thou ne'er thocht her thy marrow,
    Thou stealed her frae her daddy's back,
      When she was the Rose of Yarrow."

    "Yes, I took your sister to be my wife,
      And I made her my marrow;
    I stealed her frae her daddy's back,
      And she's still the Rose of Yarrow."

    He is hame to his lady gane,
      As he had done before, O;
    Says, "Madam I must go and fecht,
      On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

    "Stay at hame, my Lord," she said,
      "For that will breed much sorrow;
    For my three brethren will slay thee,
      On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

    "Hold your tongue, my lady fair;
      For what needs a' this sorrow?
    For I'll be hame gin' the clock strikes nine,
      From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

    He wush his face, and she combed his hair,
      As she had done before, O;
    She dressed him up in his armour clear,
      Sent him forth to fecht on Yarrow.

    "Come ye here to hawk or hound,
      Or drink the wine that's sae clear, O;
    Or come ye here to eat in your words,
      That you're not the Rose o' Yarrow?"

    "I came not here to hawk or hound,
      Nor to drink the wine that's sae clear, O;
    Nor came I here to eat in my words,
      For I'm still the Rose o' Yarrow."

    Then they all begud to fecht,
      I wad they focht richt sore, O;
    Till a cowardly man cam' behind his back,
      And pierced his body thorough.

    "Gae hame, gae hame, its my man John,
      As ye have done before, O:
    An tell it to my gaye ladye
      That I soundly sleep on Yarrow."

    His man John he has gane hame,
      As he had done before, O;
    And told it to his gay ladye.
      That he soundly slept on Yarrow.

    "I dreamed a dream, now since the 'streen,[164]
      God keep us a' frae sorrow!
    That my lord and I was pu'ing the heather green,
      From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow."

    Sometimes she rode, sometimes she gade,[165]
      As she had done before, O;
    And aye between she fell in a swoon,
      Lang or she cam' to Yarrow.

    Her hair it was five quarters lang,
      'Twas like the gold for yellow;
    She twisted it round his milk white hand,
      And she's drawn him hame frae Yarrow.

    Out and spak her father dear,
      Says, "What needs a' this sorrow?
    For I'll get you a far better lord
      Than ever died on Yarrow."

    "O hold your tongue, father," she said,
      "For you've bred a' my sorrow;
    For that rose'll ne'er spring so sweet in May,
      As that Rose I lost on Yarrow!"

[Footnote 164: Yesternight.]

[Footnote 165: Walked.]

More than a century ago, William Hamilton, of Bangor, a gentleman of
rank, education, and poetical talents, wrote the following exquisite
ballad:[166]

[Footnote 166: We quote only a portion of Hamilton's ballad.]

               THE BRAES OF YARROW.

    Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
      Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
    Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
      And think nae mair o' the Braes o' Yarrow.

    Whare gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?
      Whare gat ye that winsome marrow?
    I gat her where I darena weil be seen
      Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

    Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride,
      Weep not, my winsome marrow!
    Nor let thy heart lament to leave
      Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

    Lang maun she weep, lang maun she weep,
      Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
    And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen,
      Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.

    Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
      Why on thy braes heard the voice o' sorrow?
    And why yon melancholious weeds,
      Hung on the bonny birks o' Yarrow?

    What's yonder floats on the rueful flude?
      What's yonder floats, O dule and sorrow!
    'Tis he, the comely swain I slew,
      Upon the duleful braes o' Yarrow.

    Wash, O wash his wounds in tears,
      His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,
    And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
      And lay him on the Braes o' Yarrow.

    Sweet smells the birk, green grows the grass,
      Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan,
    Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
      Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

    Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
      As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
    As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
      The apple frae the rock as mellow.

    Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride,
      Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
    Busk ye and lue me on the banks o' Tweed,
      And think nae mair on the Braes o' Yarrow.

    How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride,
      How can I busk a winsome marrow,
    How lue him on the banks o' Tweed
      That slew my love on the braes o' Yarrow?

    O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain,
      Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,
    For there was basely slain my love,
      My love, as he had not been a lover.

    The boy put on his robes o' green,
      His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing
    Ah! wretched me! I little kenned
      He was in these to meet his ruin.

    The boy took out his milk-white steed,
      Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,
    But ere the to-fall of the night
      He lay a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.

    Much I rejoiced that waeful day;
      I sang, my voice the woods returning,
    But lang ere night the spear was flown,
      That slew my love, and left me mourning.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Yes, yes, prepare the bed of love,
      With bridal sheets my body cover,
    Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
      Let in the expected husband lover

    But who the expected husband is?
      His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.
    Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,
      Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

    Pale as he is, here lay him down,
      O lay his cold head on my pillow;
    Take off, take off these bridal weeds,
      And crown my careful head with willow.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Return, return, O mournful bride,
      Return and dry thy useless sorrow;
    Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs,
      He lies a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.

Somewhat more than half a century later, Logan wrote a song with the
same title, of which the following are the concluding stanzas.

    "Sweet were his words when last we met;
      My passion I as freely told him;
    Clasped in his arms I little thought
      That I should never more behold him!
    Scarce was I gone, I saw his ghost;
      It vanished with a shriek of sorrow;
    Thrice did the water wraith ascend
      And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

    "His mother from the window look'd
      With all the longing of a mother;
    His little sister weeping walk'd
      The green wood path to meet her brother.
    They sought him East, they sought him West,
      They sought him all the forest thorough;
    They only saw the cloud of night,
      They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

    "No longer from thy window look,
      Thou hast no son, O tender mother!
    No longer walk, thou lovely maid!
      Alas! thou hast no more a brother!
    No longer seek him East or West,
      And search no more the forest thoro';
    For wandering in the night so dark,
      He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

    "The tear shall never leave my cheek,
      No other youth shall be my marrow;
    I'll seek thy body in the stream,
      And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow."
    The tear did never leave her cheek,
      No other youth became her marrow;
    She found his body in the stream,
      And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

We are now prepared to read Wordsworths' two exquisite poems, "Yarrow
Unvisited," and "Yarrow Visited," the splendid flowering, so to speak,
of this poetical growth.

    From Stirling Castle we had seen
      The mazy Forth unravelled;
    Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
      And with the Tweed had travelled;
    And when we came to Clovenford,
      Then said 'my _winsome Marrow_,'
    "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
      And see the braes o' Yarrow."

    "Let Yarrow folk _frae_ Selkirk Town,
      Who have been buying, selling,
    Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;
      Each maiden to her dwelling!
    On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
      Hares couch and rabbits burrow!
    But we will downward with the Tweed,
      Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

    "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
      Both lying right before us;
    And Dryborough where with chiming Tweed
      The Lintwhites sing in chorus;
    There's pleasant Tivoitdale, a land
      Made blithe with plough and harrow,
    Why throw away a needful day
      To go in search of Yarrow?

    "What's Yarrow but a river bare,
      That glides the dark hills under?
    There are a thousand such elsewhere
      As worthy of your wonder."
    --Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
      My true love sigh'd for sorrow;
    And looked me in the face to think
      I thus could speak of Yarrow!

    "Oh green, said I, are Yarrow Holms
      And sweet is 'Yarrow flowing!'
    Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
      But we will leave it growing.
    O'er hilly path and open Strath,
      We'll wander Scotland thorough;
    But though so near we will not turn
      Into the Dale of Yarrow.

    "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
      The sweets of Burnmill meadow;
    The swan, on still St. Mary's Lake,
      Float double, swan and shadow!
    We will not see them; will not go,
      To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
    Enough if in our hearts we know
      There's such a place as Yarrow.

    "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
      It must, or we shall rue it;
    We have a vision of our own;
      Ah! why should we undo it?
    The treasured dreams of times long past,
      We'll keep them 'winsome Marrow!'
    For when we're there, although tis fair,
      'Twill be another Yarrow!

    "If care with freezing years should come,
      And wandering seem but folly,--
    Should we be loth to stir from home,
      And yet be melancholy;
    Should life be dull, and spirits low,
      'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
    That earth has something yet to show,
      The bonny Holms of Yarrow."

This is beautiful, but the following is more so. Indeed it is the very
perfection of descriptive poetry.

               YARROW VISITED.

    And is this--Yarrow?--This the stream
      Of which my fancy cherished
    So faithfully a waking dream?
      An image that has perished!
    O that some minstrel's harp were near,
      To utter notes of gladness,
    And chase this silence from the air,
      That fills my heart with sadness!

    Yet why?--a silvery current flows
      With uncontrolled meanderings;
    Nor have these eyes by greener hills
      Been soothed in all my wanderings.
    And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake
      Is visibly delighted;
    For not a feature of those hills
      Is in the mirror slighted.

    A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
      Save where that pearly whiteness
    Is round the rising sun diffused,
      A tender hazy brightness;
    Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
      All profitless dejection;
    Though not unwilling here to admit
      A pensive recollection.

    Where was it that the famous Flower
      Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
    His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
      On which the herd is feeding:
    And haply from this crystal pool,
      Now peaceful as the morning,
    The Water Wraith ascended thrice,
      And gave his doleful warning.

    Delicious is the lay that sings
      The haunts of happy lovers,
    The path that leads them to the grove,
      The leafy grove that covers;
    And Pity sanctifies the verse
      That points, by strength of sorrow,
    The unconquerable strength of love;
      Bear witness rueful Yarrow!

    But thou, that didst appear so fair
      To fond imagination,
    Dost rival in the light of day
      Her delicate creation:
    Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
      A softness still and holy;
    The grace of forest charms decayed
      And pastoral melancholy.

    That region left, the Vale unfolds
      Rich groves of lofty stature,
    With Yarrow winding through the pomp
      Of cultivated nature;
    And rising from those lofty groves,
      Behold a ruin hoary!
    The shattered front of Newark's towers
      Renowned in Border story.

    Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
      For sportive youth to stray in,
    For manhood to enjoy his strength;
      And age to wear away in!
    Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
      A covert for protection
    Of tender thoughts that nestle there,
      The brood of chaste affection.

    How sweet on this autumnal day,
      The wild wood fruits to gather,
    And on my True-love's forehead plant
      A crest of blooming heather!
    And what if I enwreathed my own!
      'Twere no offence to reason;
    The sober hills thus deck their brows
      To meet the wintry season.

    I see, but not by sight alone,
      Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
    A ray of Fancy still survives--
      Her sunshine plays upon thee!
    Thy ever youthful waters keep
      A course of lively pleasure;
    And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
      Accordant to the measure.

    The vapors linger round the Heights,
      They melt,--and soon must vanish;
    One hour is their's, nor more is mine--
      Sad thought, which I would banish,
    But that I know, where'er I go,
      Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
    Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,
      And cheer my mind in sorrow.




CHAPTER XX.

     Hamlet and Church-yard of Ettrick--Monument to Thomas
     Boston--Birth-place of the Ettrick Shepherd--Altrieve
     Cottage--Biographical Sketch of the Ettrick Shepherd--The Town of
     Selkirk--Monument to Sir Walter Scott--Battle-field of Philiphaugh.


Proceeding westward from St. Mary's Lake about half a mile, we come to
the hill of Merecleughhead, where King James the Fifth entered the
district to inflict summary vengeance upon the outlaws who frequented
the Ettrick Forest in the days of old, a circumstance which gave rise to
many of the old Scottish ballads. At the centre of the parish lie the
hamlet and church-yard of Ettrick, on the stream of that name. Entering
the burying-ground we behold the recently erected tomb of Thomas Boston,
author of the well known work called "The Fourfold State," one of the
best and holiest men that ever "hallowed" the "bushy dells" of Ettrick.
With apostolic fervor did he preach the Gospel among these hills and
vales, and his work, for more than three generations, has instructed the
Scottish peasantry in the high doctrines of the Christian faith. His
memory will ever be fragrant among the churches of Scotland. Not far
from the burying-ground a house is pointed out in which the celebrated
"Ettrick Shepherd" was born. Passing to the east end of the lake we see
before us Altrieve Cottage, "bosomed low mid tufted trees," and nearly
encircled by the "sweet burnie," in whose limpid waters the green
foliage is mirrored. Here the poet lived, in the latter period of his
life, and here also he died. The scenes around, moor, mountain and glen,
lake, river and ruin, are hallowed by the genius of the "shepherd bard,"
who, to quote his own words,

    "Found in youth a harp among the hills,
    Dropt by the Elfin people; and whilst the moon
    Entranced, hung o'er still Saint Mary's loch,
    Harped by that charmed water, so that the swan
    Came floating onwards through the water blue,--
    A dream-like creature, listening to a dream;
    And the queen of the fairies rising silently
    Through the pure mist, stood at the shepherd's feet,
    And half forgot her own green paradise,
    Far in the bosom of the hill--so wild!
    So sweet! so sad! flowed forth that shepherd's lay."

James Hogg, born in 1772, was descended from a family of shepherds, and
spent his boyhood and youth herding his flocks among the hills. Far from
the bustle of the world, in the deep solitudes of nature, his young and
vigorous imagination became familiar with all wild and beautiful sights,
all sweet and solemn sounds. Alone with nature during the day, he spent
his evening hours in listening to ancient ballads and legends, of which
his mother was a great reciter. This fed his imagination, and supplied
it with an infinite variety of strange and beautiful imagery. To this
fact he has himself thus strikingly referred.

    "O list the mystic lore sublime,
    Of fairy tales of ancient time!
    I learned them in the lonely glen,
    The last abodes of living men;
    Where never stranger came our way,
    By summer night or winter day;
    Where neighboring hind or cot was none--
    Our converse was with heaven alone--
    With voices through the cloud that sung
    And brooding storms that round us hung.
    O lady judge, if judge ye may,
    How stern and ample was the sway
    Of themes like these, when darkness fell
    And gray-haired sires the tales would tell!
    When doors were barred and elder dame
    Plied at her task beside the flame,
    That through the smoke and gloom alone
    On dim and cumbered faces shone--
    The bleat of mountain goat on high,
    That from the cliff came quavering by;
    The echoing rock, the rushing flood,
    The cataract's swell, the moaning wood;
    The undefined and mingled hum--
    Voice of the desert never dumb!
    All these have left within this heart
    A feeling tongue can ne'er impart
    A wildered and unearthly flame,
    A something that's without a name."

Another circumstance in the early life of Hogg tended to nurse his
fancy. He had, in all, something like six months' schooling, and having
entered the service of Mr. Laidlaw, another great lover of legends,
songs and stories of the olden time, he subscribed to a circulating
library at Peebles, whose diversified contents he devoured within a
short time. He read poetry, romances and tales with avidity, and stored
his mind with traditionary ballads, songs and stories. This
circumstance will account for his wayward, changeable life, as well as
for the wildness and strength of his imagination. In the field of
reality he was nothing, in that of fancy everything.

He is said to have been a remarkably fine-looking young man, having a
florid complexion, and a profusion of light brown hair, which he wore,
coiled up, beneath his "blithe blue bonnet." An attack of illness
induced by over-exertion, on a hot summer's day, so completely altered
his appearance, that his friends scarcely recognized him as the same
person. Of a jovial and merry disposition, he was a great favorite in
all companies, and at times partook too freely of "the mountain dew."

Being introduced by the son of his employer to Sir Walter Scott, the
Ettrick Shepherd assisted him in the collection of old ballads for the
"Border Minstrelsy." He soon began to try his own hand in imitation of
these traditionary poems, and published a volume of ballads, which
attracted some attention, but never became very popular. Having embarked
in sheep farming, and attempted one or two speculations in which he
failed utterly, he resolved to repair to the city of Edinburgh, and
support himself by his pen. "The Forest Minstrel," a collection of
songs, was his first publication here; his second, "The Spy," a light
periodical, which enjoyed a brief and precarious existence. It was not
till the publication, in 1813, of his principal poetical production,
"The Queen's Wake," that his reputation as a poet was firmly
established. The plan was so simple and striking, and the execution so
vigorous and delightful, that it "took" at once, and became universally
popular. The old "Wake" or festival in Scotland was ordinarily
celebrated with various kinds of diversions, among which music and song
held the principal place. The "Queen's Wake" consists of a collection of
tales and ballads supposed to be sung by different bards to the young
Queen of Scotland,--

    "When royal Mary, blithe of mood,
    Kept holyday at Holyrood."

The various productions of the minstrels are strung together by a thread
of light and graceful narrative. The "Wake" lasts three successive
nights, and a richly ornamented harp is the victor's reward. Rizzio is
among the number of the competitors; but Gardyne, a native bard, obtains
the prize. The plan supplies the Ettrick Shepherd with an opportunity of
displaying the extreme facility with which he could adapt himself to all
kinds of style, a facility so great that he subsequently published,
under the title of "The Mirror of the Poets," a collection of poems
ascribed by him to Byron, Campbell, Scott, Southey, Crabbe, Wordsworth
and others, in which the deception is so admirable, that multitudes
actually supposed them genuine productions. Conscious of his strength,
he breaks forth in the "Queen's Wake," in the following exulting
strains.

    "The land was charmed to list his lays;
    It knew the harp of ancient days.
    The border chiefs that long had been
    In sepulchres unhearsed and green,
    Passed from their mouldy vaults away
    In armor red, and stern array,
    And by their moonlight halls were seen
    In visor, helm, and habergeon.
    Even fairies sought our land again,
    So powerful was the magic strain."

Scott had advised him to abandon poetry, as "a bootless task," a
circumstance to which he thus refers:

    "Blest be his generous heart for aye!
    He told me where the relic lay;
    Pointed my way with ready will,
    Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill;
    Watched my first notes with curious eye;
    And wondered at my minstrelsy:
    He little weened a parent's tongue
    Such strains had o'er my cradle sung.

    "But when to native feelings true
    I struck upon a chord was new;
    When by myself I 'gan to play,
    He tried to wile my harp away.
    Just when her notes began with skill
    To sound beneath the southern hill,
    And twine around my bosom's core,
    How could we part forevermore?
    'Twas kindness all--I cannot blame--
    For bootless is the minstrel's flame:
    But sure a bard might well have known
    Another's feelings by his own!"

Scott, it is said, was grieved at this reference to his friendly
counsel, given at a time when he knew not the powers of Hogg. This,
however, illustrates a fact often occurring in the history of genius,
which often struggles hard to develop itself, alone conscious of its
native powers. When Sheridan first spoke in the house of commons he made
an utter failure. But instead of being discouraged, he remarked with
energy, "I know that it is in me, and I _must_ have it out!" Campbell
offered his "Pleasures of Hope" to nearly all the book publishers in
Scotland, who refused it. Not one of them could be prevailed upon even
to risk paper and ink upon the chance of its success; and at last, it
was only with considerable reluctance that Mundell & Son, printers to
the University, undertook its publication, with the _liberal_ condition
that the author should be allowed fifty copies at the _trade price_, and
in the event of its reaching a second edition, a thing hardly
anticipated, that he should receive the _immense_ sum of fifty dollars!

The Ettrick Shepherd continued for a number of years to publish
sketches, stories, and so forth, in prose and verse. He describes well,
and in his prose compositions often breaks out into flashes of keen
broad humor, but he is not particularly successful in the construction
of plots, or in the arrangement of incidents. He is most at home in the
regions of pure fancy. The moment he sets foot in fairyland he becomes
inspired, and pours out "in delightful profusion" his beautiful
imaginings. Inferior to Burns in depth of passion, in keen perception of
the beautiful, and in the description of actual scenes, he is perhaps
superior to him in the wild delicacy of his inventions and in the rich
coloring of his imaginative pictures. Burns was the poet of nature, and
went far beyond his Scottish contemporaries and successors, in strength
of conception, beauty of imagery, intensity of feeling, and melody of
verse. But Hogg excelled in imaginative musing, and became, by natural
right, the acknowledged "bard of fairyland." His legend of "Bonny
Kilmeny" has been universally admired.

    Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen,
    But it was na to meet Duneira's men;
    Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
    For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
    It was only to hear the yorlin sing,
    And pu' the cress flower round the spring;
    The scarlet hypp and the hind berrye,
    And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree;
    But Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
    But lang may her minny[167] look o'er the wa',
    And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw;
    Lang the laird of Duneira blame,
    And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!

    When many a day had come and fled,
    When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,
    When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,
    When the beads-man had prayed, and the dead-bell rung,
    Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still,
    When the fringe was red on the western hill,
    The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,
    The reek o' the cot hung over the plain,
    Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;[168]
    When the ingle lowed[169] with an eiry[170] leme,
    Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame!

    Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
    Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean,[171]
    By linn, by ford and greenwood tree,
    Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
    Where gat you that joup[172] o' the lily scheen?
    That bonny snook[173] o' the birk sae green?
    And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?
    Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?

    Kilmeny looked up wi' a lovely grace,
    But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;
    As still was her look, and as still was her ee,
    As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
    Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.

    For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,
    And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;
    Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
    Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew,
    But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,
    And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,
    When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
    And a land where sin had never been,
    A land of love and a land of light,
    Withouten sun, or moon, or night;
    Where the river swa'd[174] a living stream,
    And the light a pure celestial beam:
    The land of vision it would seem,
    A still, an everlasting dream.

    In yon greenwood there is a waik,
    And in that waik there is a wene,
    And in that wene there is a maike,[175]
    That neither hath flesh, blood nor bane,
    And down in yon greenwood he walks his lane!
    In that grene wene Kilmeny lay
    Her bosom happed wi' the flowrets gay;
    And the air was soft, and the silence deep,
    And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep;
    She kenn'd nae mair, nor opened her ee,
    Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye,
    She wakened on couch of the silk sae slim,
    All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim;
    And lovely beings around her were rife,
    Who erst had travelled mortal life.
    They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair,
    They kissed her cheek, and they kamed her hair,
    And round came many a blooming fere,
    Saying, "Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here."

           *       *       *       *       *

    They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,
    And she walked in the light of a sunless day,
    The sky was a dome of crystal bright,
    The fountain of vision, and fountain of light;
    The emerant fields were of dazzling glow,
    And the flowers of everlasting blow.
    Then deep in the stream her body they laid,
    That her youth and beauty might never fade;
    And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie
    In the stream of life that wandered by;
    And she heard a song, she heard it sung,
    She kenn'd not where, but so sweetly it rung,
    It fell on her ears like a dream of the morn:
    "O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born!
    Now shall the land of spirits see,
    Now shall it ken what a woman may be!
    The sun that shines on the world so bright,
    A borrowed gleam from the fountain of light:
    And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun,
    Like a gowden bow, or a beamless sun,
    Shall skulk away, and be seen nae mair,
    And the angels shall miss them travelling the air.
    But lang, lang after both night and day,
    When the sun and the world have 'eelged[176] away,
    When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom,
    Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!"

    They sooft[177] her away to a mountain green,
    To see what mortal had never seen;
    And they seated her high on a purple sward,
    And bade her heed what she saw and heard;
    And note the changes the spirits wrought,
    For now she lived in the land of thought.
    She looked and she saw no sun nor skies,
    But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes.
    She looked and she saw no lang aright,
    But an endless whirl of glory and light.
    And radiant beings went and came,
    Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame;
    She hid her een from the dazzling view,
    She looked again, and the scene was new.
    She saw a sun on a simmer sky,
    And clouds of amber sailing by;
    A lovely land aneath her lay,
    And that land had lakes and mountains gray;
    And that land had valleys and hoary piles,
    And merlit seas, and a thousand isles;
    She saw the corn wave on the vale;
    She saw the deer run down the dale;
    And many a mortal toiling sore,
    And she thought she had seen the land afore.

           *       *       *       *       *

    To sing of the sights Kilmeny saw,
    So far surpassing nature's law,
    The singer's voice would sink away,
    And the string of his harp would cease to play,
    But she saw while the sorrows of man were by,
    And all was love and harmony;
    While the sterns of heaven fell lonely away,
    Like the flakes of snow on a winter's day.

    Then Kilmeny begged again to see
    The friends she had left in her ain countrye,
    To tell of the place where she had been,
    And the glories that lay in the land unseen.
    With distant music soft and deep,
    They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep;
    And when she awakened, she lay her lane,
    All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene
    When seven lang years had come and fled,
    When grief was calm and hope was dead,
    When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name.
    Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame!
    And oh! her beauty was fair to see,
    But still and steadfast was her ee;
    Such beauty bard may never declare,
    For there was no pride nor passion there;
    And the soft desire of maiden's een,
    In that mild face could never be seen.
    Her seyman was the lily flower,
    And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
    And her voice like the distant melodye,
    That floats along the twilight sea.
    But she loved to range the lanely glen,
    And keeped afar frae the haunts of men,
    Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
    To suck the flowers and drink the spring;
    But wherever her peaceful form appeared,
    The wild beasts of the hill were cheered;
    The wolf played blithely round the field,
    The lordly bison lowed and kneeled,
    The dun deer wooed with manner bland,
    And cowered aneath her lily hand.
    And when at eve the woodlands rung,
    When hymns of other worlds she sung,
    In ecstacy of sweet devotion,
    Oh, then the glen was all in motion;
    The wild beasts of the forest came,
    Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,
    And gooed around, charmed and amazed;
    Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,
    And murmured and looked with anxious pain
    For something the mystery to explain.
    The buzzard came with the throstle cock;
    The corby left her houf in the rock;
    The blackbird along with the eagle flew;
    The hind came tripping o'er the dew;
    The wolf and the kid their raike began,
    And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;
    The hawk and the hern attour them hung,
    And the merl and the mavis forhooyed[178] their young;
    And all in a peaceful ring were hurled:
    It was like an eve in a sinless world!
    When a month and a day had come and gane,
    Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene,
    There laid her down on the leaves so green,
    And Kilmeny, on earth was never mair seen!

[Footnote 167: Mother]

[Footnote 168: Alone.]

[Footnote 169: Blazed.]

[Footnote 170: Lonesome flame.]

[Footnote 171: Hollow and den.]

[Footnote 172: Ornament.]

[Footnote 173: Snood or headband.]

[Footnote 174: Swelled or swept.]

[Footnote 175: Briefly the meaning is, that in the greenwood there is a
sweet lonely place where a spiritual being wanders alone.]

[Footnote 176: Vanished.]

[Footnote 177: Swept or spirited away, with a rapid motion.]

[Footnote 178: Forsook.]

The close of "The Queen's Wake" is graceful and touching.

    Now my loved harp a while farewell;
      I leave thee on the old gray thorn;
    The evening dews will mar thy swell
      That waked to joy the cheerful morn.

    Farewell, sweet soother of my woe,
      Chill blows the blast around my head;
    And louder yet that blast may blow,
      When down this weary vale I've sped.

    The wreath lies on St. Mary's shore;
      The mountain sounds are harsh and loud;
    The lofty brows of stern Clokmore
      Are visored with the moving cloud.

    But winter's deadly hues shall fade
      On moorland bald and mountain shaw,
    And soon the rainbow's lovely shade
      Sleep on the breast of Bowerhope Law;

    Then will the glowing suns of spring,
      The genial shower and stealing dew,
    Wake every forest bird to sing,
      And every mountain flower renew.

    But not the rainbow's ample ring,
      That spans the glen and mountain gray
    Though fanned by western breeze's wing,
      And sunned by summer's glowing ray,

    To man decayed can ever more
      Renew the age of love and glee!
    Can ever second spring restore
      To my old mountain harp and me.

    But when the hue of softened spring
      Spreads over hill and lonely lea,
    And lowly primrose opes unseen,
      Her virgin bosom to the bee;

    When hawthorns breathe their odors far,
      And carols hail the year's return,
    And daisy spreads her silver star
      Unheeded, by the mountain burn,

    Then will I seek the aged thorn,
      The haunted wild and fairy ring,
    Where oft thy erring numbers borne,
      Have taught the wandering winds to sing.

Hogg was unfortunate in all business transactions. But the Duchess of
Buccleugh made him a present of some seventy acres of moorland, on which
he built a pretty cottage. Here he lived during the latter years of his
life, engaged in literary labors, which he relieved by angling and field
sports, for which he had quite a passion. When he could no longer fish
and hunt, he avowed his belief that his death was near. He was seized
with a dropsical complaint in the autumn of 1835, and died, after some
days of insensibility, "with as little pain as he ever fell asleep in
his gray plaid upon the hillside." With many imperfections, he possessed
a leal Scottish heart, and has left behind him memorials of genius,
which posterity will not "let die."

But we have arrived at the ancient town of Selkirk, on the Ettrick,
famous for its 'sutors' or shoemakers, from time immemorial burgesses
of the town, and distinguished for their loyalty. In the market-square
are a public well, ornamented with the arms of the city, and a handsome
monument erected by the county, in 1839, in memory of Sir Walter Scott,
who was sheriff of the county from 1800 to 1832. On one of its sides are
the following lines from one of his poems:

    "By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
    Though none should guide my feeble way,
    Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
    Although it chill my withered cheek."

In the immediate neighborhood of Selkirk is Philiphaugh, the celebrated
battle-field, where General Leslie, fighting for freedom and the
Covenant, routed the fierce Montrose, who cut his way through the enemy
and fled for his life. This defeat destroyed the fruit of Montrose's six
splendid victories, and ruined the royal cause in Scotland.




CHAPTER XXI.

     Return to the banks of the Tweed--Abbotsford--The
     Study--Biographical Sketch of Sir Walter Scott--His Early
     life--Residence in the Country--Spirit of Romance--Education--First
     Efforts as an Author--Success of 'Marmion'--Character of his
     Poetry--Literary Change--His Novels--Pecuniary
     Difficulties--Astonishing Efforts--Last Sickness--Death and
     Funeral.


Leaving the Ettrick, we proceed once more in the direction of the Tweed,
which we soon reach. How sweetly the river winds through this wooded
region--quick and even impetuous in its flow, but so translucent that
the white pebbles at the bottom are distinctly visible. What a picture
of peaceful enjoyment is presented by that shepherd boy, leaning against
the rock, and basking himself in the sun, while his sheep are nibbling
the short grass on the edge of the water. But yonder is Abbotsford, with
its castellated walls and pointed gables, shooting up from a sylvan
declivity on the banks of the river, which almost encircles the place
with a graceful sweep, and contrasts beautifully with the deep-green
foliage of the straggling clumps of trees. But every traveller in
Scotland visits Abbotsford, and therefore we say nothing about its
singular construction, its curious ornaments, its ancient relics, its
broad-swords and battle-axes, its coats armorial, oak carvings and
blazoned windows, its old portraits and fine library. We will not
describe the door taken from the old Tolbooth in Edinburgh, nor the
pulpit from which Ralph Erskine preached; nay more, we shall not even
moralize on "the broad-skirted blue coat, with metal buttons, the plaid
trowsers, heavy shoes, broad-brimmed hat and stout walking stick," the
last worn by "the Great Magician of the north," when he took to his bed
in his last illness. We will pass, however, into his study, a room about
twenty-five feet square, containing a small writing table in the centre,
on which Sir Walter was accustomed to write, and a plain arm-chair,
covered with black leather, on which he sat. A subdued light enters from
a single window, and a few books lie on the shelves, used chiefly for
reference. By the permission of the good lady who has charge of the
house, we are permitted to seat ourselves, and linger here for an hour,
calling up the memory of the most wonderful genius that Scotland has
ever produced.

The father of Sir Walter Scott was a writer to the Signet in Edinburgh,
an excellent and highly respectable man. His mother, Anne Rutherford, a
noble and gentle-hearted woman, was the daughter of a physician, in
extensive practice, and Professor of Medicine in the University of
Edinburgh. By both parents he was remotely connected with some ancient
and respectable Scottish families, a circumstance to which he frequently
referred with satisfaction. He was born on the 15th of August, in the
year 1771. In consequence of lameness and a delicate state of health,
produced by a fall, he was sent, in early life to Sandyknowe, a
romantic situation near Kelso, and placed under the care of his
grandfather. Here he fortified his constitution by long rambles on foot
and on horseback among the picturesque scenery and old ruins of the
neighborhood. Smallholm, a ruined tower, and the scene of Scott's
ballad, "The Eve of St. John's," was close to the farm, and beside it
were the Eildon Hills, the ruins of Ercildoune, the residence, in
ancient times, of Thomas the Rhymer, Dryburgh Abbey, the "silver Tweed,"
with its storied banks, and other localities renowned in song and story.
It was here also that he delighted in supplying his memory with the
tales of his nurse, and some old grandames, deeply versed in the
traditions of the country. All these left indelible impressions on his
young imagination, and nursed the latent germ of poetry and romance, so
late, but so beautiful in its flowering. Subsequently he resided with
another relation at Kelso. Here, under the shadow of a great platanus or
oriental palm tree, in an old garden, he devoured "Percy's Reliques of
Ancient Poetry," and permitted his fancy to wander at will amid the
scenes of Border romance. This explains, in some degree, the peculiar
characteristics of his first poems, and that fine strain of romantic
feeling which runs through his tales. Speaking of this matter, he says
himself: "In early youth I had been an eager student of ballad poetry,
and the tree is still in my recollection beneath which I lay and first
entered upon the enchanting perusal of 'Percy's Reliques of Ancient
Poetry,' although it has long perished in the general blight which
affected the whole race of oriental platanus, to which it belonged. The
taste of another person had strongly encouraged my own researches into
this species of legendary lore. But I had never dreamed of an attempt to
imitate what gave me so much pleasure. Excepting the usual tribute to a
mistress's eyebrow, which is the language of passion rather than poetry,
I had not for ten years indulged the wish to couple so much as _love_
and _dove_, when finding Lewis in possession of so much reputation, and
conceiving that, if I fell behind him in poetical powers, I considerably
exceeded him in general information, I suddenly took it into my head to
attempt the style by which he had raised himself to fame." He refers to
the same thing in the following lines:

    "Thus, while I ape the measure wild,
    Of tales that charmed me--yet a child,
    Rude though they be, still with the chime
    Return the thoughts of early time;
    And feelings roused in life's first day,
    Glow in the line, and prompt the lay;
    Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
    Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour.
    Though no broad river swept along,
    To claim perchance heroic song;
    Though sigh no groves in summer gale,
    To prompt of love a softer tale,
    Yet was poetic impulse given
    By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
    It was a barren scene, and wild,
    Where naked cliffs were rudely piled,
    But ever and anon between
    Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
    And well the lovely infant knew
    Recesses where the wall-flower grew.
    And honeysuckle loved to crawl
    Up the low crag and ruined wall.
    I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
    The sun in all its round surveyed;
    And still I thought that shattered tower
    The mightiest work of human power;
    And marvelled as the aged hind,
    With some strange tale bewitched my mind,
    Of foragers who, with headlong force
    Down from that strength had spurred their horse,
    Their southern rapine to renew
    Far in the distant Cheviot's blue,
    And home returning filled the hall,
    With revel, wassail-route and brawl.--
    Methought that still with tramp and clang
    The gateway's broken arches rang;
    Methought grim features seamed with scars,
    Glared through the window's rusty bars.
    And even by the winter hearth;
    Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
    Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,
    Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
    Of patriot battles won of old
    By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
    Of later fields of feud and fight,
    When pouring from their Highland height,
    The Scottish clans in headlong sway,
    Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
    While stretched at length upon the floor,
    Again I fought each combat e'er,
    Pebbles and shells in order laid
    The mimic ranks of war displayed;
    And onward still the Scottish lion bore,
    And still the scattered Southron fled before."

In addition to this, young Scott was a perfect _helluo librorum_. He had
access to a large library filled with romances, histories, biographies,
and so forth, which he indiscriminately devoured. His memory was quick
and tenacious, and his mind became stored with all sorts of facts,
fables and fancies. Still, even in youth, he possessed a sound judgment,
a clear, well balanced mind, and separated the chaff from the wheat with
tolerable discrimination. His father was a good Presbyterian, and did
what he could to imbue his mind with religious principles, which never
deserted him. Among the first lines he is known to have written are the
following. They were found wrapped up in a paper inscribed by Dr. Adam
of the Edinburgh High School, 'Walter Scott, July, 1783.'

              ON THE SETTING SUN.

    Those evening clouds, that setting ray,
    And beauteous tints, serve to display
      Their great Creator's praise;
    Then let the short-lived thing called man
    Whose life's comprised within a span,
      To Him his homage raise.

    We often praise the evening clouds,
      And tints so gay and bold,
    But seldom think upon our God,
      Who tinged these clouds with gold.

Scott was educated at the Edinburgh High School, and University. He had
an aversion to Greek, a singular fact, but made some proficiency in
Latin, moral philosophy and history. He also made himself tolerably
familiar with the French, German and Italian tongues. Being much at
home, he indulged in reading romances and poetry. From early life, he
was an industrious collector of old ballads, many of which he committed
to memory. Apprenticed to his father, as "a writer," he commenced the
study of law, and began to practice in his twenty-first year. As his
health was now vigorous, he made long excursions into the country, which
he facetiously denominated _raids_, rambling over scenes of external
beauty or of historic interest, making acquaintance with the country
people, and picking up information about men and things. By this means
he amassed an immense store of everyday facts, and an intimate knowledge
of character, which were of immense service to him in the construction
of his novels.

Scott's first appearance as an author was in the translation from the
German of Burger's Leonore, and "Der Wilde Jaeger," or the "Wild
Huntsman," ballads of singular wildness and power. These, however, made
little impression on the public mind. Of this he says, "The failure of
my first publication did not operate, in any unpleasant degree, either
on my feelings or spirits. To speak candidly, I found pleasure in the
literary labor in which I had, almost by accident, become engaged, and
labored less in the hope of pleasing others, though certainly without
despair of doing so, than in the pursuit of a new and agreeable
amusement to myself." He continued to read the German, and to make
translations from it, and became more and more interested in the ballad
poetry. He was delighted to find the affinity of the old English, and
especially of the Scottish language to the German, not in sound merely,
but in the turn of phrase, so that they were capable of being rendered
line for line, with very little variation.

By degrees he acquired sufficient confidence to attempt the imitation of
what he so much admired. His first original poem was "Glenfinlas." Next
followed "The Eve of St. John." Owing to unfortunate circumstances these
had no great success. Nothing daunted, however, he again appeared before
the public with his "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," which
immediately became popular. The success of this last work, not only
established his reputation as an author, but encouraged him to devote
himself to literary pursuits. Under appointment as Sheriff of
Selkirkshire, he enjoyed the kind of associations and employments
favorable to the cultivation of his poetical powers. Among other things,
he edited the metrical romance of "Sir Tristrem," supposed to be written
by "Thomas the Rhymer," or Thomas of Ercildoune, laird, poet and
prophet, who flourished about the year 1280. The dissertations which
accompanied this work, and the imitation of the original to complete the
romance, evinced his antiquarian attainments and fine poetical taste. At
length appeared "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," a higher, purer strain,
which was received with universal enthusiasm, and stamped him a great
and original poet. His fine conception of the minstrel, his easy
versification, his admirable narrative, his glowing pictures, his wild
ballad enthusiasm, his legendary lore, and his exquisite touches of the
marvellous and supernatural, combined to render the poem popular beyond
all precedent. Thirty thousand copies were speedily sold by the trade.
Then, in quick succession, followed that splendid series of poems, so
popular in their day, and still so interesting and delightful.
Intrinsically, they are inferior to some of the higher strains of
English poetry, but they possess certain qualities which gained the
public ear, and found a place in the national heart. These doubtless
were the novelty of their style, their natural and simple versification,
their easy, dramatic narrative, and their lively descriptions of
national scenes and manners, in contrast with the formal hexameters,
with "all their buckram and binding," of which the public had become
tired.

Being in easy, and almost in affluent circumstances, Scott became
ambitious of founding a family. For this purpose he bought land on the
banks of the Tweed, and built Abbotsford, at a very considerable
expense. He received the order of knighthood, and looked forward to days
of ease and prosperity. Devoting himself almost entirely to literary
pursuits, he formed connections in business with James Ballantyne, then
rising into extensive business in the city of Edinburgh. This involved
the necessity of large advances, and Scott became involved in large
pecuniary responsibilities. He received an appointment as one of the
principal Clerks of the Court of Session, with perhaps six thousand
dollars per annum. This, with the gains of the printing establishment,
and other sources of revenue, would have secured to him and his family
an ample provision.

With his customary sagacity, Sir Walter perceived that his peculiar
style of poetry would not continue popular, and therefore he betook
himself to a new field of literary enterprise, which proved still
richer, and, by far, more congenial. Then appeared his historical
novels, which became so popular, that his fame as a poet was almost
forgotten. Volume after volume came from the press, and spread like
wildfire over the land. Translated into French, German, and Italian,
they reached every part of Europe, and completely superseded the old run
of novels, with their unnatural plots and extravagant nonsense. It was
Scott's ambition to elevate this species of literature, and whatever
objections may be made against it, on the score of moral influence, this
much must be conceded to him. In his hands novel writing became
comparatively pure and dignified, nay, as some, with considerable show
of reason, contend, beneficial. The moral tone of all Sir Walter's
productions is pre-eminently pure. They are characterized by shrewd
sense, a profound insight into men and things, a keen perception of the
beautiful and brave, the generous and leal, a fine sense of honor,
reverence for God, and a deep sympathy with all the wants and woes, the
hopes and joys of our common humanity. Sir Walter is the Shakspeare of
novel writing, and if he falls below the great dramatic poet, in the
quickness and universality of his genius, he approaches him in the
soundness of his intellect, the breadth of his imagination, and the
versatility of his powers. From his Tory and High Church predilections
he has done some injustice to the old Covenanters and Puritans of
Scotland; but he possessed a noble and generous heart, a spirit of faith
and reverence, a love for God and all his creatures. His soul was
naturally blithe and joyous, hopeful and strong. He loved Scotland with
intense affection, and has spread the light of his genius over all her
hills and vales. Under the magic influence of his pen the hoary
mountains, the dark tarns and trosachs of the Highlands gleam with
supernal beauty. Tweed murmurs his name, while the Firth and Tay repeat
it through all their windings. His "own romantic town" glories in his
memory; every city, village and hamlet of the Lowlands, with strath,
meadow and moorland, echo his praise. The Genius of his country has
crowned him with the same wild wreath which erst she hung upon the head
of Burns, and the world has acknowledged the consecration.

It was in the year 1826 that Ballantyne and Company became insolvent,
and Sir Walter Scott, in the very midst of his splendid career, found
himself involved to the amount of $600,000. But he nobly refused to
become a bankrupt, considering, says Allan Cunningham, "like the elder
Osbaldistone of his own immortal pages, commercial honor as dear as any
other honor." All he asked for was time; and in seven years he paid off
more than the half of this sum by the labors of his pen. His efforts to
accomplish this sublime purpose were gigantic, but they broke down his
constitution. "Sometime in the beginning of the year 1831," says his
friend Cunningham, "a sore illness came upon him; his astonishing
efforts to satisfy his creditors, began to exhaust a mind apparently
exhaustless; and the world heard with concern that a paralytic stroke
had affected his speech and his right hand, so much as to render writing
a matter of difficulty. One of his letters to me at this period, is not
written with his own hand: the signature is his, and looks cramped and
weak. I visited him at Abbotsford, about the end of July, 1831: he was a
degree more feeble than I had ever seen him, and his voice seemed
affected; not so his activity of fancy, and surprising resources of
conversation. He told anecdotes and recited scraps of verse, old and
new, always tending to illustrate something passing. He showed me his
armory, in which he took visible pleasure; and was glad to hear me
commend the design of his house, as well as the skill with which it was
built. * * * In a small room, half library and half armory, he usually
sat and wrote: here he had some remarkable weapons, curious pieces of
old Scottish furniture, such as chairs and cabinets, and an antique sort
of a table, on which lay his writing materials. A crooked headed staff
of Abbotsford oak or hazel usually lay beside him to support his steps
as he went and came."

"When it was known," continues Cunningham, "that Sir Walter Scott's
health declined, the deep solicitude of all ranks became manifest;
strangers came from far lands to look on the house which contained the
great genius of our times; inquirers flocked around, of humble and of
high degree, and the amount of letters of inquiry or condolence was, I
have heard, enormous. Amongst the visitors, not the least welcome was
Wordsworth, the poet, who arrived when the air of the northern hills was
growing too sharp for the enfeebled frame of Scott, and he had resolved
to try if the fine air and climate of Italy would restore him to health
and strength.

"When Government heard of Sir Walter's wishes, they offered him a ship;
he left Abbotsford as many thought forever, and arrived in London, where
he was welcomed as never mortal was welcomed before. He visited several
friends, nor did he refuse to mingle in company, and having written
something almost approaching to a farewell to the world, which was
published with 'Castle Dangerous,' the last of his works, he set sail
for Italy, with the purpose of touching at Malta. He seemed revived, but
it was only for a while: he visited Naples, but could not enjoy the high
honors paid to him: he visited Rome, and sighed amid its splendid
temples and glorious works of art, for gray Melrose and the pleasant
banks of Tweed, and passing out of Italy, proceeded homewards down the
Rhine. Word came to London, that a dreadful attack of paralysis had
nearly deprived him of life, and that but for the presence of mind of a
faithful servant he must have perished. This alarming news was followed
by his arrival in London: a strong desire of home had come upon him; he
travelled with rapidity, night and day, and was all but worn out, when
carried into St. James's Hotel, Jermyn street, by his servants."

As soon as he recovered a little, he resumed his journey to Scotland,
reached Abbotsford, and seemed revived, smiled when he was borne into
his library, and enjoyed the society of his children. When he was
leaving London the people, wherever he was recognized, took off their
hats, saying, "God bless you, Sir Walter!" His arrival in Scotland was
hailed with equal enthusiasm and sympathy; and so much was he revived
that hopes were entertained of his recovery. But he gradually declined,
listening occasionally to passages from the Bible, and from the poems of
Crabbe and Wordsworth. Once he tried to write, but failed in the
attempt. "He never spoke of his literary labors or success."
Occasionally his mind wandered, and then he was preparing for the
reception of the Duke of Wellington at Abbotsford, or exercising the
functions of a judge, as if presiding at the trial of members of his own
family. It may be regarded as a singular fact, that in his delirium, his
mind never wandered toward those works which had filled the world with
his fame. But the flame of life now flickered feebly in its socket, and
gave unerring indications of its speedy extinction. "About half past
one, P. M.," says Mr. Lockhart, his son-in-law and biographer, "on the
21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence
of all his children. It was a beautiful day--so warm that every window
was open--and so perfectly still that the sound, of all others most
delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles,
was distinctly audible, as we knelt around his bed, and his eldest son
kissed and closed his eyes."

The remains of Sir Walter were buried in Dryburgh Abbey. "As we
advanced," says one who was present at the funeral, which was conducted
with the greatest simplicity and solemnity, "the ruined abbey disclosed
itself through the trees; and we approached its western extremity, where
a considerable portion of vaulted roof still remains to protect the
poet's family place of interment, which opens to the sides in lofty
Gothic arches, and is defended by a low rail of enclosure. At one
extremity of it, a tall thriving young cypress rears its spiral form.
Creeping plants of different kinds, 'with ivy never sere,' have spread
themselves very luxuriantly over every part of the Abbey. These perhaps
were in many instances the children of art; but however this may have
been, nature had herself undertaken their education. In this spot
especially, she seems to have been most industriously busy in twining
her richest wreaths around those walls which more immediately form her
poet's tomb. Amongst her other decorations, we observed a plum tree,
which was perhaps at one period a prisoner, chained to the solid
masonry, but which having long since been emancipated, now threw out its
wild pendent branches, laden with purple fruit, ready to drop, as if
emblematical of the ripening and decay of human life.

"In such a scene as this, then, it was that the coffin of Sir Walter
Scott was set down on trestles placed outside the iron railing; and here
that solemn service, beginning with those words, so cheering to the
souls of Christians, 'I am the resurrection and the life,' was solemnly
read. The manly soldier-like features of the chief mourner, on whom the
eyes of sympathy were most naturally turned, betrayed at intervals the
powerful efforts which he had made to master his emotions, as well as
the inefficiency of his exertions to do so. The other relatives who
surrounded the bier were deeply moved; and amid the crowd of weeping
friends, no eye, and no heart could be discovered that was not
altogether occupied in that sad and impressive ceremonial, which was so
soon to shut from them forever, him who had been so long the common idol
of their admiration, and of their best affections. Here and there,
indeed, we might have fancied that we detected some early and long tried
friends of him who lay cold before us, who, whilst tears dimmed their
eyes, and whilst their lips quivered, were yet partly engaged in mixing
up and contrasting the happier scenes of days long gone by, with that
which they were now witnessing, until they became lost in dreamy
reverie, so that even the movement made when the coffin was carried
under the lofty arches of the ruin, and when _dust was committed to
dust_, did not entirely snap the thread of their visions. It was not
until the harsh sound of the hammers of the workmen who were employed to
rivet those iron bars covering the grave, to secure it from violation,
had begun to echo from the vaulted roof, that some of us were called to
the full conviction of the fact, that the earth had forever closed over
that form which we were wont to love and reverence; that eye which we
had so often seen beaming with benevolence, sparkling with wit, or
lighted up with a poet's frenzy; those lips which we had so often seen
monopolizing the attention of all listeners, or heard rolling out, with
nervous accentuation, those powerful verses with which his head was
continually teeming; and that brow, the perpetual throne of generous
expression, and liberal intelligence. Overwhelmed by the conviction of
this afflicting truth, men moved away without parting salutation,
singly, slowly, and silently. The day began to stoop down into twilight;
and we, too, after giving a last parting survey to the spot where now
repose the remains of our Scottish Shakspeare, a spot lovely enough to
induce his sainted spirit to haunt and sanctify its shades, hastily tore
ourselves away."




CHAPTER XXII.

     Melrose Abbey--The Eildon Hills--Thomas the
     Rhymer--Dryburgh--Monuments to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir
     William Wallace--Kelso--Beautiful scenery--A Pleasant
     Evening--Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet, Antiquary, Scholar
     and Traveller--The Duncan Family--Journey Resumed--Twisel
     Bridge--Battle of Flodden--Norham Castle--Berwick upon
     Tweed--Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The
     Border Tales'--Conclusion--'Auld Lang Syne.'


After visiting "fair Melrose," whose rains, rising in the centre of a
rich landscape, and rendered immortal by the exquisite descriptions of
Sir Walter Scott, are the most interesting and beautiful of any in
Scotland;--wandering over the Eildon Hills, the Trimontium of the
Romans, from the summits of which some thirty miles of wild and varied
scenery can be surveyed; gazing on the ruins of Ercildoune, the
manor-house of Thomas the Rhymer, whose real name was Thomas Learmont,
author of "The Romance of Tristan," a poem of the thirteenth century, in
the language of antique Chaucer; lingering in Dryburgh Abbey, embosomed
in a richly wooded haugh on the banks of the Tweed; and especially
gazing, in reverent homage, on the grave of "the Great Magician of the
North," in St. Mary's Aisle, so sad and yet so fair; crossing the Tweed,
and pausing a few moments, to examine a circular temple on the banks of
the river, dedicated to the Muses, and surmounted by a bust of Thomson,
author of "The Seasons," and a little further on the colossal statue of
Sir William Wallace, the hero of Scotland, which stands upon a rocky
eminence and overlooks the river, and a fine prospect of "wood and
water, mountain and rock scenery," we pass along the banks of the Tweed,
till we come to the handsome town of Kelso, on the margin of the river,
with its ancient Abbey and delightful environs.

As the day is far spent, we will stay here for the night. But, before
the sun goes down, let us wander over the neighborhood, which is
singularly beautiful, and redolent with the genius of Scott and of
Leyden, who has described it in his "Scenes of Infancy."

    "Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,
    Kelso's fair vale expands before the sun;
    Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,
    And fringed with hazel, winds each flowery dell,
    Green spangled plains to dimpled lawns succeed,
    And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed:
    Blue o'er the river Kelso's shadow lies,
    And copse-clad isles amid the water rise."

As the view from the bridge which spans the river is said to be one of
the richest in Scotland, we linger there till the sun goes down. 'Tis a
soft, still, summer afternoon, beginning to glide into the long and
beautiful twilight. The rays of the sun are yet upon the mountains, and
tinge the summits of the woods, the rocks, and the castellated edifices,
which adorn the landscape. The Tweed is gliding, in shadow, through the
wooded vale, and the songs of the mavis and blackbird are echoing among
the trees. A little above the bridge the clear waters of the Teviot and
the Tweed flow together, as if attracted by each other's beauty. Beyond
are the picturesque ruins of Roxburgh Castle, and somewhat nearer the
ducal palace of Fleurs, rising amid a rich expanse of wooded
decorations, sloping down to the very margin of the river; in front are
gleaming two green islets of the Tweed, and between that river and the
Teviot reposes the beautiful peninsula of Friar's Green, with the soft
meadow in its foreground. On the south bank of the river are the mansion
and woods of Springwood Park, and the bridge across the Teviot, on which
are reposing the mellow rays of the setting sun. On the right the town
lies along the bank of the river, with its elegant mansions and
venerable abbey. There too is Ednam House, near which the poet Thomson
had his birth. Far beyond these, the eye rests pleasantly on "the triple
summits" of the Eildon Hills, looking down protectingly upon the vale of
Tweed, the hills of Stitchell and Mellerstain, and the striking ruin of
Home Castle, still arrayed in the purple and gold of departing day.
Intermingled with all these are the windings and rippling currents of
the river, clumps of rich green foliage, orchards laden with fruit,
tufted rocks, verdant <DW72>s, single trees of lofty stature, standing
out from the rest, in the pride and pomp of their "leafy umbrage,"
cattle browsing peacefully on the banks of the stream, here and there a
sylvan cottage, and an infinite variety of light and shade, of blending
colors and changing forms, hallowed, moreover, by the hoary memories and
poetical associations of by-gone days. No wonder that Leyden loved to
wander in such scenes, or that Scott, a more transcendent genius, should
have ascribed to this influence the awakening in his soul "of that
insatiable love of natural scenery, more especially when combined with
ancient ruins, or remains of our fathers' piety and splendor," which
gave a charm to his life, and imparted to the productions of his genius
a warmth and richness of coloring unequalled in the history of
literature.

But it is time to return to our comfortable hotel in Kelso, where mine
host, who is an honest, round-faced, rosy-cheeked, good-natured Scot,
will give us good cheer for supper, and a bed soft as down upon which to
repose our weary limbs.

Well now, this is pleasant! Here in this snug room, with a cheerful cup
of tea, and such toast, broiled chicken, and other edibles, as mine host
only can produce, we feel as easy and independent as kings, aye, and a
great deal more so; for who so satisfied and happy as the man, whatever
his estate, who has a clear conscience, a mind brimful of sweet
memories, a heart grateful to God and attached to those he loves? Let
any person only do what is right, trust in God, enjoy nature, cultivate
his mind, exercise his body, and he may secure as much happiness as
falls to the lot of mortals. Trials may come, but joys will come also.
All things shall "work together for good."

But it is easy moralizing over a good cup of tea, with a cheerful fire
blazing in the grate, and a soft bed in prospect for weary limbs.
Moreover, I promised to give you some account of Leyden, poet and
antiquary, scholar and traveler.

John Leyden was born in 1775, in Denholm, Roxburghshire, not far from
Kelso, of poor but honest parents. He displayed in early life the most
eager desire for learning, but possessed few opportunities for
gratifying it, as he had to spend much of his time in manual toil. His
parents, however, seeing his thirst for knowledge, resolved to send him
to Edinburgh University. He entered this institution in his fifteenth
year, and made unusual progress in his studies. He distinguished himself
in the Latin and Greek languages, acquired the French, Spanish, Italian
and German, besides forming some acquaintance with the Hebrew, Arabic
and Persian. During his college vacations he returned to the humble roof
of his parents, and as the accommodations of the house were scanty, he
looked for a place of study elsewhere. "In a wild recess," says Sir
Walter Scott, who has furnished an animated biography of Leyden, "in the
den or glen which gives name to the village of Denholm, he contrived a
sort of furnace for the purpose of such chemical experiments as he was
adequate to performing. But his chief place of retirement was the small
parish church, a gloomy and ancient building, generally believed in the
neighborhood to be haunted. To this chosen place of study, usually
locked during week days, Leyden made entrance by means of a window,
read there for many hours in the day, and deposited his books and
specimens in a retired pew. It was a well chosen spot for seclusion, for
the kirk, (excepting during divine service,) is rather a place of terror
to the Scottish rustic, and that of Cavers was rendered more so by many
a tale of ghosts and witchcraft, of which it was the supposed scene, and
to which Leyden, partly to indulge his humor, and partly to secure his
retirement, contrived to make some modern additions. The nature of his
abstruse studies, some specimens of natural history, as toads and
adders, left exposed in their spirit vials, and one or two practical
jests played off upon the more curious of the peasantry, rendered his
gloomy haunt, not only venerated by the wise, but feared by the simple
of the parish."

Leyden was originally intended for the clerical profession, but
abandoned it for more secular employments. His spirit was intense,
restless and ambitious, and he longed for foreign travel and literary
distinction. After spending five years at college, he became tutor to a
highly respectable family, with whose sons he repaired to the University
of St. Andrews, where he pursued his Oriental studies, and in 1799
published a History of African Discoveries. He was the author, also, of
various translations and poems, which attracted considerable attention
and introduced him to the best society. In 1800 he was ordained as a
minister, and his discourses were highly popular; but he was
dissatisfied with them, and felt that he was called to a different
sphere. He continued to write and compose, contributed to Lewis's "Tales
of Wonder," and Scott's "Border Minstrelsy." He was an enthusiastic
admirer of the old ballads, and on one occasion actually walked between
forty and fifty miles for the sole purpose of visiting an old person who
possessed an ancient historical ballad. He edited the "Scot's Magazine,"
for a year, and published "The Complaynt of Scotland," an old work
written about 1548, which he accompanied with a learned dissertation,
notes and a glossary. His strong desire to visit foreign lands induced
his friends to procure for him an appointment in India, where he might
study the oriental languages and literature. The only situation which
they found available was that of assistant surgeon, for which it was
necessary to have a medical diploma. But such was the energy, decision
and perseverance of Leyden's character, that he qualified himself in six
months; and not long after set out for Madras. Before taking his
departure he finished his "Scenes of Infancy," as it were, the last
token of his love for Scotland, which he never again beheld. He was
resolved to distinguish himself or die in the attempt. Indeed a
premonition of such an issue seems to have haunted his mind, and was
expressed, with touching beauty, in his "Scenes of Infancy."

    "The silver moon at midnight cold and still,
    Looks sad and silent o'er yon western hill;
    While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,
    Reared on the confines of the world below.
    Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?
    Is that blue light the moon's or tomb-fire's gleam?
    By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,
    The old deserted church of Hazeldean,
    Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,
    Till Teviot's waters rolled their bones away?
    Their feeble voices from their stream they raise--
    'Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,
    Why didst thou quit the simple peasant's lot?
    Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,
    The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie,
    And Teviot's stream that long has murmur'd by?
    And we, when death so long has clos'd our eyes,
    How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,
    And bear our mouldering bones across the main.
    From vales that knew our lives devoid of stain?
    Rash youth! beware, thy home-bred virtues save,
    And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave.'"

After his arrival in Madras, his health became impaired, and he removed
to Prince of Wales Island. He resided there some time, visiting the
neighboring countries, and amassing curious information on the
literature and history of the Indo-Chinese, which he embodied in an
elaborate dissertation read before the Asiatic Society at Calcutta.
Quitting Prince of Wales Island, Leyden was appointed a professor in the
Bengal College, which he soon exchanged for the office of judge, a more
lucrative employment. His spare time was devoted to the prosecution of
his oriental studies. "I may die in the attempt," he wrote to a friend,
"but if I die without surpassing Sir William Jones a hundredfold in
oriental learning, let never a tear for me profane the eye of a
borderer." In 1811 he accompanied the governor general to Java. His
spirit of bold adventure led him literally to rush upon death. He threw
himself into the surf in order to be the first Briton who should set
foot upon Java. When the invaders had taken possession of Batavia, the
same reckless eagerness took him into a cold damp library, in which were
many books and manuscripts. Affected perhaps by the disease of the
climate he had a fit of shivering on leaving the library, and declared
that the atmosphere was enough to give any one a mortal fever. In three
days after he died, August 28, 1811, on the eve of the battle which
secured Java to the British Empire.

Leyden's Poetical Remains were published in 1819, with a memoir. In
addition to the "Scenes of Infancy," it contains some vigorous ballads.
To one of these, "The Mermaid," as well as to the untimely death of its
author, Sir Walter Scott has referred in his "Lord of the Isles."

    "Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore
    Still rings to Corrievreckin's roar,
      And lovely Colonsay;
    Scenes sung by him who sings no more:
    His bright and brief career is o'er,
      And mute his tuneful strains;
    Quenched is his lamp of varied lore,
    That loved the light of song to pour:
    A distant and a deadly shore
      Has Leyden's cold remains."

His "Scenes of Infancy" is distinguished for the sweetness of its
versification, and its pleasant pictures of the vale of Teviot. In
strength and enthusiasm, it is much inferior to his ballads. The
opening of "The Mermaid," has been praised by Sir Walter Scott "as
exhibiting a power of numbers, which for mere melody of sound has rarely
been excelled."

    On Jura's heath how sweetly swell
      The murmurs of the mountain bee!
    How softly, mourns the writh'd shell,
      Of Jura's shore, its parent sea.

    But softer, floating o'er the deep,
      The mermaid's sweet, sea-soothing lay,
    That charmed the dancing waves to sleep,
      Before the bark of Colonsay.

But better known, and far more affecting, is Leyden's "Ode to an Indian
Gold Coin," written in Cherical, Malabar, which in addition to its vigor
and beauty, has a fine moral which it is not necessary to point out.

    Slave of the dark and dirty mine!
      What vanity has brought thee here?
    How can I love to see thee shine
      So bright, whom I have bought so dear?
      The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear,
    For twilight converse arm in arm;
      The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear,
    When mirth and music wont to cheer.

    By Cherical's dark wandering streams,
      Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
    Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
      Of Teviot loved while still a child;
      Of castled rocks stupendous piled
    By Esk or Eden's classic wave,
      Where loves of youth and friendship smiled
    Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

    Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!
      The perished bliss of youth's first prime,
    That once so bright on fancy played,
      Revives no more in after time.
      Far from my sacred natal clime
    I haste to an untimely grave;
      The daring thoughts that soared sublime
    Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

    Slave of the mine, thy yellow light
      Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.
    A gentle vision comes by night
      My lonely widowed heart to cheer.
      Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
    That once were guiding-stars to mine;
      Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!
    I cannot bear to see thee shine.

    For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
      I left a heart that loved me true!
    I crossed the tedious ocean wave,
      To roam in climes unkind and new.
      The cold wind of the stranger blew
    Chill on my withered heart; the grave
      Dark and untimely met my view--
    And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

    Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
      A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
    Now that his frame, the lightning shock
      Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne?
      From love, from friendship, country, torn,
    To memory's fond regrets the prey:
      Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!
    Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

While conversing about Leyden, we must not forget a gentler, purer
spirit, Mary Lundie Duncan, who first saw the light "amid the blossoms
of Kelso," and whose young heart first warbled its poetic strains on the
banks of the Tweed. Her "Memoir," by her gifted mother, is one of the
most beautiful and touching biographies in the English language.
Possessed of genius and piety, at once pure and tender, her brief life
was the fair but changeful spring-time which preceded the long summer of
eternity.

    Sweet bird of Scotia's tuneful clime,
      So beautiful and dear,
    Whose music gushed as genius taught,
    With Heaven's own quenchless spirit fraught,
      I list--thy strain to hear.

    Bright flower on Kelso's bosom born,
      When spring her glories shed,
    Where Tweed flows on in silver sheen,
    And Tiviot feeds her valleys green,
      I cannot think thee dead.

    Fair child--whose rich unfoldings gave
      A promise rare and true,
    The parent's proudest thoughts to cheer,
    And soothe of widowed woe the tear,--
      Why hid'st thou from our view?

    Young bride, whose wildest thrill of hope
      Bowed the pure brow in prayer,
    Whose ardent zeal and saintly grace,
    Did make the manse a holy place,
      We search--thou art not there.

    Fond mother, they who taught thy joys
      To sparkle up so high;
    Thy first born, and her brother dear
    Catch charms from every fleeting year:--
      Where is thy glistening eye?

    Meek Christian, it is well with thee,
      That where thy heart so long
    Was garnered up, thy home should be;--
    Thy path with Him who made thee free;--
      Thy lay--an angel's song.

    _Lydia H. Sigourney._

Some of Mary Lundie Duncan's poems are characterized not merely by
purity and elevation of sentiment, but by sweetness and melody of
versification. The following written at "Callander," though not without
defects, indicates the possession of true poetical genius.

    How pure the light on yonder hills,
      How soft the shadows lie;
    How blythe each morning sound that fills
      The air with melody!

    Those hills, that rest in solemn calm
      Above the strife of men,
    Are bathed in breezy gales of balm
      From knoll and heathy glen.

    In converse with the silent sky,
      They mock the flight of years;
    While man and all his labors die
      Low in this vale of tears.

    Meet emblem of eternal rest,
      They point their summits grey
    To the fair regions of the blest,
      Where tends our pilgrim way.

    The everlasting mountains there
      Reflect undying light;
    The ray which gilds that ambient air,
      Nor fades, nor sets in night.

    Then summer sun more piercing bright.
      That beam is milder too;
    For love is in the sacred light
      That softens every hue.

    The gale that fans the peaceful clime
      Is life's immortal breath,
    Its freshness makes the sons of time
      Forget disease and death.

    And shall we tread that holy ground,
      And breathe that fragrant air;
    And view the fields with glory crowned
      In cloudless beauty fair?

           *       *       *       *       *

    Look up! look up, to yonder light,
      That cheers the desert grey:
    It marks the close of toil and night,
      The dawn of endless day.

    How sweet your choral hymns will blend
      With harps of heavenly tone;
    When glad you sing your journey's end
      Around your Father's throne.

Mary's contributions to "The Philosophy of the Seasons," over the
signature of M. L. D., such as "The Rose," "The Bat," "Sabbath Morning,"
an "Autumnal Sabbath Evening," are simple and elegant, indicating the
possession of good sense and a refined imagination. Like her brother
Archibald Lundie, who went to the South Sea Islands in order to benefit
his health, and to labor in the sublime work of Christian missions, Mary
passed away in the morning of her days, but not without leaving a
blessed fragrance behind her, which yet lingers, not over Scotland
alone, but over the whole Christian world. And well might her stricken
yet resigned and hopeful mother say, in the words quoted at the close of
her daughter's _Memoir_:

    "I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starred
      With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul;
    Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred,
      Nor thy heart be flung back from its gaol:
    I know thou hast drank of the Lethe that flows
      Through a land where they do not forget;
    That sheds over memory only repose;
      And takes from it only regret.

    "And though like a mourner that sits by a tomb,
      I am wrapt in a mantle of care;
    Yet the grief of my bosom--oh! call it not gloom--
      Is not the black grief of despair.
    By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,
      Far off thy bright vision appears;
    And hope like the rainbow, a creature of light,
      Is born like the rainbow--in tears."

    _J. K. Hervey._

The Duncan family to which Mary Lundie, by her marriage with one of the
sons, belonged, is one of the most interesting in Scotland. All of its
members seem possessed of fine talents, devoted piety, and generous
affections. Two of the sons, with the father, were ministers of the
established church of Scotland at the time of the secession of the Free
Church from that body, and made a sacrifice, for conscience' sake, of
agreeable situations and handsome incomes. Without the slightest
hesitation, and without a murmur even, they abandoned their beautiful
manses, their churches and people, and threw themselves, with their
brethren of the Free Church, upon the providence of God, not knowing
what might be the issues of that sublime movement. "The Philosophy of
the Seasons,"[179] though written mainly by the father, the Rev. Dr.
Duncan of Ruthwell, received contributions from all the members of the
family, and remains a splendid monument of their talents, piety and
mutual affection. It is fast becoming a classic. Filled with
information, and imbued with a spirit of fervid piety, and, moreover,
written in a lucid, flowing style, it is well fitted at once to instruct
and please.

[Footnote 179: Published by R. Carter, in four handsome octavos.]

As Dr. Duncan has recently deceased, a brief sketch of his life may not
be uninteresting in this connection.

Dr. Henry Duncan was "a son of the Manse." He was born in 1774, at
Lochrutton, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, of which his father and
his grandfather were ministers successively, during a period of eighty
years, a striking instance of pastoral permanence. If wealth consists
"in the number of things we love," then those good men must have been
rich beyond the common lot of ministers; and young Henry must have
received from them a rich heritage of blessings. He was educated at the
Universities of St. Andrews, Glasgow, and Edinburgh. While attending the
latter he was a member of the "Speculative Society," to which many of
the most distinguished literary characters belonged, and associated
freely with Lord Brougham, the Marquis of Landsdowne, Dr. Andrew Thomson
and others. He became the pastor of the Established church in Ruthwell,
Dumfriesshire, where he labored with great success for many years. He
died in the forty-seventh year of his ministry.

Dr. Duncan was imbued with a spirit of enlarged Christian benevolence,
and felt a peculiar interest in the amelioration of the condition of
the poorer classes. Hence he formed the scheme of the "Cheap Repository
Tracts," addressed to the working classes, and designed to enforce the
most useful lessons suited to their condition. It was in this collection
that his "Cottage Fireside" was first published, a production which
became exceedingly popular, and passed through many editions. The book
abounds in happy delineations of Scottish manners, fine strokes of
humor, and admirable lessons of practical wisdom. "The South Country
Weaver," possesses the same qualities and aims; and, in a time of
excessive political excitement, did much to allay the discontent and
revolutionary tendency of the people. He is also said to be the author
of another work of a higher grade, written in the same style of
fictitious narrative, and intended to vindicate the principles and
proceedings of the Scottish Covenanters, from the aspersions cast upon
them by the author of Waverley. This production has been highly esteemed
by good judges of literary merit, but it never became popular.

It may well be supposed that Dr. Duncan felt a peculiar interest, not
only in the spiritual but also in the temporal condition of his own
parish, and hence he was ever devising plans for its benefit. In this
respect he much resembled the benevolent Oberlin, whose well directed
schemes turned the barren parish of Waldbach into a little paradise.
Entering upon the duties of his charge at a time of national scarcity
and distress, he imported from Liverpool, at considerable expense, and
with great personal inconvenience, large quantities of food which he
distributed among his poor parishioners He also devised new modes and
sources of employment, and cheered them amid their privations by his
counsel and sympathy. He instituted among them two admirable "Friendly
Societies," one for males and another for females, the advantages of
which are enjoyed to this day. But perhaps his highest claim to
distinction as a philanthropist was the establishment of "The Ruthwell
Parish Bank," the first "Savings Bank" in Europe, which, it is said, was
suggested to him partly by the beneficial results and partly by the
admitted defects of the Friendly Societies. His undoubted title to be
regarded as the originator of "Savings Banks," has been acknowledged by
the highest authorities; but it is not so generally known at what an
immense expenditure of time, talent, energy and pecuniary means he
succeeded in accomplishing this good object.

Dr. Duncan's learning and talents were of a high order, and these were
devoted exclusively to the benefit of his fellow men. His principal
literary work, "The Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons," was planned and
written in a single year, an astonishing instance of mental energy,
industry and talent. "Never were the different kingdoms and varying
aspects of nature, the characteristics of the seasons, and all the grand
and beautiful phenomena of the year, more philosophically and more
eloquently described than in this charming book. The comprehensive views
of the philosopher, the poetic feeling of the lover of nature, and the
pious reflection of the Christian divine, are all combined in its pages,
and win at once the admiration and affection of the reader." Here genius
and piety, the love of nature and the love of God spread their sunlight
over the face of creation, and make visible to all reverent and
thoughtful minds

    "The Gospel of the stars--great Nature's Holy Writ."

As a preacher Dr. Duncan was interesting and instructive, but not
particularly striking and popular. In 1839 he was elected Moderator of
the General Assembly, the highest honor the church could confer. Warmly
attached to evangelical religion, and deeply interested in the purity
and progress of the church of Christ throughout the world, he earnestly
promoted the cause of Christian missions, and kindred schemes of
benevolence. He was intimately associated with Dr. Chalmers and others,
in sustaining the great principles of vital Christianity, the supremacy
of Christ in his own church, and particularly the freedom and
independence of his ministers. "True, therefore, to the principles he
had espoused, and ever warmly defended--true to what he considered the
genuine constitution of the Scottish church, this venerable and amiable
father left, in the ever memorable year 1843, that manse, which he had
inhabited for four and forty long and happy years, and which his own
fine taste had so greatly beautified and adorned--that hallowed home in
which his dutiful and attached children had been reared--in which his
first beloved wife had died, and which was associated with many
delightful recollections of joy and kindness, and prayer, indelibly
engraven on many hearts--for _there_ was many a young idea fostered, and
many a guest and many a stranger hospitably entertained. But with a
cloud of many eminent witnesses, whose names will be embalmed in the
records of their country, Dr. Duncan lifted up his testimony for the
glorious prerogative of Zion's King, and counted the reproach of Christ
greater riches than all the treasures of earth. And actuated by the same
spirit of faith as the martyrs and confessors of other days--the men of
whom the world was not worthy--he abandoned, at an advanced age, all the
comforts of his lovely and endeared home, and all the emoluments and
delights connected with it, and meekly took up his lowly dwelling in an
humble cottage by the way-side, willingly enduring hardship, and
submitting to ingratitude from man, that he might honor his God and hold
fast his integrity, dearer to him than life. He was one of seven
moderators of the old General Assembly, men like himself of high name
and holy deeds, who sacrificed all their honors and emoluments, and cast
in their lot with the Free Church of Scotland, that they might display a
banner for the truth, and who, when driven by a cruel and miserable
policy from those altars which they sanctified, went forth, a veteran
band of Christian heroes, and preached the Gospel of peace and salvation
under the broad canopy of heaven, with gray hairs streaming in the
breeze."

During the summer of 1843 Dr. Duncan preached in the open air, but
finally succeeded by great efforts, in securing a site, and erecting
upon it a church and a manse, a school and a schoolmaster's house. A
suitable successor was appointed to this charge, and Dr. Duncan removed
his residence to the city of Edinburgh. But his affections lingered
around his beloved Ruthwell, and he undertook a journey to England to
secure funds to pay off the debt upon the new buildings and bring them
to a state of completion. Having accomplished his object, he returned to
Scotland in excellent spirits, and reached Comlogan Castle, the
residence of his brother-in-law. On that and the succeeding day he
occupied himself in laying out the grounds about the manse and giving
directions respecting the buildings. On the following Sabbath he
preached to an overflowing audience. Monday and Tuesday were devoted to
visiting his old parishioners. He was invited to address a prayer
meeting at the house of an elder of the Established church, and it was
while engaged in the performance of that duty that the messenger of
Death met him. He had not spoken ten minutes, when his voice trembled,
his body shuddered, and it was evident to all that he was struck with a
sudden paralysis. He was immediately conveyed to Comlogan Castle. "On
his way, though his speech was much affected, his consciousness was
entire, and he repeatedly lifted up his hand, in devout admiration of
God's beautiful works, for the moon, surrounded by thousands of stars,
was shedding its calm and chastened lustre over the face of Nature, and
presented a meet emblem of the inward peace of the dying saint, whose
characteristic taste and love of Nature's beauties were still manifested
even in this trying hour."[180] After two days, in which he suffered
little pain, he gently "fell asleep in Jesus," on Thursday evening, 12th
of February, 1846.

[Footnote 180: "Dumfries Advertiser and Galloway Standard," from which
we quoted a preceding extract.]

    Behold the western evening light,
      It melts in deepening gloom;
    So calmly Christians sink away,
      Descending to the tomb.

    The winds breathe low; the yellow leaf
      Scarce whispers from the tree;
    So gently flows the parting breath,
      When good men cease to be.

    How beautiful on all the hills,
      The crimson light is shed!
    'Tis like the peace the Christian gives
      To mourners round his bed.

    How mildly on the wandering cloud
      The sunset beam is cast!
    So sweet the memory left behind,
      Where loved ones breathe their last

    And lo! above the dews of night
      The vesper star appears;
    So faith lights up the mourner's heart,
      Whose eyes are dim with tears.

    Night falls, but soon the morning light
      Its glories shall restore;
    And thus the eyes that sleep in death
      Shall wake to close no more.

    _Peabody._

Daylight is on the hills, and we are off once more down the Tweed, which
gathers volume by accessions from tributary streams, and mirrors in its
clear bosom many a happy home, nestling among the trees on its banks. We
pass Coldstream, on the north bank of the Tweed, from its proximity to
England a sort of Gretna Green in former times, where Lord Brougham was
married at one of the hotels; whence we journey to Tillmouth; at which
place the Till, a narrow, deep, sullen stream, flows into the Tweed.
Beneath Twisel Castle, which stands upon its banks, you see the ancient
bridge by which the English crossed the Till before the battle of
Flodden.

                  --"They cross'd
    The Till, by Twisel Bridge.
    High sight it is, and haughty, while
    They drew into the deep defile;
    Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,
    Beneath the castle's airy wall.
      By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,
    Troop after troop are disappearing;
    Troop after troop their banners rearing,
      Upon the eastern bank you see,
    Still pouring down the rocky den
      Where flows the sullen Till,
    And rising from the dim wood glen
    Standards on standards, men on men
      In slow succession still,
    And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,
    And passing on, in ceaseless march
      To gain the opposing hill."

    _Marmion._

Flodden Field, on which the "flowers of the forest," were cut down so
mercilessly, is not far from here, and the whole region seems invested
with an air of "dule and wae."

    "Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
      The English, for once by guile won the day;
    The Flowers of the Forest, that focht aye the foremost.
      The prime o' our land are cauld in the clay.

    "We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
      Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
    Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--
      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away."[181]

[Footnote 181: "The Flowers of the Forest," by Miss Jane Elliot, one of
the sweetest and most affecting ballads of Scotland. By the 'Flowers of
the Forest' are meant the young men of Ettrick Forest, slain at Flodden
Field.]

Pursuing our way, we come to Norham Castle, so magnificently described
in Marmion.

    "Day set on Norham's castle steep,
    And Tweed's fair river broad and deep,
      And Cheviot's mountains lone;
    The battled towers, the donjon keep,
    The loop-hole grates where captives weep,
    The flanking walls that round it sweep,
      In yellow lustre shone."

Nine miles further on, we arrive at "Berwick upon Tweed," where the
river falls into the German Ocean, and where our wanderings in Scotland
cease,--the scene of fierce struggles between the Scots and English.
North Berwick was sometimes in the hands of the one, sometimes in the
hands of the other. Its streets often ran blood; its walls echoed the
tramp of armies, the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying.
Its old ramparts are yet standing; but all is quiet and passionless
now. A sort of stillness pervades the place, in striking contrast with
the havoc and turmoil of the ancient Border wars. The environs are full
of historic recollections, which have been well illustrated in the
"Border Tales," by John Mackie Wilson, who was a native of Berwick, and
resided here till his death. This event took place, suddenly and
unexpectedly, on the 2d of September, 1835, when he was only thirty-one
years of age. His early days were spent, in peace and happiness, under
the parental roof. At school he was distinguished for his love of
knowledge, and the rapidity with which he executed all his tasks. At a
suitable age he was apprenticed to a printer, and found the employment
congenial, as it brought him into contact with books. Eagerly thirsting
for knowledge, he soon exhausted his scanty means of gratifying his
taste in Berwick on Tweed, and leaving the place of his nativity,
repaired to London, where he encountered the greatest difficulties and
hardships. It is said that some of the most touching descriptions of the
sufferings endured by the aspirant for fame were actually endured by
himself, and "that the sobs and tears which involuntarily burst from the
family circle when these tales were read, were poured forth for him
whose pen had described them." Often amid the splendor of London, did he
wander "homeless and friendless." But nothing could repress the native
ardor and buoyancy of his mind. And amid all the darkness of the night
which enveloped his pathway, he was ever looking for sunrise. Despair
and poverty, however, drove him from the British metropolis, and he was
forced to seek in the provinces what he could not find in London, nor
did he seek in vain. He reaped "a golden harvest of opinions;" but
poverty continued to be his companion for years. During a sojourn in the
city of Edinburgh, he published several dramas and other poems, which
had a share of success. He wrote a series of "Lectures and Biographical
Sketches," which he delivered with considerable eclat in different towns
of Scotland and England. Three years before his death "he rested from
his wanderings," in his native village, among his friends and early
associates, having been invited to become editor of "The Berwick
Advertiser," which he conducted with great spirit. Amid his labors as an
editor, he found time to indulge his taste for literature, and the
matter of his journal was often enlivened by his own literary and
poetical effusions. But it was "The Border Tales," which made him a
decided favorite with the public, and gave him a warm place in the
Scottish heart. They were published in a fugitive form, and commanded a
circulation far beyond the author's most sanguine hopes. It was from
these that he and his friends saw a prospect of reward for his toils.
But the scene which was thus opening upon him was blighted,--and from
the high place which he had gained in the estimation of his townsmen,
from the caresses of his friends, and from the reproaches of his foes,
he now lies "where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at
rest."

We do not admire Wilson's poetry as a whole; and yet some beautiful
strains might be culled from it. He wrote rapidly and diffusely;
throwing off everything at a first draft, without much correction or
polish. His "Border Tales" are quite miscellaneous in their character,
and contain much that he would doubtless have thrown out, had he lived
to place them in a permanent form. They are written diffusely and
carelessly. But with all their faults, they give indications of genius,
humor and pathos, a keen insight into character, great descriptive
powers, and a fine conception of the beautiful and true. Some of them
are told with great pith and raciness; and though inferior in some
respects, to Professor Wilson's "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life,"
are more natural and easy, more characteristic and amusing. Upon the
whole, they give a better idea of the Scottish character than the
Professor's splendid, but exaggerated pictures. James Mackay Wilson died
too young for his fame; but his simple tales will be read, for many a
day, in the homes of "bonny Scotland." Among other things, they give a
just representation of the religious character of the Scottish
peasantry. While their faults and foibles are depicted with graphic
power, their solemn faith, their profound enthusiasm, and their
leal-hearted piety are exhibited in beautiful relief. Justice is done to
the old Covenanters, whose rough patriotism and burning zeal were the
salvation of their native land. Long may their martyr spirit, softened
by charity, prevail in Scotland; and generations yet unborn shall "rise
up and call her blessed."

In this series of sketches, now brought to a close, it has been the
author's aim to make a contribution to literature, which, while it might
prove attractive, would yet exert a pure moral influence. Such an
excursion beyond the peculiar limits of his profession, he thinks, was
permitted him, and may tend in some slight degree to promote the great
object for which he desires to live. At all events, if he has
accomplished nothing more, he has yet succeeded in calling up "a gentle
vision" of "Auld Lang Syne," by which his own heart has been solaced and
cheered.

    "Lang Syne! how doth the word come back,
      With magic meaning to the heart,
    As memory roams the sunny track,
      From which hope's dreams were loath to part!
    No joy like by-past joy appears;
      For what is gone we fret and pine;
    Were life spun out a thousand years,
      It could not match Lang Syne!

    "Lang Syne!--ah, where are they who shared
      With us its pleasures bright and blithe?
    Kindly with some hath fortune fared;
      And some have bowed beneath the scythe
    Of death; while others scattered far
      O'er foreign lands, at fate repine,
    Oft wandering forth 'neath twilight's star,
      To muse on dear Lang Syne!

    "Lang Syne!--the heart can never be
      Again so full of guileless truth;
    Lang Syne!--the eyes no more shall see
      Ah, no! the rainbow hopes of youth.
    Lang Syne!--with thee resides a spell
      To raise the spirit, and refine.
    Farewell!--there can be no farewell
      To thee, loved, lost Lang Syne!"

    _Dr. Moir._



***