{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_38822/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_38822","id":"gutenberg_38822","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38822","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: History - British","Category: History - Other","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Scotland -- Description and travel"],"text":"E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)\n\n\n\nTHE GENIUS OF SCOTLAND;\n\nOr\n\nSketches of Scottish Scenery, Literature and Religion.\n\nby\n\nREV. ROBERT TURNBULL\n\nFOURTH EDITION.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNew York:\nRobert Carter, 58 Canal Street\n1848.\n\nEntered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847,\nby Robert Carter,\nIn the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States\nfor the Southern District of New York.\n\nStereotyped by Thomas B. Smith,\n216 William Street, New York\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nHaving been born and educated in Scotland, and possessing a tolerable\nacquaintance with its History and Literature, the Author of the\nfollowing Work felt that he had some facilities for giving to the people\nof this country a just idea of his native Land. The plan of his work is\nsomewhat new, combining in a larger degree, than he has hitherto seen\nattempted, descriptions of Scenery, with Literary and Biographical\nSketches, portraitures of character social and religious, incidents of\ntravel, and reflections on matters of local or general interest. Hence\nhe has omitted many things which a mere tourist would not fail to\nnotice, and supplied their place with sketches of more enduring\ninterest. He would particularly invite attention to the sketches of\nKnox, Burns, Wilson, Chalmers, Bruce, 'The Ettrick Shepherd,' and Sir\nWalter Scott. His rambles through fair or classic scenes are thus\nenlivened with useful information. In a word, it has been his endeavor,\nin an easy natural way, to give his readers an adequate conception of\nthe Scenery, Literature, and Religion of Scotland.\n\nHARTFORD, CONN.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                      PAGE\n\n Preface                                                                 1\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n Beauty an Element of the Mind--Our Native Land--Auld Lang Syne--General\n Description of Scotland--Extent of Population--Spirit of the People--The\n Highlands--The Lowlands--Burns's 'Genius of Scotland'--Natural and Moral\n Aspects of the Country--'The Cotter's Saturday Night'--Sources of\n Prosperity                                                             11\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n The city of Edinburgh--Views from Arthur's Seat--The Poems of\n Richard Gall--'Farewell to Ayrshire'--'Arthur's Seat, a\n Poem'--Extracts--Craigmillar Castle--The Forth, Roslin Castle\n and the Pentland Hills--Liberty                                        32\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n Walk to the Castle--The Old Wynds and their Occupants--Regalia of\n Scotland--Storming of the Castle--Views from its Summit--Heriot's\n Hospital--Other Hospitals--St. Giles's Cathedral--Changes--The\n Spirit of Protestantism                                                42\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n John Knox's House--History of the Reformer--His Character--Carlyle's\n View--Testimony of John Milton                                         53\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n Edinburgh University--Professor Wilson--His Life and Writings, Genius\n and Character                                                          62\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n The Calton Hill--Burns's Monument--Character and Writings of 'the\n Peasant Poet'--His Religious Views--Monument of Professor Dugald\n Stewart--Scottish Metaphysics--Thomas Carlyle                          77\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n Preaching in Edinburgh--The Free Church--Dr. Chalmers--A Specimen\n of his Preaching--The Secret of his Eloquence                          99\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n Biographical Sketch of Dr. Chalmers                                   113\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh--Rev. John Brown of Whiteburn--Professor\n John Brown of Haddington--Rev. Dr. Candlish--Specimen of his\n Preaching                                                             126\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n Ride into the Country--The Skylark--Poems on the Skylark by\n Shelley and the 'Ettrick Shepherd'--Newhall--'The Gentle\n Shepherd'--Localities and Outlines of the Story--Its Popularity\n in Scotland                                                           138\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n Biographical Sketch of Allan Ramsay--Lasswade--Ramble along the\n banks of the North Esk--Glenesk--A Character--Anecdote of Sir\n Walter Scott--Hawthornden--Drummond, the Poet--His Character\n and Genius--Sonnets--Chapel and Castle of Roslin--Barons of\n Roslin--Ballad of Rosabella--Hunting Match between Robert Bruce\n and Sir William St. Clair                                             157\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n Ramble through the Fields--Parish Schools--Recollections of Dominie\n Meuross--The South Esk--Borthwick and Crichtoun Castles--New Battle\n Abbey--Dalkeith--Residence of the Duke of Buccleugh--'Scotland's\n Skaith,' by Hector Macneil--His Character and Writings--Extracts\n from the 'History of Will and Jean'                                   183\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n City of Glasgow--Spirit of the Place--Trade and Manufactures--The\n Broomielaw--Steam--George's Square--Monuments to Sir Walter Scott,\n Sir John Moore, and James Watt--Sketch of the Life of Watt--Glasgow\n University--Reminiscences--Brougham--Sir D. K. Sandford--Professor\n Nichol and others--High Kirk, or Glasgow Cathedral--Martyrdom\n of Jerome Russel and John Kennedy                                     197\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n The Necropolis--Jewish Burial Place--Monument to John Knox--Monuments\n of William Macgavin and Dr. Dick--Reminiscences--Character and\n Writings of Dr. Dick--Pollok and 'the Course of Time'--Grave of\n Motherwell--Sketch of his Life--His Genius and Poetry--'Jeanie\n Morrison'--'My Heid is like to rend, Willie'--'A Summer Sabbath\n Noon'                                                                 209\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n Dumbarton Castle--Lochlomond--Luss--Ascent of Benlomond--Magnificent\n Views--Ride to Loch-Katrine--Rob Roy Macgregor--'Gathering of Clan\n Gregor'--Loch-Katrine and the Trosachs--The City of Perth--Martyrdom\n of Helen Stark and her husband                                        231\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n Sabbath Morning--'The Sabbath,' by James Grahame--Sketch of his\n Life--Extracts from his Poetry--The Cameronians--'Dream of the\n Martyrs,' by James Hislop--Sabbath Morning Walk--Country Church--The\n Old Preacher--The Interval of Worship--Conversation in the\n Church-yard--Going Home from Church--Sabbath Evening                  244\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n Lochleven--Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle--Michael\n Bruce--Sketch of his Life--Boyhood--College\n Life--Poetry--'Lochleven'--Sickness--'Ode to Spring'--Death--'Ode\n to the Cuckoo'                                                        260\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n Dunfermline--Ruins of the Abbey--Grave of Robert Bruce--Malcolm\n Canmore's Palace--William Henryson, the poet--William Dunbar--Stirling\n Castle--Views from its Summit--City of Stirling--George Buchanan\n and Dr. Arthur Johnston--Falkirk--Linlithgow--Story of the Capture\n of Linlithgow Castle--Spirit of War--Arrival in Edinburgh             284\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n Journey to Peebles--Characters--Conversation on Politics--Scottish\n Peasantry--Peebles--'Christ's Kirk on the Green'--A Legend--An old\n Church--The Banks of the Tweed--Its ancient Castles--The Alarm\n Fire--Excursion to the Vales of Ettrick and Yarrow--Stream of\n Yarrow--St. Mary's Lake and Dryhope Tower--'The Dowie Dens of\n Yarrow'--Growth of Poetry--Ballads and Poems on Yarrow by Hamilton,\n Logan and Wordsworth                                                  295\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n Hamlet and Church-yard of Ettrick--Monument to Thomas\n Boston--Birth-place of the Ettrick Shepherd--Altrieve\n Cottage--Biographical Sketch of the Ettrick Shepherd--The Town of\n Selkirk--Monument to Sir Walter Scott--Battle-field of Philiphangh    319\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n Return to the Banks of the Tweed--Abbotsford--The Study--Biographical\n Sketch of Sir Walter Scott--His Early Life--Residence in the\n Country--Spirit of Romance--Education--First Efforts as an\n Author--Success of 'Marmion'--Character of his Poetry--Literary\n Change--His Novels--Pecuniary Difficulties--Astonishing\n Efforts--Last Sickness--Death and Funeral                             334\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n Melrose Abbey--The Eildon Hills--Thomas the Rhymer--Dryburgh--Monuments\n to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir William Wallace--Kelso--Beautiful\n Scenery--A Pleasant Evening--Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet,\n Antiquary, Scholar and Traveller--The Duncan Family--Journey\n Resumed--Twisel Bridge--Battle of Flodden--Norham Castle--Berwick\n upon Tweed--Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The\n Border Tales'--Conclusion--'Auld Lang Syne'                           351\n\n\n\n\nGENIUS OF SCOTLAND.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n     Beauty an Element of the Mind--Our Native Land--Auld Lang\n     Syne--General Description of Scotland--Extent of Population--Spirit\n     of the People--The Highlands--The Lowlands--Burns's 'Genius of\n     Scotland'--Natural and Moral Aspects of the Country--'The Cotter's\n     Saturday Night'--Sources of Prosperity.\n\n\nThe theory has become prevalent among philosophers, and even among\nliterary men, that beauty is more an element of the mind than of\nexternal objects. Things, say they, are not what they seem. Their\naspects are ever varying with the minds which gaze upon them. They\nchange even under the eyes of the same individuals. A striking\nillustration of this may be found in the opening stanza of Wordsworth's\nOde to Immortality.\n\n    There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,\n    The earth and every common sight\n                      To me did seem\n                      Apparelled in celestial light,\n    The glory and the freshness of a dream.\n    It is not now as it hath been of yore;\n                      Turn wheresoe'er I may,\n                      By night or day,\n    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.\n\nIt is the mind then, which transfers its own ethereal colors to the\nforms of matter, and invests scenes and places with new and peculiar\nattractions. Like the light of the moon streaming through a leafy grove\nand transforming its darkness into its own radiant beauty, the spirit of\nman diffuses its own inspiration through the universe,\n\n                    \"Making all nature\n    Beauty to the eye and music to the ear.\"\n\nNow if this theory be true, it follows that no country will appear to us\nso beautiful as the one which happens to be endeared to our hearts by\nearly recollections and pleasant associations. No matter how rude and\nwild,--that spot of all others on earth, will appear to us the sweetest\nand most attractive! 'New England,' says a native of Massachusetts or of\nVermont, 'is the glory of all lands. No hills and vales are more\npicturesque than hers, no rivers more clear and beautiful.' 'Visit\nNaples, and die!' exclaims the Neapolitan, proud of his classic home.\n'Green Erin, my darling,' is the fond language of the Hibernian, 'first\ngem of the ocean, first flower of the sea.' 'Here's a health,' shouts\nthe native of Caledonia, 'bonny Scotland to thee!' Others may speak\ndisparagingly of the sour climate and barren soil of Scotland; but to a\nnative of that country, the land of his fathers is invested with all the\ncharms of poetry and romance. Every spot of its varied surface is\nhallowed ground. He sees its rugged rocks and desolate moors mantled\nwith the hoary memories of by-gone days, the thrilling associations of\nchildhood and youth. Therefore, with a meaning and emphasis, which all\nwho love their native land will appreciate, he appropriates the words of\nthe poet:--\n\n    Land of the forest and the rock,\n      Of dark blue lake and mighty river,\n    Of mountains reared aloft to mock,\n    The storm's career, the lightning's shock,\n      My own green land forever!\n    Land of the beautiful and brave!\n    The freeman's home, the martyr's grave!\n    The nursery of giant men,\n    Whose deeds have linked with every glen,\n    The magic of a warrior's name!\n\nDoes not Scotland, however inferior, in some respects it may be deemed\nto other lands, possess a peculiar charm to all cultivated minds?[1]\nWhat visions of ancient glory cluster around the time-honored name!\nWhat associations of 'wild native grandeur,'--of wizard beauty, and\nrough magnificence. What gleams of 'poetic sunlight,'--what\nrecollections of martial daring by flood and field,--what hallowed faith\nand burning zeal,--what martyr toils and martyr graves, monuments of\nfreedom's struggles and freedom's triumphs in moor or glen,--what\n'lights and shadows' of love and passion,--what ancient songs, echoing\namong the hills,--what blessed sabbath calm,--what lofty inspiration of\nthe Bible and covenant,--in a word, what dear and hallowed memories of\nthat 'Auld lang syne,' indigenous only to Scotland, though known\nthroughout the world! Should this be deemed enthusiastic, let it, and\nall else of a similar character which may be found in this volume, be\nascribed to a natural and not unpardonable feeling on the part of the\nwriter. The remembrance of 'Auld lang syne' can never be extinguished.\nExcept the hope of heaven, it is our best and holiest heritage.\n\n[Footnote 1: The following eloquent passage from an address by the\nHonorable Edward Everett, before the \"Scots' Charitable Society,\"\nBoston, well illustrates the fact referred to.\n\n\"Not to speak of the worthies of ages long passed; of the Knoxes, the\nBuchanans, and the early minstrelsy of the border; the land of your\nfathers, sir, since it ceased to be a separate kingdom, has, through the\nintellect of her gifted sons, acquired a supremacy over the minds of men\nmore extensive and more enduring, than that of Alexander or Augustus. It\nwould be impossible to enumerate them all,--the Blairs of the last\ngeneration, the Chalmerses of this; the Robertsons, and Humes; the\nSmiths, the Reids, the Stuarts, the Browns; the Homes, the Mackenzies;\nthe Mackintoshes, the Broughams, the Jeffreys, with their distinguished\ncompeers, both on physical and moral science. The Marys and the\nElizabeths, the Jameses and the Charleses will be forgotten, before\nthese names will perish from the memory of men. And when I add to them\nthose other illustrious names--Burns, Campbell, Byron, and Scott, may I\nnot truly say, sir, that the throne and the sceptre of England will\ncrumble into dust like those of Scotland: and Windsor Castle and\nWestminster Abbey will lie in ruins as poor and desolate as those of\nScone and Iona, before the lords of Scottish song shall cease to reign\nin the hearts of men.\n\nFor myself, sir, I confess that I love Scotland. I have reason to do so.\nI have trod the soil of the\n\n    Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,\n    Land of the mountain and the flood,\n\nI have looked up to the cloud-capt summit of Ben Lomond; have glided\namong the fairy islets of Loch Katrine; and from the battlements of\nStirling Castle, have beheld the links of Forth sparkling in the morning\nsun. I have done more, sir; I have tasted that generous hospitality of\nScotland, which her Majesty's Consul has so justly commemorated; I have\nheld converse with her most eminent sons; I have made my pilgrimage to\nMelrose Abbey, in company with that modern magician, who, mightier than\nthe magician of old that sleeps beneath the marble floor of its chancel,\nhas hung the garlands of immortal poesy upon its shattered arches, and\nmade its moss-clad ruins a shrine, to be visited by the votary of the\nmuse from the remotest corners of the earth, to the end of time. Yes,\nsir, musing as I did, in my youth, over the sepulchre of the wizard,\nonce pointed out by the bloody stain of the cross and the image of the\narchangel:--standing within that consecrated enclosure, under the\nfriendly guidance of him whose genius has made it holy ground; while\nevery nerve within me thrilled with excitement, my fancy kindled with\nthe inspiration of the spot. I seemed to behold, not the vision so\nmagnificently described by the minstrel,--the light, which, as the tomb\nwas opened,\n\n              broke forth so gloriously,\n    Streamed upward to the chancel roof,\n    And through the galleries far aloof:\n\nBut I could fancy that I beheld, with sensible perception, the brighter\nlight, which had broken forth from the master mind; which had streamed\nfrom his illumined page all-gloriously upward, above the pinnacles of\nworldly grandeur, till it mingled its equal beams, with that of the\nbrightest constellations, in the intellectual firmament of England.\"]\n\n    As 'Auld Lang Syne' brings Scotland one and all,\n      Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills and clear streams,\n    The Dee, the Don, Balgownies brig's black wall,\n      All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams\n    Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,\n      Like Banquo's offspring; floating past me seems\n    My childhood, in this childishness of mind;\n      I care not;--'tis a glimpse of 'Auld Lang Syne.'\n\n    BYRON.\n\nBeautiful is New England, resembling as she does, in many of her\nfeatures, 'Auld Scotia's hills and dales,' and moreover being much akin\nto her, in religious sentiment and the love of freedom; so that a native\nof either might well be forgiven for clinging with peculiar fondness to\nthe land of his birth, and, in certain moods of mind, prefering it to\nall the world beside. Though far away, and even loving the place of his\nestrangement, he cannot, if he would, altogether renounce those ties\nwhich bind him to his early home. A 'viewless chain,' which crosses\nocean and continent, conveys from the one to the other that subtle, yet\ngracious influence, which is quicker and stronger than the lightning's\ngleam. Let no one then be surprised if a Scotsman in New England, the\ncherished land of his adoption, should solace his mind with the\nrecollection of early days, and endeavor to set before others the\ncharacteristic beauties and excellences of his native country.\n\n    O Caledonia, stern and wild,\n    Meet nurse for a poetic child!\n    Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,\n    Land of the mountain and the flood,\n    Land of my sires! What mortal hand,\n    Can e'er untie the filial band\n    That knits me to thy rugged strand!\n\n\"Scotland,\" as one of her own sons has expressed it, \"is a wee bit\ncountry,\" but possessed of \"muckle pith and spirit.\" Its surface is\nrough and mountainous, with beautiful patches of rich arable land along\nthe courses of its streams, and extensive level meadows, called Carses,\nas the Carse of Falkirk, and the Carse of Gowrie. It is of unequal\nbreadth, being much indented with bays and creeks, and stretches some\ntwo hundred and eighty miles in length, reckoning from its most\nsoutherly point, the Mull of Galloway, to Dunnet's Head, its most\nnorthern extremity. This probably would be a little farther than from\n\"Maiden Kirk to Johnny Groat's,\" the \"from Dan to Beersheba\" of\nScotland. Clustering around its western and northern sides are the\nHebrides, the Shetland and the Orkney islands; wild and rocky isles,\nwith rude and primitive inhabitants, constituting the Ultima Thule of\nGreat Britain. In Scotland, a considerable portion of the land is\nuncultivated, consisting of heathy hills, mountains and moors; and the\nmost of that which is cultivated has been rendered productive by the\nhand of art and industry. Like Switzerland, it is comparatively a poor\ncountry, but has been made rich by the generative powers of mind. Her\nwealth consists in the brawny arms and vigorous intellects of her sons.\nThe climate is cold and variable, though milder in winter than that of\nNew England, and in summer cooler, and upon the whole, more agreeable,\nexcept when dense fogs and long-continued rains prevail.\n\nThe population is over two millions and a half, and is gradually\nincreasing, though the people, like those of New England, are greatly\ngiven to migration, and may be found in every part of the world. Its\ncommerce and manufactures are, for its size, very extensive. They have\nincreased, since 1814, from twenty-five to thirty per cent. Agriculture\nand the mechanic arts have been carried to a high degree of perfection.\nWhile the people are characteristically cautious and slow, \"looking\nbefore they leap,\" to quote one of their favorite proverbs, they are\nbold and enterprising, and thus leap long and successfully. Few nations\nhave accomplished so much in literature or trade, in science or the arts\nof industry. Their highest distinction, however, consists in their\nspirit of love and fealty, their leal-heartedness, their contempt of\nsham, their passionate love of freedom, their zeal for God and the\ntruth! Obstinate and wrong-headed at times, characteristically dogmatic,\nand perhaps a little intolerant, their very faults lean to virtue's\nside, and go to the support of goodness. Their punctiliousness and\npride, their dogged adherence to what they conceive to be right, and\ntheir vehement mode of defending it, constitute the rough and prickly\nbark which defends the precious tree. One thing is certain, they are\ntransparent as daylight, and honest as their own heathy hills.\n\nThey are preeminently a religious people, protestant to the backbone,\noccasionally rough and impetuous in the expression of their opinions,\nbut never formal, never indecorous. A profound enthusiasm, bordering on\nfanaticism, a passionate, though not boisterous or canting devotion, a\nfine sense of the grand and beautiful, intermingled with a keen\nconscientiousness, an ardent love of freedom, with a boundless trust in\nGod, form the great elements of their religious life. Their theology is\nchiefly Calvinistic, apparently philosophical and dogmatic, but rather\nless so than popular and practical. Of cathedrals, old and dim, of\nmasses, chants and processions, the pomp and circumstance of a\nmagnificent ritual, they have none.[2] But of old and glorious memories,\nsolemn temples among the woods and hills, hallowed grave-yards, blessed\nsacraments, and national enthusiasm, they have abundance. Their religion\nis a part of the soil. It is indigenous to the country. It grew up among\nthe mountains, was nursed by 'wizard streams,' and 'led forth' with the\nvoice of psalms, among 'the green pastures of the wilderness.' Somewhat\nforbidding at first, like the rough aspect of the country, it appears\nequally picturesque and beautiful, when really known and loved. It is\nthe religion not of form but of substance, of deep inward emotion, not\nof outward pretension and show. Neither is it a sickly sentimentalism\nwhich lives on poetic musings, and matures only in cloistered shades and\nmoonlight groves; but it is a healthy, robust principle which goes forth\nto do and to suffer the will of Heaven. Its head and heart are sound,\nand its works praise it in the gate. Beautiful as the visions of fancy,\nit is yet strong as the everlasting hills among which it was reared. In\na word, it is the religion of faith and love, the religion of the old\npuritans, of the martyrs and confessors of primitive times. Welling out\nforever from the unstained fountains of the Word of God, it has marked\nits course over the fair face of Scotland, with the greenest verdure,\nthe sweetest flowers.\n\n[Footnote 2: This is spoken, of course, of the great body of the\npeople.]\n\nScotland is naturally divided into Highlands and Lowlands. The former\nincludes, besides the various groups of islands on the north and\nnorth-west coast, the counties of Argyle, Inverness, Nairn, Ross,\nCromarty, Sutherland and Caithness, with portions of Dumbarton,\nStirling, Perth, Forfar, \"Aberdeen awa,\" Banff and Elgin, or the more\nnortherly regions of the country, protected and beautified by the mighty\nrange of the Grampians, commencing at the southern extremity of Loch\nEtive, and terminating at the mouth of the Dee on the eastern coast. The\nHighlands again are divided into two unequal portions by the beautiful\nchain of lochs, or lakes running through the Glenmore-Nan-Albin, or\nGreat Glen of Caledonia, forming some of the wildest and richest scenery\nin the world. To the north are the giant mountains of Macdui, Cairngorm,\nBen-Aven and Ben-More, while nearer the Lowlands, rise the lofty\nBen-Lomond, and the hoary Ben-Awe. Under their shadows gleam the storied\nlochs, the wild tarns and trosachs, whose picturesque and romantic\nbeauties have been immortalized by the pens of Burns, Scott, and Wilson.\n\nTo the south and east of the Grampian range, and running parallel to\nthem, you discover a chain of lower and more verdant hills, bearing the\nwell known and poetical names of the Sidlaw, Campsie and Ochil hills.\nThese are divided by the fertile valleys of the Tay and Forth. Between\nthem and the Grampians lies the low and charming valley of Strathmore.\nThe \"silver Tay,\" one of the finest rivers in Scotland, rises in\nBreadalbane, expands into lake Dochart, flows in an easterly direction\nthrough the vale of Glendochart, expands again into the long and\nbeautiful Loch Tay, which runs like a belt of silver among the hills,\nwhence issuing, it receives various accessions from other streams,\npasses on in a southerly direction to Dunkeld, famous for its ancient\nAbbey and lovely scenery, skirts the ancient and delightful city of\nPerth, below which it is joined by its great tributary the Earn, which\nflows, in serpentine windings, through the rich vale of Strath-Earn,\ntouches the populous and thriving town of Dundee, and gradually widens\ninto the Firth of Tay, whose clear waters mirror the white skiff or\nmagnificent steamer, and imperceptibly mingle with the waves of the\nNorthern Sea. Further north, the rapid Spey, springing from the 'braes\nof Badenoch' near Lochaber, passes tumultuously through a rough and\nmountainous country, lingering occasionally, as if to rest itself in\nsome deep glen, crosses the ancient province of Moray, famous for its\nfloods, so admirably described by Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, passes\nKinrara, \"whence, for a few miles, it is attended by a series of\nlandscapes, alike various, singular and magnificent,\" after which, it\nmoves, with a monotonous aspect, and a steady pace, to the sea. Portions\nof the country through which this river passes are exceedingly sterile\nand wild. Covered with the birch, the alder and the pine, varied by\nrugged rocks and desolate moors, it admirably corresponds to our\nnotions of Caledonia, in her ancient and primitive integrity.\n\nIn the more remote and northern regions of the Highlands, and in most of\nthe Scottish isles, the Gaelic, or Erse, a primitive and energetic\ntongue, somewhat akin to the Welsh or Irish, is spoken by a majority of\nthe inhabitants. In other parts of Scotland, the English, with a\nScottish idiom, is the prevalent speech. The literature of the Gaelic is\nexceedingly limited, confined chiefly to old ballads, songs and\ntraditionary stories. The poems of Ossian are doubtless the production\nof Macpherson, their professed translator, while they probably contain a\nfew translated fragments, and some traditionary facts and conceptions\nafloat among the Highlanders, ingeniously interwoven with the main\nfabric of the work.\n\nThe Highlanders are a simple-hearted, primitive race, mostly poor, and\nimperfectly educated. Those of them that are wealthy and well educated,\nare said to be remarkably acute, courteous, and agreeable.\n\nThe Lowlands of Scotland comprehend the south and southeastern portions\nof the country, and though not the grandest and most romantic, are by\nfar the best cultivated, and in some respects the most beautiful.\nIncluding the level ground on the eastern coast to the south of the\nMoray Firth, they stretch along the coast through portions of\nPerthshire, and the old kingdom of Fife, towards the regions bounded on\neither side, by the river and the Firth of Forth, and thence to\nKircudbright and the English border, including the principal cities,\nthe most fertile tracts of arable land, the rivers Forth, Clyde and\nTweed, and the range of the Cheviot hills, which extend from the north\nof England towards the north-west, join the Louther hills in the region\nof Ettrick and Yarrow, with their 'silver streams,' pass through the\nsouthern part of Ayrshire and terminate at Loch Ryan, in the Irish\nChannel. The Clyde is the most important commercial river in Scotland.\nTaking its origin among the mountains of the south, not far from the\nearly home of its beautiful and more classic sisters, the Tweed and the\nAnnan, it runs in many capricious windings, in a northwesterly\ndirection, leaps in foaming cascades first at Bonnington, and then at\nCora Linn, rushes on through the fine country of Lanarkshire, till,\njoined by many tributary streams, it passes through the large and\nflourishing city of Glasgow, bearing upon its bosom the vast commerce\nand population of the neighboring regions, flows around the walls of old\nDumbarton Castle, with its time-worn battlements and glorious memories,\nin sight, too, of the lofty Ben Lomond, and the beautiful lake which it\nprotects, touches the ancient city of Greenock, expands into the Firth\nof Clyde, and gradually loses itself amid the picturesque islands which\nadorn the western coast of Scotland.\n\nWere it possible, by placing ourselves upon some lofty elevation, to\ntake in at one glance, the whole of this varied landscape of lake,\nriver, and mountain; of tarn, trosach and moor, with verdant vales, and\nwoody slopes between, we should confess that it was one of as rare\nbeauty and wild magnificence as ever greeted the vision of man. And were\nour minds steeped in ancient and poetic lore, we should be prepared to\nappreciate the faithfulness and splendor of Burns's allegorical\ndescription of the \"Genius of Scotland.\"\n\n    \"Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs,\n    Were twisted gracefu' round her brows,\n    I took her for some Scottish Muse,\n              By that same token,\n    And come to stop those reckless vows\n              Would soon be broken.\n\n    A hair-brained sentimental trace,\n    Was strongly marked in her face;\n    A wildly witty-rustic grace,\n              Shone full upon her,\n    Her eye e'en turned on empty space,\n              Beamed keen with honor.\n\n    Her mantle large, of greenish hue,\n    My gazing wonder chiefly drew,\n    Deep _lights and shadows_ mingling threw\n              A lustre grand;\n    And seemed, to my astonished view\n              A _well known land_!\n\n    Here rivers in the sea were lost;\n    There mountains in the skies were tost;\n    Here tumbling billows marked the coast,\n              With surging foam;\n    There, distant shone, Art's lofty boast,\n              The lordly dome.\n\n    Here Doon poured down his far-fetched floods;\n    There well fed Irwine stately thuds:\n    Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods,\n              On to the shore;\n    And many a lesser torrent scuds\n              With seeming roar.\n\n    Low in a sandy valley spread,\n    An ancient _borough_ reared her head\n    Still as in Scottish story read,\n              She boasts a race,\n    To every nobler virtue bred,\n              And polished grace.\n\n    By stately tower or palace fair\n    Or ruins pendent in the air\n    Bold stems of heroes here and there,\n              I could discern;\n    Some seemed to muse, some seemed to dare\n              With feature stern.\"\n\nNow, imagine the whole of this country, studded at no remote intervals,\nwith churches and schools well supported, and well attended by young and\nold. Think of her ancient and able Universities, Edinburgh, Glasgow, St.\nAndrews, and Aberdeen, including in the last, Marischal College and\nKings College, with an average attendance of from 2500 to 3000 students,\nwith their learned and amiable professors, extensive libraries, and fine\ncollections in Natural History. Think of her innumerable high schools,\nprivate schools, public and private libraries, literary institutes and\nancient hospitals, some for the body and some for the mind, and connect\nthe whole with her heroic history, her poetical enthusiasm, her\nreligious faith, her fealty to God and man, and you will have some faint\nconception of the beauty and glory of Scotland.\n\nBut the impression would be deepened, could you behold the land,\nbeautified and ennobled by her sabbath calm, as once in seven days, she\nrests and worships before the Lord. Could you but hear the voice of her\nchurch-going bells, and go to the house of God, in company with her\nthoughtful but cheerful population; could you sit in some \"auld warld\"\nkirk, and hear some grey-haired holy man dispense, with deep and tender\ntones, the word of everlasting life; could you hear a whole congregation\nof devout worshippers make the hills ring again, with their simple\nmelody; above all, could you place yourself in some deep shady glen, by\nthe \"sweet burnie,\" as it \"wimples\" among the waving willows, or the\nyellow broom, or sit down on the green \"brae side,\" enamelled with\n\"gowans,\" on some sacramental occasion, when thousands are gathered to\nhear the preaching of the gospel, and with simple ritual, to commemorate\nthe dying love of the Redeemer! Could you see the devout and happy looks\nof the aged, and the sweet but reverent aspect of children and youth, as\nthe tones of some earnest preacher thrilled them with emotions of holy\ngratitude, in view of the \"loving kindness of the Lord,\" you would\ninstinctively feel that Scotland,--free, Protestant Scotland, was a\nhappy land, and would be prepared to exclaim with the sweet singer of\nIsrael: \"Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound, they shall\nwalk, O Lord, in the light of thy countenance.\"\n\n    \"How with religious awe impressed\n    They open lay the guileless breast;\n    And youth and age with fears distressed\n                  All due prepare,\n    The symbols of eternal rest\n                  Devout to share.\n\n    How down ilk lang withdrawing hill,\n    Successive crowds the valleys fill;\n    While pure religious converse still\n                  Beguiles the way,\n    And gives a cast to youthful will,\n                  To suit the day.\n\n    How placed along the sacred board,\n    Their hoary pastor's looks adored,--\n    His voice with peace and blessing stored,\n                  Sent from above,\n    And faith and hope, and joy afford\n                  And boundless love.\n\n    O'er this with warm seraphic glow,\n    Celestial beings pleased bow;\n    And whispered hear the holy vow,\n                  'Mid grateful tears;\n    And mark amid such scenes below\n                  Their future peers.\"[3]\n\n[Footnote 3: Letter to Robert Burns, by Mr. Telford, of Shrewsbury, a\nnative of Scotland.]\n\nOr you might leave this scene, and study the Scottish character with\nsome shepherd boy on the hills, as he reads God's word upon the\ngreensward, and meditates on things divine, while tending his flocks far\nfrom the house of God, on the sabbath day, a circumstance to which\nGrahame in his poem of the Sabbath, has touchingly referred, and which\nTelford has thus described:\n\n    \"Say how, by early lessons taught,\n    Truth's pleasing air is willing caught!\n    Congenial to the untainted thought,\n                  The shepherd boy,\n    Who tends his flocks on lonely height,\n                  Feels holy joy.\n\n    Is aught on earth so lovely known,\n    On sabbath morn, and far alone.\n    His guileless soul all naked shown\n                  Before his God--\n    Such prayers must welcome reach the throne\n                  And bless'd abode.\n\n    O tell! with what a heartfelt joy\n    The parent eyes the virtuous boy;\n    And all his constant kind employ,\n                  Is how to give\n    The best of _lear_ he can enjoy,\n                  As means to live.\"\n\nThe scenes of \"the Cotter's Saturday Night,\" one of the sweetest poems\nin any language, are exact transcripts from real life, as Burns himself\nintimates. His father was \"a godly man,\" and was wont, morning and\nevening, to \"turn o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, the big ha' Bible,\" and\nworship God, with his family. Where in Italy or in Austria will you meet\naught so beautiful or thrilling as the following?\n\n      \"The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,\n        They round the ingle form a circle wide,\n      The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace\n        The big _ha' Bible_ ance his father's pride:\n      His bonnet reverently is laid aside,\n        His lyart haffets[4] wearing thin and bare:\n      Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide\n        He wales a portion with judicious care;\n    And 'Let us worship God!' he says with solemn air.\n\n      They chant their artless notes in simple guise,\n        They tune their hearts, by far their noblest aim;\n      Perhaps _Dundee's_ wild warbling measures rise,\n        Or plaintive _Martyrs_ worthy of the name,\n      Or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame,\n        The sweetest far of _Scotia's_ holy lays.\n      Compared with these Italian trills are tame;\n        The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise,\n    Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.\n\n      The priest-like father reads the sacred page,\n        How Abram was the friend of God on high,\n      Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage\n        With Amalek's ungracious progeny;\n      Or how the royal bard did groaning lie\n        Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;\n      Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;\n        Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;\n    Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.\n\n      Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:\n        How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed,\n      How He who bore in Heaven the second name,\n        Had 'not on earth whereon to lay his head;'\n      How his first followers and servants sped;\n        The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:\n      How he who lone in Patmos banished,\n        Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;\n    And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.\n\n      Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King,\n        The saint, the father, and the husband prays,\n      Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing,\n        That thus they all shall meet in future days:\n      There ever bask in uncreated rays,\n        No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,\n      Together hymning their Creator's praise,\n        In such society, yet still more dear;\n    While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.\n\n      Compared with this how poor religion's pride,\n        In all the pomp of method and of art,\n      When men display to congregations wide,\n        Devotion's every grace except the heart;\n      The Power incensed the pageant will desert,\n        The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;\n      But haply in some cottage far apart,\n        May hear well pleased the language of the soul,\n    And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll.\"\n\n[Footnote 4: Withered cheeks.]\n\nThese are the elements of a people's greatness. These are the perennial\nsources of their ruth and loyalty, their freedom and virtue. These guard\nthe domestic graces, these bind the commonwealth in holy and enduring\nbands. Better than splendid mausoleums and gorgeous temples, better than\ncostly altars and a pompous ritual, better than organ blasts and rolling\nincense, better by far than mass and breviary, confessional and priestly\nabsolution! For while the most imposing forms of Religion are often\nheartless and dead, these sacred rites of a Christianity pure and\npractical, ever possess a vital power,--a power to quicken and save.\n\n      \"From scenes like these auld Scotia's grandeur springs,\n        That makes her loved at home, revered abroad;\n      Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,\n        'An honest man's the noblest work of God.'\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n      O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!\n        For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent,\n      Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,\n        Be blest with health and peace and sweet content!\n      And oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent\n        From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!\n      Then howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,\n        A virtuous populace may rise the while,\n    And stand a wall of fire around their much loved Isle.\"\n\nBut we have dwelt long enough on general topics. If the reader will\naccompany us, we will ramble together in some particular scenes,\nmeditating, as we go, on things new and old, and chatting, in lively or\nin sombre mood, as the humor may seize us. First of all then, let us\nvisit \"Auld Reekie,\" as the inhabitants often call it, or more\nclassically, \"the modern Athens,\" the beautiful and far famed metropolis\nof Scotland.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n     The city of Edinburgh--Views from Arthur's Seat--The Poems of\n     Richard Gall--\"Farewell to Ayrshire\"--\"Arthur's Seat, a\n     Poem\"--Extracts--Craigmillar Castle--The Forth, Roslin Castle and\n     the Pentland Hills--Liberty.\n\n\nWe will enter the city on the west side, as if we were coming from\nGlasgow, pass through Prince's Street, with its elegant buildings and\nfine promenades, skirting that enclosure of walks and shrubbery, just\nunder the frowning battlements of the Castle, and adorned with the\nsuperb statue of Sir Walter Scott, rising rapidly to its completion;\nthen turn the corner at right-angles, cross the North Bridge, enter High\nStreet, and thence plunge down the hill into the old Canongate; and\nwithout waiting to look at \"the Heart of Midlothian,\" or even the\nbeautiful ruins of Holyrood House, at the foot of the hill, let us turn\nto the right, and climb the rocky sides of \"Arthur's Seat\" with its\nsummit of verdure overlooking the city and the neighboring country. For\nthere the whole panorama of the city will spread itself before us,\nsurrounded with magnificent scenery, stretching far and wide from the\nPentland Hills on the one side to the Firth of Forth on the other, from\nStirling Castle on the west to the German Ocean on the east. Here we are\nthen, on the very highest point of the mountain, with the warm sunshine\naround us, tempered as it is by the fresh \"westlin wind,\" at once so\nsweet and bland. Aye, aye! this is beautiful! What a landscape! How\nvaried and yet how harmonious! Not only beautiful exceedingly, but\nineffably grand and striking! Beneath us is the fine old city--new and\nold at the same time, lying nearly square, with its lofty buildings and\nelegant monuments, handsome parks and green shrubberies. To the left is\nthe older part of the city, rising gradually from the palace of Holyrood\nat our feet, and crowned by the Castle, which is built upon a granite\nrock, whose rough sides, terminating abruptly to the north and west,\nhang over Prince's Street and the lower part of the city.\n\n    \"There watching high the least alarms,\n      Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;\n    Like some bold veteran gray in arms\n      And pierced with many a seamy scar:\n    The ponderous wall and massy bar,\n      Grim rising o'er the rugged rock;\n    Have oft withstood assailing war,\n      And oft repelled the invader's shock.\"--Burns.\n\nBefore us and stretching away towards the Forth and the city of Leith is\n\"the new town,\" surmounted on this side by the Calton Hill, on which\nstand the monuments of Dugald Stewart and Admiral Nelson, the unfinished\nParthenon, and the monument of Robert Burns,--beautiful and imposing\nobjects, reminding us of the Acropolis of Athens, and affording fine\nrelief to the long ranges of smooth and polished buildings beyond.\nBehind us are the Pentland Hills with their verdant slopes and historic\nrecollections. To the right lie the city and bay of Leith, \"the Piraeus\"\nof Edinburgh, the long winding shore in the direction of Portobello, and\n\"the dark blue deep\" of the ocean, studded with white sails, glistening\nin the summer radiance. To the north, at a distance of a few miles, you\nsee the majestic Firth of Forth, and beyond, \"in cultur'd beauty,\" the\n\"Kingdom of Fife,\" with the distant range of the Ochil and Campsie\nhills. From this point also you can see, at a distance of some three\nmiles, the gray ruins of Craigmillar Castle, famous in the annals of\nScotland, as the residence of Queen Mary, and the scene of those secret\nmachinations, which ended in the tragedy of Holyrood; Inch Keith with\nits lofty lighthouse; the isle of May, once consecrated to St. Adrian,\nand on which stands another \"star of hope\" to the mariner; and old\nInchcolm, famous for its ancient convent founded by St. Colomba, one of\nthe patron saints of Scotland. How gloriously, light and shade, land and\nocean, park and woodland, old castles and hoary ruins, frowning rocks\nand smiling meadows mingle and blend in this rare and magnificent\nlandscape.\n\n    \"Traced like a map the landscape lies\n      In cultur'd beauty stretching wide;\n    There Pentland's green acclivities,\n      There ocean, with its azure tide;\n    There Arthur's Seat, and gleaming through\n    Thy southern wing Dun Edin blue!\n    While in the orient, Lammer's daughters,\n      A distant giant range are seen,\n      North Berwick Law, with cone of green,\n    And Bass amid the waters.\"    Delta.[5]\n\n[Footnote 5: Supposed to be Dr. Moir.]\n\nHere you can easily understand the reason why Edinburgh has been thought\nto resemble the city of Athens. Mr. Stuart, author of the \"Antiquities\nof Athens,\" was the first to call attention to this fact, and his\nopinion has often been confirmed since. Dr. Clarke remarks that the\nneighborhood of Athens is just the Highlands of Scotland, enriched with\nthe splendid remains of art. Another acute observer states that the\ndistant view of Athens from the Aegean Sea is extremely like that of\nEdinburgh from the Firth of Forth, \"though,\" he adds, \"certainly the\nlatter is considerably superior.\" \"The resemblance,\" says J. G. Kohl,\nthe celebrated German traveller, \"is indeed very striking. Athens, like\nEdinburgh, was a city of hills and valleys, and its Ilissus was probably\nnot much larger than the Water of Leith. Athens, like Edinburgh, was an\ninland town, and had its harbor, Piraeus, on the sea-coast. The mountains\nnear Edinburgh very much resemble those near Athens. I have little\ndoubt, however, that Athens is more honored by being compared to\nEdinburgh, than Edinburgh to Athens; for it is probable that the scenery\nand position of the Northern are more grand and striking in their\nbeauty, than those of the Southern Athens.\"\n\nBy the way there is a beautiful poem in the Scottish dialect, entitled\n\"Arthur's Seat,\" written by Richard Gall, a young man of great promise,\nthe friend and correspondent of Burns. He struggled with poverty, and\nlike Fergusson and Michael Bruce, was cut off prematurely, but not\nbefore he had written some exquisite poems, in the style of Burns, whom\nhe greatly admired. He was contemporary with the unfortunate but gifted\nTannahill of Paisley, and possessed a kindred taste in song writing.[6]\nHis \"Farewell to Ayrshire,\" commencing--\n\n    \"Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,\n      Scenes that former thoughts renew;\n    Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,\n      Now a sad and last adieu!\n    Bonnie Doon sae sweet at gloaming,\n      Fare thee weel before I gang--\n    Bonnie Doon where early roaming,\n      First I weaved the rustic sang\"--\n\nhas been often printed, on account of its locality and associations, as\nthe composition of Burns. He is doubtless greatly inferior to Burns, and\nnot quite equal to Bruce or even Tannahill, but his verses possess great\nsweetness, and contain some graphic and beautiful descriptions. This is\nthe case especially, with \"Arthur's Seat,\" his longest and most\nelaborate poem. As its sketches of scenery in and around Edinburgh, are\nat once accurate and pleasing, and as it is entirely unknown in America,\nwe will take the liberty of quoting some of its finest passages.\n\n[Footnote 6: Tannahill was a weaver in Paisley. He excelled in song\nwriting. Under the pressure of poverty and deep depression of spirits he\ncommitted suicide.]\n\nGazing from Arthur's Seat, the poet invokes the genius of Burns--\n\n    \"To sing ilk bonny bushy bower,\n    Adorned with many a wild-born flower;\n    Ilk burnie singing through the vale,\n    Where blooming hawthorns scent the gale;\n    And ilka sweet that nature yields,\n    In meadow wild or cultur'd fields;\n    The cultur'd fields where towering strang\n    The sturdy aik his shadows flang;\n    Where lonely Druids wont to rove,\n    The mystic tenants of the grove.\"\n\nHe aptly and strikingly interweaves historical and poetical allusions.\nThe following contains a fine contrast, and a striking description of\nthe ruins of Craigmillar Castle, in the vicinity of Edinburgh.\n\n    \"Yes, ARTHUR, round thy velvet chair,\n    Ilk chequered picture blushes fair,\n    And mixed with nature's landscape green,\n    The varied works o' art are seen.\n    Here starts the splendid dome to view,\n    Mang sylvan haunts o' vernal hue;\n    There some auld lanely pile appears,\n    The mouldering wreck o' former years,\n    Whose tottering wa' nae mair can stand\n    Before fell Time's resistless hand;\n    Sic as Craigmillar's Castle gray,\n    That now fa's crumbling to decay,\n    A prey to ilka blast that blaws\n    An' whistles through its royal ha's--\n    Where mirth ance burst with joyfu' sound\n    And melting music rang around,\n    Ah! there dull gloomy silence reigns,\n    The mossy grass creeps o'er the stanes,\n    And howlets loud at e'enin's fa',\n    Rejoice upon the ruined wa'.\"\n\nCraigmillar Castle naturally suggests the name of the beautiful and\nunfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who once resided within its lordly but\nnow forsaken halls. The poet therefore breaks out into the following\nanimated and pathetic strains, which, it has been said, will bear a\ncomparison with Mr. Burke's celebrated rhapsody on the unfortunate Queen\nof France.\n\n    \"There was a time when woman's charms\n    Could fire the warlike world of arms,\n    And breed sic wae to auld and young,\n    As Helen wept and Homer sung,\n    But Mary o' ilk stay bereft,\n    Misfortune's luckless child was left;\n    Nae guileless friend to stem her grief,\n    The bursting sigh her whole relief.--\n    O ye whose brave forefathers bled,\n    And oft the rage of battle led,\n    Wha rushing o'er the crimson field,\n    At Bannockburn made Edward yield;\n    Ye wha still led by glory's flame,\n    Make terror mix wi' Scotia's name--\n    Where slept your dauntless valor keen\n    When danger met your injured Queen?\"\n\nHis descriptions of the Forth and the neighboring regions, of the\nPentland hills, and the scenery of the Esk, are strikingly beautiful.\n\n    \"What varied scenes, what prospects dear\n    In chequer'd landscape still appear!\n    What rural sweets profusely thrang\n    The flowery Links of Forth alang,\n    O'er whose proud shivering surface blue\n    Fife's woods and spires begirt the view;\n    Where Ceres gilds the fertile plain\n    An' richly waves the yellow grain,\n    An' Lomond hill wi' misty showers,\n    Aft weets auld Falkland's royal towers,\n    Nor distant far, upon the ear\n    The popling Leven wimples clear,\n    Whose ruined pile and glassy lake\n    Shall live in sang for Mary's sake.[7]\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Return fond muse frae haunts sae fair,\n    To Lothian's shore return ance mair,\n    And let thy lyre be sweetly strung,\n    For peerless Esk remains unsung.\n    Romantic stream, what sweets combine\n    To deck ilk bank and bower o' thine!\n    For now the sun, wi' cheerfu' rays\n    Glows soft o'er a' thy woody braes,\n    Where mony a native wild flower's seen,\n    Mang birks and briars, and ivy green,\n    An' a' the woodland chorists sing\n    Or gleesome flit on wanton wing,\n    Save where the lintie mournfully\n    Sabs sair 'aneath the rowan tree,\n    To see her nest and young ones a'\n    By thoughtless reaver borne awa.'\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    What saftening thoughts resistless start,\n    And pour their influence o'er the heart;\n    What mingling scenes around appear\n    To musing meditation dear,\n    When wae we tent fair grandeur fa'\n    By Roslin's ruined Castle wa'![8]\n    O what is pomp? and what is power?\n    The silly phantoms of an hour!\n    Sae loudly ance from Roslin's brow[9]\n    The martial trump of grandeur blew,\n    While steel-clad vassals wont to wait\n    Their chieftain at the portalled gate;\n    And maidens fair, in vestments gay,\n    Bestrewed wi' flowers the warrior's way.\n    But now, ah me! how changed the scene!\n    Nae trophied ha', nae towers remain;\n    Nae torches bleeze wi' gladsome light,\n    A guiding star in dead o' night;\n    Nae voice is heard, save tinkling rill,\n    That echoes from the distant hill.\"\n\n[Footnote 7: The reference here is to the residence, or rather\nimprisonment of Mary in Lochleven Castle.]\n\n[Footnote 8: Roslin Castle, on the banks of the Esk, about seven miles\nfrom Edinburgh.]\n\n[Footnote 9: _Brow_, in Scotland, is often pronounced as if spelt\n_brue_.]\n\nHow exquisite, and how entirely and peculiarly Scottish is the\nfollowing:\n\n    \"Now tent the Pentlands westlin's seen,\n    O'erspread wi' flowery pastures green;\n    Where, stretching wide, the fleecy ewes[10]\n    Run bleating round the sunny knowes,\n    And mony a little silver rill\n    Steals gurgling down its mossy hill;\n    And vernal green is ilka tree\n    On bonny braes o' Woodhouselee.\"\n\n[Footnote 10: _Ewes_, pronounced as if it were _yowes_.]\n\nThe genius of Scotland is one of freedom, of independent thought, and\nunfettered action in matters civil and religious. This produced the\nReformation; this generated the recent secession from the 'Kirk;' this\ncharacterizes the literature of the nation. We cannot, therefore,\nrefrain from making one more quotation, which breathes the lofty spirit\nof freedom:\n\n    \"Alas! sic objects to behold,\n    Brings back the glorious days of old,\n    When Scotia's daring gallant train,\n    That ever spurned a tyrant's chain,\n    For dearest independence bled,\n    And nobly filled their gory bed--\n    So o'er yon mountains stretching lang,\n    Their shields the sons of Freedom rang,\n    When Rome's ambition wild, burst forth,\n    An' roused the warriors of the north,\n    When CALGACH urged his dauntless train,\n    And freedom rush'd through ilka vein,\n    And close they met the haughty foe,\n    And laid fu' mony a tyrant low;\n    As fierce they fought, like freemen a',\n    Oh! glorious fought--yet fought to fa'!\n    They fell, and thou sweet LIBERTY,\n    Frae Grampia's blood-stained heights did flee,\n    And fixed thy seat remote, serene,\n    Mang Caledonia's mountains green.\n    Fair Maid! O may thy saftest smile\n    For ever cheer my native isle!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n     Walk to the Castle--The old Wynds and their Occupants--Regalia of\n     Scotland--Storming of the Castle--Views from its Summit--Heriot's\n     Hospital--Other Hospitals--St. Giles's Cathedral--Changes--The\n     Spirit of Protestantism.\n\n\nLet us now descend into the city. We will not linger long in old\nHolyrood Palace, interesting as it is, nor dwell upon \"the stains\" of\nRizzio's blood in Queen Mary's room, as these have been described a\nthousand times, and are familiar to every one. Neither will we spend\ntime in gazing upon the spot where once stood that quaint old gaol,\ncalled \"The Heart of Midlothian,\" made classic by the pen of Scott, in\nthe beautiful story of Jeanie Deans. Neither will we visit the old\n\"Parliament House\" and the \"Advocates' Library;\" but we will pass right\nup through High Street, amid those colossal buildings, rising, on either\nside, to the height of six, seven, and even eight and ten stories,\nswarming with inhabitants; and dive into one or two of those close, dark\nwynds, where reside, in countless multitudes, the poorest and most\nvicious of the people. Here, it must be confessed, are some strange\nsights and appalling noises. Yet it is not quite so bad as some have\nrepresented it. All large cities have their poor and vicious\ninhabitants, and although those of the Scottish metropolis are\ntolerably dirty and vastly degraded, they bear no comparison to the\nlazzaroni of Naples and the beggars of Rome. Some of the streets and\nwynds are narrow enough and vile enough, but they contain, after all,\nmany worthy people, who own a Bible, and read it too; and were you only\nto become thoroughly acquainted with them, you would be surprised to\nfind how much of honesty and kindly affection still dwell in their\nhearts. In ancient times the houses in these very \"closes\" or \"wynds\"\nwere inhabited by the nobility and gentry. Hence Grey's Close,\nMorrison's Close, Stewart's Close, &c. They built their houses in these\nnarrow streets in order to be more secure from the attacks of their\nenemies, and to be the better able to defend the principal thoroughfares\ninto which they opened. In Blythe's Close may be seen the remains of the\npalace of the Queen Regent, Mary of Guise. In another stand the old\nhouses of the Earls of Gosford and Moray. One of the largest old palaces\nis now inhabited by beggars and rats.\n\nIt would be a great improvement if these miserable dwellings could be\nremoved, and replaced by better streets and houses; a still greater one,\nif the people could only be induced to abandon the use of whiskey, for\nthen they would abandon their hovels as a matter of course. Their\nbesetting sin is the love of strong drink, though this has been\ngradually diminishing for the last few years throughout Scotland. It is\nto be hoped that the pious and moral portion of the community will unite\nin a strong effort to reclaim this degraded class of their\nfellow-townsmen, and that the time will speedily come when the only\nreproach which rests upon their fair fame shall be wholly obliterated.\n\nBut let us leave this region, the only unpleasant one in the whole of\nthis magnificent city, and ascend to the old Castle, where we shall see\nthe Regalia of Scotland, preserved in a little room at the top of the\nCastle. These regalia consist of the crown of Robert Bruce the hero of\nBannockburn, the sceptre of James the Fifth, a sword presented by Pope\nJulius the Second to James the Sixth, and other articles of inferior\nnote. It is somewhat singular that the Regalia should have lain\nconcealed from 1745 to the year 1818. At the time of the Union in 1707\nbetween England and Scotland, they were walled up by some Scottish\npatriots, in order to prevent their being removed to London.\n\nWhat recollections of the stormy but glorious history of Scotland\ncluster around the mind, while gazing at that antique-looking crown\nwhich adorned the head of the Bruces and the ill-fated Mary. The freedom\nand prosperity now enjoyed by the nation had a gloomy and tempestuous\nbirth. Their very religion, placid and beautiful now, was cradled amid\nthe war of elements and the shock of battle. But, thanks to God, it is\nall the purer and stronger for its rough and tempestuous youth.\n\nDraw near to the edge of that battlement, and look down over the\nfrowning rock. Would it be possible, think you, to storm the Castle from\nthat side? One would suppose it beyond the power of man. It has been\ndone, however, and the circumstance illustrates the spirit of hardihood\nand enterprise which has ever distinguished the people of Scotland. In\nthe year 1313, when the Castle was in the possession of the English,\nRandolph, Earl of Moray, was one day surveying the gigantic rock, when\nhe was accosted by one of his men at arms with the question, \"Do you\nthink it impracticable, my lord?\" Randolph turned his eyes upon the\nspeaker, a man a little past the prime of life, but of a firm well-knit\nfigure, and bearing in his keen eye and open forehead marks of\nintrepidity which had already gained him distinction in the Scottish\narmy. \"Do you mean the rock, Francis?\" said the Earl; \"perhaps not, if\nwe could borrow the wings of our gallant hawks.\"[11]\n\n[Footnote 11: We give the version of Leitch Ritchie, who has thrown the\nfacts into the form of a dialogue, and given a false name to the hero;\notherwise the narration is entirely authentic.]\n\n\"There are wings,\" replied Francis, with a thoughtful smile, \"as strong,\nas buoyant, and as daring. My father was keeper of yonder fortress.\"\n\n\"What of that? You speak in riddles.\"\n\n\"I was then young, reckless, high-hearted: I was screwed up in that\nconvent-like castle; my sweetheart was in the plain below\"--\n\n\"Well, what then?\"\n\n\"'Sdeath, my lord, can you not imagine that I speak of the wings of\nlove? Every night I descended that steep at the witching hour, and every\nmorning before the dawn I crept back to my barracks. I constructed a\nlight twelve-foot ladder, by means of which I was able to pass the\nplaces that are perpendicular; and so well, at length, did I become\nacquainted with the route, that in the darkest and stormiest night, I\nfound my way as easily as when the moonlight enabled me to see my love\nin the distance waiting for me at the cottage door.\"\n\n\"You are a daring, desperate, noble fellow, Francis! However, your\nmotive is now gone; your mistress\"--\n\n\"She is dead; say no more; but another has taken her place.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, it's the soldier's way. Women will die or even grow old; and\nwhat are we to do? Come, who is your mistress now?\"\n\n\"MY COUNTRY! What I have done for love, I can do again for honor; and\nwhat I can accomplish, you, noble Randolph, and many of our comrades can\ndo far better. Give me thirty picked men, and a twelve-foot ladder, and\nthe fortress is our own!\"\n\n\"The Earl of Moray, whatever his real thoughts of the enterprise might\nhave been, was not the man to refuse such a challenge. A ladder was\nprovided, and thirty men chosen from the troops; and in the middle of a\ndark night, the party, commanded by Randolph himself, and guided by\nWilliam Francis, set forth on their desperate enterprise.\n\n\"By catching at crag after crag, and digging their fingers into the\ninterstices of the rocks, they succeeded in mounting a considerable way;\nbut the weather was now so thick, they could receive but little\nassistance from their eyes; and thus they continued to climb, almost in\nutter darkness, like men struggling up a precipice in the night-mare.\nThey at length reached a shelving table of the cliff, above which the\nascent, for ten or twelve feet, was perpendicular; and having fixed\ntheir ladder, the whole party lay down to recover breath.\n\n\"From this place they could hear the tread and voices of the 'check\nwatches,' or patrol, above; and, surrounded by the perils of such a\nmoment, it is not wonderful that some illusions may have mingled with\ntheir thoughts. They even imagined that they were seen from the\nbattlements, although, being themselves unable to see the warders, this\nwas highly improbable. It became evident, notwithstanding, from the\nwords they caught here and there in the pauses of the night-wind, that\nthe conversation of the English soldiers above related to a surprise of\nthe Castle; and at length these appalling words broke like thunder on\ntheir ears: 'Stand! I see you well!' A fragment of the rock was hurled\ndown at the same instant; and as rushing from crag to crag it bounded\nover their heads, Randolph and his brave followers, in this wild,\nhelpless, and extraordinary situation, felt the damp of mortal terror\ngathering upon their brow, as they clung with a death-grip to the\nprecipice.\n\n\"The startled echoes of the rock were at length silent, and so were the\nvoices above. The adventurers paused, listening breathless; no sound was\nheard but the sighing of the wind, and the measured tread of the\nsentinel who had resumed his walk. The men thought they were in a\ndream, and no wonder; for the incident just mentioned, which is related\nby Barbour, was one of the most singular coincidences that ever\noccurred. The shout of the sentinel and the missile he had thrown, were\nmerely a boyish freak; and while listening to the echoes of the rock, he\nhad not the smallest idea that the sounds which gave pleasure to him\ncarried terror and almost despair into the hearts of the enemy.\n\n\"The adventurers, half uncertain whether they were not the victims of\nsome illusion, determined that it was as safe to go on as to turn back;\nand pursuing their laborious and dangerous path, they at length reached\nthe bottom of the wall. This last barrier they scaled by means of their\nladder; and leaping down among the astonished check-watches, they cried\ntheir war-cry, and in the midst of answering shouts of 'treason!\ntreason!' notwithstanding the desperate resistance of the garrison,\ncaptured the Castle of Edinburgh.\"\n\nSit down here on the edge of this parapet. That huge cannon there is\ncalled Mons Meg, from being cast at _Mons_, in Flanders, and reminds us,\nsomewhat significantly, of the terrible use to which all the\narrangements of the Castle are applied.[12] How singular, that men have\nto be governed and controlled like bull-dogs, that castles and dungeons,\nhalters, and cannon, are necessary to keep them from stealing each\nother's property, or cutting each other's throats! Surely mankind have\nills enough to bear without turning upon each other like tigers.\n\n[Footnote 12: At present it is used as a barracks for soldiers and a\nmagazine of arms.]\n\n    \"Many and sharp the numerous ills,\n      Inwoven with our frame!\n    More pointed still we make ourselves,\n      Regret, remorse, and shame;\n    And man, whose heaven-erected face\n      The smiles of love adorn,\n    Man's inhumanity to man\n      Makes countless thousands mourn.\"\n\n    BURNS.\n\nBut all is quiet now. The tendency of the times is to peace; and\nEdinburgh Castle, Mons Meg, and the whole array of cannon bristling over\nthe precipice, are but objects of natural curiosity or of poetical\ninterest.\n\nDo you see yonder turreted building, with high pointed gables and\ncastellated walls, in the Elizabethan style, just beyond the Grass\nMarket. That is George Heriot's Hospital, one of the proudest monuments\nof the city, and one of the most beautiful symbols of its peaceful\nprosperity. It was founded by the rich and benevolent George Heriot,\njeweller to King James the Sixth, \"Jingling Geordie,\" as he is quaintly\ntermed in the \"Fortunes of Nigel.\" It is of vast extent, as you\nperceive, and presents a good specimen of the mixed style of\narchitecture prevalent in the days of Queen Mary. The object of this\nnoble institution is the maintenance and education of poor and\nfatherless boys, or of boys in indigent circumstances, \"freemen's sons\nof the town of Edinburgh.\" Of these, one hundred and eighty receive\nample board and education within its walls. By this means they are\nthoroughly prepared for the active business of life, each receiving\nat his dismissal a Bible, and other useful books, with two suits of\nclothes chosen by himself. Those going out as apprentices are allowed\n$50 per annum for five years, and $25 at the termination of their\napprenticeship. Boys of superior scholarship are permitted to stay\nlonger in the institution, and are fitted for college. For this purpose\nthey receive $150 per annum, for four years. Connected with this\ninstitution are seven free schools, in the different parishes of the\ncity, for the support of which its surplus funds are applied. In these\nupwards of two thousand children receive a good common school education.\nThe girls, in addition to the ordinary branches, are taught knitting and\nsewing.\n\nIn addition to these provisions for the education of the poor, there are\nalso ten \"bursaries,\" or university scholarships, open to the\ncompetition of young men, not connected with the institution. The\nsuccessful candidates receive $100 per annum for four years. No wonder\nthat Sir Walter Scott felt authorized to put into the mouth of the\nprincely founder of these charities the striking sentiment: \"I think\nmine own estate and memory, as I shall order it, has a fair chance of\noutliving those of greater men.\"\n\nEdinburgh abounds in charitable hospitals, and particularly in free\neducational institutions, in the support of which the citizens evince a\nlaudable enthusiasm. Thus, for example, we have Watson's Hospital, the\nMerchant Maiden's Hospital, the Trades' Maiden Hospital, Trinity College\nHospital, Cauvin's Hospital, a little out of the city; Gillespie's\nHospital, Donaldson's Hospital, Chalmers's Hospital, the House of\nRefuge, the House of Industry, the Strangers' Friend Society, the\nInstitution for the Relief of poor old Men, and another for the Relief\nof indigent old Women, and many others.\n\nBelow us, on one side of High Street, you see the fine old Gothic\nCathedral of St. Giles. It was founded in the twelfth or thirteenth\ncentury, and named after St. Giles, abbot and confessor, and tutelar\nsaint of Edinburgh in the olden time. The Scottish poet, Gavin Douglas,\nbishop of Dunkeld, was sometime provost of St. Giles. He translated\nVirgil into English, the first version of a classic ever made in\nBritain, and was the author of \"The Palace of Honor,\" from which some\nhave absurdly supposed that John Bunyan borrowed the idea of the\n\"Pilgrim's Progress.\" This edifice is interesting, chiefly as connecting\nthe past with the present condition of Scotland, and indicating the\nmighty transitions through which it has passed. In the fifteenth century\nincense ascended from forty different altars within its walls; now it\ncontains three Protestant places of worship. Once it enshrined the\nrelics of St. Giles; now its cemetery contains the body of John Knox! On\nthe 13th of October, 1643, \"the solemn League and Covenant\" was sworn to\nand subscribed within its walls, by the Committee of the Estates of\nParliament, the Commission of the Church, and the English Commission.\nThe sacred vessels and relics which it contained, including the arm-bone\nof the patron saint, were seized by the magistrates of the city, and the\nproceeds of their sale applied to the repairing of the building.\nPuritanism has thus often showed itself a rough and tempestuous\nreformer; nevertheless it possesses wonderful vitality, and has\nconferred upon Scotland the blessings of civil and religious liberty.\nIts outer form is often hard and defective, and its movements irregular\nand convulsive, but its inner spirit is ever generous and free. Its\nrudeness and excess none will approve; its life, energy, and activity,\nall will admire. It came forth, like a thunder-cloud, from the\nmountains. Its quick lightning-flashes went crashing amid the old images\nof papal worship. The atmosphere of spiritual pollution was agitated and\npurified. Upon the parched ground fell gentle and refreshing showers.\nThe sun of freedom began to smile upon hill and valley, and the whole\nland rejoiced under its placid influence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n     John Knox's House--History of the Reformer--His\n     Character--Carlyle's View--Testimony of John Milton.\n\n\nLet us now descend from the Castle, and, passing down High Street, turn\nto the left, at the head of the Nether-bow, where we shall see the house\nof that stern but glorious old reformer, John Knox. There it is, looking\nmean enough now among those miserable gin-shops, paint-shops, and so\nforth; yet hallowed by the recollections of the past. Over the door is\nan inscription, invisible from the numerous sign-boards that cover it,\ncontaining the spirit and essence of that lofty Puritanism which Knox\npreached:\n\n     \"LUFE . GOD . ABOVE . ALL . AND . YOUR . NICHBOUR . AS . YOURSELF.\"\n\nIn this house Knox lived many years; here also he died in holy triumph;\nand from that little window he is said frequently to have addressed the\npopulace. A rude stone effigy of the Reformer may be seen at the corner,\nand near it, cut in the stone, the name of God, in Greek, Latin, and\nEnglish. It is gratifying to know that measures have recently been taken\nto erect a monument to Knox, near this spot, which shall be worthy of\nhis memory.\n\nThe character of Knox has been terribly blackened by heartless and\ninfidel historians, and especially by sickly sentimentalists of the\nWerter school. Nevertheless, he was a noble-hearted, truth-loving,\nsham-hating, God-fearing, self-sacrificing man; a hero in the proper\nsense of the word, a minister of righteousness, an angel of Reform. Not,\nindeed, a soft, baby-faced, puling sentimentalist; but a lofty,\niron-hearted man, who \"never feared the face of clay,\" and did God's\nwill, in spite of devils, popes, and kings. His history possesses the\ndeepest and most romantic interest. It is one of the most magnificent\npassages in Scottish story. Bruce battled for a crown; Knox battled for\nthe truth. Both conquered, after long toils and struggles; and conquered\nmainly by the might of their single arm. But the glory which irradiates\nthe head of the Reformer far outshines that of the hero of Bannockburn,\nfor the latter is earthly and evanescent; the former celestial and\nimmortal.\n\nJohn Knox was born in Haddington, not far from Edinburgh, of poor but\nhonest parents, in the year 1505; grew up in solitude; was destined for\nthe church; received a thorough collegiate education; became an honest\nfriar; wore the monk's cowl for many years; adopted silently and\nunostentatiously the principles of the Protestant Reformation; spent\nmuch of his time in teaching, and in the prosecution of liberal studies,\nof which he was considered a master; was suddenly and unexpectedly\ncalled, at St. Andrews, by the unanimous voice of his brethren, to the\npreaching of the Word, and the defence of their religious liberties;\nafter a brief struggle with himself yielded to the call, nobly threw\nhimself into the breach, at the hazard of his life, attacked \"Papal\nidolatry\" with unsparing vigor, was seized by the authorities, and sent\na prisoner to France in 1547, where he worked in the galleys as a slave,\nbut evermore maintaining his lofty courage and cheerful hope; was set at\nliberty two years afterwards; preached in England in the time of Edward\nthe Sixth; refused a bishopric from the best of kings; retired to the\ncontinent at the accession of Mary, residing chiefly at Geneva and\nFrankfort; returned to Scotland in 1555; labored with indomitable\nperseverance to establish Protestantism; rebuked the great for\nimmorality, profaneness and rapacity, and succeeded in greatly\nstrengthening the cause of truth and freedom. At the earnest\nsolicitation of the English congregation in Geneva, he went thither a\nsecond time; there he published \"The First Blast of the Trumpet against\nthe Monstrous Regiment (Government) of Women,\" directed principally\nagainst Mary, Queen of England, and Mary of Guise, Regent of Scotland,\ntwo narrow-minded miserable despots; returned to Scotland in 1559;\ncontinued his exertions in behalf of Christ's truth; did much to\nestablish common schools; finally saw Protestantism triumphant in\nScotland; and died in 1572, so poor that his family had scarce\nsufficient to bury him, but with the universal love and homage of his\ncountrymen, a conscience void of offence, and a hope full of\nimmortality. \"He had a sore fight of an existence; wrestling with popes\nand principalities; in defeat, contention, life-long struggle; rowing as\na galley-slave, wandering as an exile. A sore fight, but he won it.\n'Have you hope?' they asked him in his last moment when he could no\nlonger speak. He lifted his finger, 'pointed upwards with his finger,'\nand so died. Honor to him! His works have not died. The letter of his\nwork dies, as of all men's; but the spirit of it never.\"[13]\n\n[Footnote 13: Carlyle--\"Hero Worship,\" p. 174.]\n\nKnox has been much abused for his violent treatment of Queen Mary. His\naddresses and appeals to her have been characterized as impudent and\ncruel; but, thoroughly inspected, they will be found the reverse. Strong\nand startling they were, but neither impudent nor cruel. Doubtless they\nfell upon her ear like the tones of some old prophet, sternly rebuking\nsin, or vindicating the rights of God. Mary was a woman of matchless\nbeauty; and had she been educated differently, might have blessed the\nworld with the mild lustre of her Scottish reign; but she was the dupe\nof bad counsels, in spirit and practice a despot, the plaything of\npassion, and the reckless opposer of the best interests of her country.\nHer beauty and sufferings have shed a false lustre over her character;\nabove all, have aided in concealing the terrible stain of infidelity to\nher marriage vows, and the implied murder of her wretched husband,\ncharges which her apologists can extenuate, but not deny. But, forsooth,\nit is an insufferable thing for a plain honest-hearted man like John\nKnox to tell the truth to such an one! She was young, beautiful,\nfascinating; and however recklessly, madly, ruinously wrong, he must\nnot advise her--above all, must not warn her! Now, such a notion may\npossibly commend itself to your \"absolute gentlemen, of very soft\nsociety, full of most excellent differences and great showing; indeed,\nto speak feelingly of them, who are the card and calendar of gentry;\"\nbut it cannot be imposed upon our plain common sense. Mary was a queen,\nhowever, and John Knox a poor plebeian! Aye, aye! that is a difficulty!\nKings and queens may do what they please. The people are made for them,\nnot they for the people. And sure enough it is a vulgar thing to oppose\nthem in their ambitious schemes, or to tell them the honest truth\nbe-times! Poor John Knox! thou must fall down and worship \"a painted\nbredd\" after all. A beautiful queen must be spared, if Scotland should\nperish. But looking at the matter from the free atmosphere of New\nEngland, we maintain that John Knox was of higher rank than Mary Queen\nof Scots. He was more true, more heroic, more kingly, than all the race\nof the Stuarts. He had a right, in God's name, to speak the truth, \"to\nreprove, rebuke, and exhort, with all long-suffering.\" Hence, though his\nwords were stern and appalling, they were uttered with a kind and\ngenerous intention. \"Madame,\" said Knox, when he saw Mary burst into\ntears from vexation and grief, \"in God's presence I speak; I never\ndelighted in the weeping of any of God's creatures, yea, _I can scarcely\nwell abide the tears of mine own boys_, when mine own hands correct\nthem, much less can I rejoice in your Majesty's weeping; but seeing I\nhave offered unto you no just occasion to be offended, I must sustain\nyour Majesty's tears, rather than I dare hurt my conscience, or betray\nthe commonwealth by silence.\"\n\nYes, he was a stern old puritan, a lion of a man, who made terrible\nhavoc among the \"painted bredds\" of Popery, and turned back the fury of\nwild barons and persecuting priests. \"His single voice,\" says Randolph,\n\"could put more life into a host than six hundred blustering trumpets.\"\nSingle handed, he met the rage of a disappointed government and an\ninfuriated priesthood, and conquered by the silent might of his\nmagnanimous audacity. In the wildest whirl of contending emotion, he\nnever lost sight of the great end of his being, as a servant of God, nor\nswerved a hair's breadth from truth and right.\n\nYet this stern old Covenanter was not without a touch of gentleness and\neven of hilarity. He loved his home, his children, and his friends. An\nhonest, quiet laugh often mantled his pale earnest visage. \"They go far\nwrong,\" says Carlyle, whose thorough appreciation of such men as Luther,\nCromwell, and Knox, is truly refreshing amid the vapid inanities or\ncoarse prejudices of ordinary historians, \"who think that Knox was a\ngloomy, spasmodic, shrieking fanatic. Not at all. He is one of the\nsolidest of men. Practical, cautious, hopeful, patient; a most shrewd,\nobserving, quietly discerning man. In fact, he has very much the type of\ncharacter we assign to the Scotch at present: a certain sardonic\ntaciturnity is in him; insight enough; and a stouter heart than he\nhimself knows of. * * An honest-hearted, brotherly man; brother to the\nhigh, brother also to the low; sincere in his sympathy with both.\"\n\nKnox, doubtless, had his faults; and what of that? He made some\nmistakes! and what, too, of that? Was he not a true man, and a true\nminister of God's Word? Did he not accomplish a great and beneficial\nwork of Reform; and, having done this, did he not die a sweet and\ntriumphant death? God has set his seal upon him, and upon his work; and\nthat is enough for us.\n\nWe hesitate not, with Carlyle, to name the Reformation under Knox as the\ngreat era in Scottish history, as the one glorious event which gave life\nto the nation. Thence resulted freedom, activity, purity of morals,\nscience, national and individual greatness. Previous to this event\nScotland possessed only a rough, tumultuous physical life; her\npolitics--dissensions and executions; her religion--a puerile\nsuperstition;--her literature--ballads and monkish legends; her\njoy--hunting, fighting, and drinking! But the Reformation breathed into\nher the breath of a spiritual existence. Her national prosperity dates\nfrom that era. Thence proceeded faith and order, education, industry,\nand wealth. \"It was not a smooth business; but it was welcome surely,\nand cheap at that price, had it been far rougher. On the whole, cheap at\nany price, as life is. The people began to _live_; they needed first of\nall to _do that_, at what cost and costs soever. Scottish literature and\nthought, Scotch industry, James Watt, David Hume, Walter Scott, Robert\nBurns. I find Knox and the Reformation acting in the heart's core of\nevery one of these persons and phenomena; I find that, without the\nReformation, they would not have been. Or what of Scotland? The\nPuritanism of Scotland became that of England, of New England. A tumult\nin the High Church of Edinburgh spread into a universal battle and\nstruggle over all these realms; and there came out of it, after fifty\nyears' struggling, what we all call 'the Glorious Revolution,' a Habeas\nCorpus Act, Free Parliaments, and much else.\"\n\nIt has become fashionable of late, in certain quarters, to undervalue\nthe Reformation, and contemn those great and rugged spirits by whom it\nwas accomplished. A sentimental, baby-hearted, superstition-smitten\ngeneration, cannot appreciate those mighty men, and mightier reforms of\nthe olden time. But how well and worthily does the large-hearted and\nethereal Milton speak of it: \"When I recall to mind, at last, after so\nmany dark ages, wherein the huge over-shadowing train of error had\nalmost swept all the stars out of the firmament of the church; how the\nbright and blissful Reformation, by Divine power, struck through the\nblack and settled night of ignorance and anti-Christian tyranny,\nmethinks a sovereign and reviving joy must needs rush into the bosom of\nhim that reads or hears, and the sweet odor of the returning Gospel\nimbathe his soul with the fragrancy of Heaven. Then was the sacred Bible\nsought out of the dusty corners, where profane falsehood and neglect\nhad thrown it, the schools opened, divine and human learning raked out\nof the embers of forgotten tongues; the princes and cities trooping\napace to the new-erected banner of salvation; the martyrs, with the\nunresistible might of weakness, shaking the powers of darkness, and\nscorning the fiery rage of the red old dragon.\"[14] A noble testimony\nlike this far outweighs all the cant of a whining sentimentalism. Its\ntruth, as well as its eloquence, all must admit.\n\n[Footnote 14: \"Of Reformation in England.\" By John Milton.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n     Edinburgh University--Professor Wilson--His Life and Writings,\n     Genius and Character.\n\n\nWe will now re-enter High Street, and thence turn at right angles into\nSouth-bridge Street, and proceed to the University. It is a large and\nimposing structure, but fails to produce its proper impression from the\ncircumstance of being wedged in among such a mass of other buildings. We\nenter by a magnificent portico on the right, supported by Doric columns,\ntwenty-six feet in height, each formed of a single block of stone, and\nfind ourselves in a spacious quadrangular court, surrounded by the\nvarious college edifices. The buildings are of free stone, beautifully\npolished, and of recent erection, the old buildings, which were\nunsightly and incommodious, having been taken down to make way for this\nelegant and spacious structure. The University itself was founded by\nKing James the Sixth, in the year 1582, and has enjoyed uninterrupted\nprosperity to the present time. The average number of students is from\nten to twelve hundred. The Rev. Dr. Lee, one of the most amiable and\nlearned men, is at present Principal of the University, and the various\nchairs are filled by gentlemen of distinguished talent. The students are\nnot resident within the college, but choose their boarding-houses, at\npleasure, in any part of the city. They are not distinguished, as at\nGlasgow and Oxford by any peculiar badge; are of all ages, and enjoy the\nliberty of selecting the classes which they attend. Those however who\ntake degrees are required to attend a particular course, but this is not\ndone by more than one-half or at most two-thirds of the students. The\ngovernment of the University is not particularly strict. The\nexaminations are limited and imperfect; and hence it is very possible\nfor a young man to slip through the University, without contracting any\ngreat tincture of scholarship. It is mainly the talent of the\nprofessors, and the high literary enthusiasm they inspire, which sustain\nthe institution. There are thirty-four foundations for bursaries or\nscholarships, the benefit of which is extended to eighty students. The\naggregate amount is about fifty dollars a year, for each. The Annual\nSession lasts from October to May, with an occasional holiday, and a\nweek or two's vacation at Christmas. The rest of the year which includes\nmost of the summer and autumn is vacation, which gives the professors an\nopportunity for rest and preparation, and the students facilities either\nfor private study, or for teaching and other employments. This order\nprevails in all the other Scottish Universities, and is attended with\nmany advantages. But a truce to general remarks.\n\nWe have not time to visit the Museum, which is quite extensive and\nadmirably arranged, nor the Library, which is distinguished by its ample\ndimensions and beautiful decorations. Neither can we dwell upon the\ncelebrated men who have encircled this Institution with a halo of\nliterary and scientific glory. But we will step into that door in front\nof us, ascend the stairs, and enter the lecture-room of Professor\nWilson, the far famed \"Christopher North,\" poet and novelist, orator,\ncritic and philosopher. The young gentlemen have assembled, but the\nProfessor has not yet come in. Good looking but noisy fellows these!\nSome of them, you perceive, are very young, others are considerably\nadvanced in years. Most of them are well dressed, some poorly so. A few\nlook studious and care-worn, but the majority hearty and joyous. How\ntheir clear loud laugh rings through the hall! They are from all ranks\nof society, some being the sons of noblemen, others of farmers and\nmechanics. Most of them probably have wherewithal to pay their college\nexpenses, but not a few, you may rely on it, are sorely pinched. The\nScots are an ambitious, study-loving race, and quite a number of these\nyoung men are struggling up from the depths of poverty; and if they do\nnot die in the effort, will be heard of, one of these days, in the\npulpit, or at the bar.\n\nBut there comes the Professor, bowing graciously to the students, while\nhe receives from them a hearty \"ruff,\" as the Scots call their energetic\nstamping. What a magnificent looking man! Over six feet high, broad and\nbrawny, but of elegant proportions, with a clear, frank, joyous looking\nface, a few wrinkles only around the eye, in other respects hale and\nsmooth, his fine locks sprinkled with gray, flowing down to his\nshoulders, and his large lustrous eye beaming with a softened fire. His\nsubject is \"the Passions.\" He commences with freedom and ease, but\nwithout any particular energy,--makes his distinctions well, but without\nmuch precision or force; for, to tell the honest truth, philosophical\nanalysis is not his particular forte. Still, it is good, so far as it\ngoes, and probably appears inferior chiefly by contrast. But he begins\nto describe. The blood mantles to his forehead, thrown back with a\nmajestic energy, and his fine eye glows, nay, absolutely burns. And now\nhis impassioned intellect careers, as on the wings of the wind, leaping,\nbounding, dashing, whirling, over hill and dale, rises into the clear\nempyrean, and bathes itself in the beams of the sun. His audience is\nintent, hushed, absorbed, rapt! He begins, however, to descend, and O!\nhow beautifully, like a falcon from \"the lift,\" or an eagle from the\nstorm-cloud. And, now he skims along the surface with bird-like wing,\nglancing in the sunlight, swiftly and gracefully. How varied and\ndelicate his language, how profuse his images, his allusions how\naffecting, and his voice, ringing like a bell among the mountains. At\nsuch seasons his style, manner and tone, are unequalled. Chaste and\nexhilarating as the dew of the morning in the vale of Strathmore, yet\nrich and rare as a golden sunset on the brow of Benlomond. But listen,\nhe returns to his philosophical distinctions,--fair, very fair, to be\nsure, but nothing special, rather clumsy perhaps, except in regard to\nhis language. True, undoubtedly, but not profound, not deeply\nphilosophical, and to me, not particularly interesting. His auditors\nhave time to breathe. You hear an occasional cough, or blowing of the\nnose. A few of the students are diligently taking notes, but the rest\nare listless. This will last only a moment, and now that he is\napproaching the close of his lecture, he will give us something worth\nhearing. There, again he is out upon the open sea. How finely the sails\nare set, and with what a majestic sweep the noble vessel rounds the\npromontory, and anchors itself in the bay.[15]\n\n[Footnote 15: The writer describes not an imaginary, but an actual\nlecture of Professor Wilson's, which he heard some years ago.\n\nWe have honestly given our own impressions relative to Wilson's\nmetaphysical powers, and stated simply what we heard and saw while\nattending his Lectures in Edinburgh University. Others however may have\ndifferent impressions; and we cheerfully append the following from\n_Gilfillan_ as an offset to our strictures:\n\n\"It is probable that the very variety and versatility of Wilson's powers\nhave done him an injury in the estimation of many. They can hardly\nbelieve that an actor, who can play so many parts, is perfect in all.\nBecause he is, confessedly, one of the most eloquent of men, it is\ndoubted whether he can be profound: because he is a fine poet, he must\nbe a shallow metaphysician;--because he is the Editor of _Blackwood_, he\nmust be an inefficient professor. There is such a thing on this round\nearth, as diffusion along with depth, as the versatile and vigorous mind\nof a man of genius mastering a multitude of topics, while others are\nblunderingly acquiring one, or as a man 'multiplying himself among\nmankind, the Proteus of their talents,' and proving that the Voltairian\nactivity of brain has been severed, in one splendid instance, at least,\nfrom the Voltairian sneer and the Voltairian shallowness. Such an\ninstance as that of our illustrious Professor, who is ready for every\ntack,--who can, at one time, scorch a poetaster to a cinder, at another\ncast illumination into the 'dark deep holds' of a moral question, by a\nglance of his genius; at one time dash off the picture of a Highland\nglen, with the force of a Salvator, at another, lay bare the anatomy of\na passion with the precision and force of an Angelo,--write, now, the\nsweetest verse, and now the most energetic prose,--now let slip, from\nhis spirit, a single star, like the 'evening cloud,' and now unfurl a\n_Noctes_ upon the wondering world,--now paint Avarice till his audience\nare dying with laughter, and now Emulation and Sympathy till they are\nchoked with tears,--write now 'the Elder's Deathbed,' and now the\n'Address to a Wild Deer,'--be equally at home in describing the\nSufferings of an Orphan girl, and the undressing of a dead Quaker, by a\ncongregation of ravens, under the brow of Helvellyn.\"--_Literary\nPortraits_, p. 209.]\n\nInstead of spending our time gazing at public buildings, let us continue\nour conversation about the Professor, whose life has been a tissue of\ninteresting and romantic events. We shall find it profitable as well as\npleasant, to glance at the principal points in his history, as they tend\nto throw light on the Genius of Scotland.\n\nJohn Wilson is the oldest son of a wealthy manufacturer in the city of\nPaisley, and was born there in the year 1788, and is now therefore\nfifty-eight years of age. He was reared and educated, with almost\npatrician indulgence, and inherited from his father a considerable\namount of property, variously estimated from twenty to fifty thousand\npounds sterling. Of course he enjoyed the best facilities for acquiring\na thorough and polished education. His instructor in classical learning\nwas Mr. Peddie of Paisley, to whom a public dinner was given in 1831 by\nhis friends and pupils. Professor Wilson was present, and on proposing\nthe health of his venerable preceptor, delivered a brilliant oration,\nnot the least interesting portion of which had reference to his somewhat\nerratic course at school. \"Sometimes,\" said he, \"I sat as dux--sometimes\nin the middle of the class--and I am obliged to confess, that on some\nunfortunate occasions, I was absolutely _dolt_!\" The confession was\nreceived, of course, with roars of laughter.\n\nFrom this school he was entered at the University of Glasgow, when he\nwas little more than thirteen years of age. But he was tall for his\nyears, and possessed an original and remarkably exuberant mind; and\nthough distinguished at this time, more for the vigor of his physical\nconstitution, and the buoyancy of his spirits, than for any particular\nattainments in literature, he generally kept his standing among his\nfellow students, many of whom were greatly his seniors.\n\nFrom Glasgow he was transferred to Oxford, and here he first\ndistinguished himself as a man of genius. He contended in the annual\ncompetition for the Newdigate prize of fifty guineas for the best fifty\nlines of English verse, and though the contest was open to not less than\ntwo thousand individuals, he carried off the palm from every competitor.\n\nAt Oxford as at Glasgow he was distinguished for his fine athletic\nframe, his joyous and even boisterous spirits, and his excessive\ndevotion to all sorts of gymnastics, field sports and frolicking. This\nhowever was blended with an extraordinary devotion to literature, and a\npeculiar simplicity and frankness of character, which rendered him a\nuniversal favorite. It is well known that at Oxford great latitude is\nenjoyed, especially by \"gentlemen commoners,\" as they are called, to\nwhich class Wilson chose to belong. It is expected that the \"gentlemen\ncommoners\" shall wear a more splendid costume,--spend a good deal more\nmoney,--and enjoy various immunities, which amount occasionally to a\nsomewhat unbridled license. \"Once launched on this orbit,\" says a fellow\nstudent of Wilson's, writing to a friend in America, \"Mr. Wilson\ncontinued to blaze away for four successive years. * * * Never did a\nman, by variety of talents and variety of humors, contrive to place\nhimself as the connecting link between orders of men so essentially\nrepulsive of each other; from the learned president of his college, Dr.\nRouth, the Editor of parts of Plato, and of some theological selections,\nwith whom Wilson enjoyed unlimited favor, down to the humblest student.\nIn fact from this learned Academic Doctor, and many others of the same\nclass, ascending and descending, he possessed an infinite gamut of\nfriends and associates, running through every key; and the diapason\nclosing full in groom, cobbler, stable boy, barber's apprentice, with\nevery shade and hue of blackguard and ruffian. In particular, amongst\nthis latter kind of worshipful society, there was no man who had any\ntalents, real or fancied, for thumping, or being thumped, but had\nexperienced some taste of his merits from Mr. Wilson. All other\npretensions in the gymnastic arts he took a pride in humbling or in\nhonoring, but chiefly did his examinations fall upon pugilism; and not a\nman who could either 'give,' or 'take,' but boasted to have been\npunished by Wilson of _Mallens_ (corruption of Magdalen) College.\"\n\nWhether the statement of Wilson's pugilistic attainments is not somewhat\nexaggerated we have not the means of deciding. All reports however go to\nconfirm its general accuracy. His career was certainly a wild and\nhazardous one, and would have ruined an ordinary man. But underlying the\nwild exuberance of Wilson's nature, there was a solid foundation of good\nfeeling and good sense, which ever and anon manifested itself, and\nfinally formed the principal element of his character. Besides, he could\nnever forget the holy instructions of his childhood. Scotland throws a\nthousand sacred influences around the hearts of her children; and hence,\nwild and wayward in their youth, they not unfrequently live to be the\nsafeguards of virtue and the ornaments of society.\n\nIt may be well supposed that on leaving Oxford, in the very hey-day of\nyouth, with an amazing exuberance of animal spirits, and the command of\nan ample fortune, he must have run a somewhat extravagant career. He\npurchased a beautiful estate on the banks of Windermere, not far from\nthe residences of Southey, Coleridge and Wordsworth, and yielded himself\nto the full enjoyment of every pleasure. Having built upon his estate a\nnew and splendid edifice, he furnished it with every appliance of taste\nand luxury, and succeeded by his \"magnificent\" style of housekeeping,\nin spending a large amount of his property. He gave himself up to the\nmost diversified pursuits, now conning his literary treasures, and now\nfrolicking in sailor jacket and trowsers, with the young men of the\ncountry.\n\nThe following, from a writer already quoted, will give a lively idea of\nWilson's habits and appearance, at this period of his life. \"My\nintroduction to him--setting apart the introducee himself--was memorable\nfrom one circumstance, viz., the person of the introducer. _William\nWordsworth_, it was, who in the vale of Grasmere, if it can interest you\nto know the place, and in the latter end of 1808, if you can be supposed\nto care about the time, did me the favor of making me known to John\nWilson. I remember the whole scene as circumstantially as if it belonged\nto but yesterday. In the vale of Grasmere--that peerless little vale\nwhich you, and Gray, the poet, and so many others have joined in\nadmiring as the very Eden of English beauty, peace, and pastoral\nsolitude--you may possibly recall, even from that flying glimpse you had\nof it, a modern house called Allan Bank, standing under a low screen of\nwoody rocks, which descend from the hill of Silver Horn, on the western\nside of the lake. This house had been recently built by a wealthy\nmerchant of Liverpool; but for some reason, of no importance to you or\nme, not being immediately wanted for the family of the owner, had been\nlet for a term of three years to Mr. Wordsworth. At the time I speak of,\nboth Mr. Coleridge and myself were on a visit to Mr. Wordsworth, and\none room on the ground floor, designed for a breakfasting room, which\ncommands a sublime view of the three mountains, Fairfield, Arthur's\nChair, and Seat Sandal, was then occupied by Mr. Coleridge as a study.\nOn this particular day, the sun having only just risen, it naturally\nhappened that Mr. Coleridge--whose nightly vigils were long--had not yet\ncome down to breakfast; meantime and until the epoch of the Coleridgean\nbreakfast should arrive, his study was lawfully disposable to profane\nuses. Here, therefore, it was, that opening the door hastily in quest of\na book, I found seated, and in earnest conversation, two gentlemen, one\nof them my host, Mr. Wordsworth, at that time about thirty-eight years\nold; the other was a younger man, by at least sixteen or seventeen\nyears, in a sailor's dress, manifestly in robust health--_fervidus\njuventa_, and wearing upon his countenance a powerful expression of\nardor and animated intelligence, mixed with much good nature. _Mr.\nWilson of Elleray_--delivered as the formula of introduction, in the\ndeep tones of Mr. Wordsworth--at once banished the momentary surprise I\nfelt on finding an unknown stranger where I had expected nobody, and\nsubstituted a surprise of another kind. I now understood who it was that\nI saw; and there was no wonder in his being at Allan Bank, as Elleray\nstood within nine miles; but (as usually happens in such cases) I felt a\nshock of surprise on seeing a person so little corresponding to the one\nI had half unconsciously prefigured to myself.\"\n\nMr. Wilson here appears in a comparatively grave and dignified aspect.\nThe same writer describes him in quite a different scene. Walking in the\nmorning, he met him, with a parcel of young \"harum skarum\" fellows on\nhorseback, chasing an honest bull, which had been driven off in the\nnight from his peaceful meadow, to furnish sport to these \"wild\nhuntsmen.\" About this time, also, he was the leader of a \"boating club,\"\nwhich involved him in great expense. They had no less than two or three\nestablishments for their boats and boat-men, and innumerable appendages,\nwhich cost each of them annually a little fortune. The number of their\nboats was so great as to form a little fleet, while some of them were\nquite large and expensive. One of these in particular, a ten-oared\nbarge, was believed at the time to have cost over two thousand dollars.\nIn consequence of these and other expenses, and perhaps the loss of some\nof his patrimony by the failure of a trustee, subjected him to the\nnecessity of seeking a change of life. This led to his becoming a\ncandidate for the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of\nEdinburgh.\n\nPrevious to this he had formed plans of extensive travel. One was a\nvoyage of exploration to Central Africa and the sources of the Nile.\nAnother was concocted with two of his friends, with whom he proposed to\nsail from Falmouth to the Tagus, and landing wherever accident or fancy\nmight determine, to purchase mules, hire Spanish servants, and travel\nextensively in Spain and Portugal, for eight or nine months; then, by\nsuch of the islands in the Mediterranean as particularly attracted them,\nthey were to pass over into Greece, and thence to Constantinople.\nFinally, they were to have visited the Troad, Syria, Egypt, and perhaps\nNubia!\n\nBut the reduction of his means, and his marriage with a young and\nbeautiful English lady, to whom he was greatly attached, broke up these\nextravagant schemes. His marriage took place in 1810. Two sons and three\ndaughters were the fruits of it; and the connection has doubtless proved\none of the happiest events in the Professor's life. Death however has\nentered this delightful circle. \"How characteristic of him,\" says\nGilfillan, \"and how affecting, was his saying to his students, in\napology for not returning their essays at the usual time, 'I could not\nsee to read them in the Valley and the Shadow of Death.'\"\n\nHis application in 1820 for the professorship of Moral Philosophy which\nhe now fills, was successful, notwithstanding he had for his competitor\none of the profoundest thinkers, and most accomplished writers of the\nage, Sir William Hamilton, who conducted himself in the affair with the\ngreatest dignity and urbanity. Many things were said, at the time,\nderogatory to Wilson's personal character, and his fitness to fill the\nchair of Moral Philosophy. The matter probably was decided, more with\nreference to political considerations than any thing besides, as at that\ntime party politics ran exceedingly high. Professor Wilson has\ndisappointed the expectations of his enemies, to say the least, and has\nbeen gaining in the esteem and good will of all classes of the\ncommunity.\n\nHis splendid career as a poet, editor, critic and novelist, is well\nknown. His poems, the principal of which are the \"Isle of Palms,\" and\nthe \"City of the Plague,\" are exquisitely beautiful, but deficient in\nenergy, variety and dramatic power. He excels in description, and\ntouches, with a powerful hand, the strings of pure and delicate\nsentiment. Nothing can be finer than his \"Address to a Wild Deer\"--\"A\nSleeping Child\"--\"The Highland Burial Ground,\" and \"The Home Among the\nMountains\" in the \"City of the Plague.\" His tales and stories, such as\n\"Margaret Lindsay,\" \"The Foresters,\" and those in \"The Lights and\nShadows of Scottish Life,\" are well conceived, and charmingly written.\nThey breathe a spirit of the purest morality, and are highly honorable\nnot only to the head but to the heart of their eloquent author. But it\nis in criticism and occasional sketching in which he chiefly excels. In\nthis field, so varied and delightful, he absolutely luxuriates. His\nseries of papers on Spenser and Homer are remarkable for their delicate\ndiscrimination, strength and exuberance of fancy. No man loves Scotland\nmore enthusiastically, or describes her peculiar scenery and manners\nwith more success. Here his \"meteor pen,\" as the author of the Corn Law\nRhymes aptly called it, passes like sunlight over the glowing page. His\ndescriptions of Highland scenery and Highland sports are instinct with\nlife and beauty. In a word, to quote the eulogy of the discriminating\nHallam, \"Wilson is a writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius,\nwhose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters.\"\n\nProfessor Wilson's nature is essentially poetical. It is sensitive,\nimaginative and generous. It is also said to be deeply religious. Age\nand experience, reflection, and the Word of God, which he greatly\nreveres, have tamed the wild exuberance of his youth, strengthened his\nbetter principles, and shed over his character the mellow radiance of\nfaith and love. \"The main current of his nature,\" says Gilfillan, \"is\nrapt and religious. In proof of this we have heard, that on one\noccasion, he was crossing the hills from St. Mary's Loch to Moffat. It\nwas a misty morning; but as he ascended, the mist began to break into\ncolumns before the radiant finger of the rising sun. Wilson's feelings\nbecame too much excited for silence, and he began to speak, and from\nspeaking began to pray; and prayed aloud and alone, for thirty miles\ntogether in the misty morn. We can conceive what a prayer it would be,\nand with what awe some passing shepherd may have heard the incarnate\nvoice, sounding on its dim and perilous way.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n     The Calton Hill--Burns's Monument--Character and Writings of \"the\n     Peasant Poet\"--His Religious Views--Monument of Professor Dugald\n     Stewart--Scottish Metaphysics--Thomas Carlyle.\n\n\nLet us take a walk on the Calton Hill, this afternoon; we shall find\nsome objects of interest there. At the termination of Prince's Street,\ncommences Waterloo Place, in which are situated the Stamp Office, Post\nOffice, Bridewell and the Jail. This also leads to Calton Hill, and is\none of the most delightful promenades in the city. We skirt around the\nHill, a little to the right, pass the beautiful and spacious buildings\nof the Edinburgh High School on the left, one of the best educational\ninstitutions in Scotland, continue our walk a short distance, and come\nto a round building on the farther declivity of the hill. That is\n\"Burns's Monument.\" By giving a small douceur to the keeper, we are\npermitted to enter the interior, in the center of which stands a statue\nof the poet, by Flaxman. Beautiful and expressive certainly, as a work\nof art, but it is not quite equal to one's conception of the poet. The\nforehead is particularly fine--open, massive and high, with an air of\nlofty repose. The mouth is unpoetical and vulgar--at least _something_\nof this is visible in its expression. It wants the chiseled delicacy, as\nwell as gracious expression of noble and generous feeling which we\nnaturally look for in the countenance of Burns. But the likeness, we\nunderstand, is defective. In his best days, Burns had a noble, and\nalmost beautiful countenance. In stature he was about five feet ten\ninches, of great agility and muscular vigor. His countenance was open\nand ruddy, with a fine, frank, generous expression, eyes large and\nradiant, forehead arched and lofty, with curling hair clustering over\nit, and his mouth, especially when engaged in animated conversation, or\nlighted with a smile, wreathed with intelligence and good humor.\n\nBurns has been termed \"the Shakspeare of Scotland.\" And certainly no\npoet has ever been regarded, in that country, with such enthusiastic\nlove and reverence. With all his faults, some of which were bad enough,\nall classes of the Scottish people, from the noble to the peasant,\ncherish him in their heart of hearts. Indeed he is a sort of national\nidol, to whom all feel bound to do reverence, notwithstanding his\nadmitted failings. Nor is this a matter of surprise. For, taken as a\nwhole, the poetry of Burns is the poetry of nature--of the heart--and\nespecially of the Scottish heart. It represents the genius of the\nnation--wild, beautiful and free, shaded by thoughtfulness, and set off\nby devotion, at once merry as her mountain brooks, yet deep, strong and\npassionate as the stormy ocean which encircles her coast. \"Tam\nO'Shanter,\" or \"Halloween,\" the \"Cotter's Saturday Night,\" or \"Mary in\nHeaven,\" are the two extremes of the picture. In Burns, Scotland saw\nincarnated her poetry and song, her music and passion, her love and\ndevotion, her seriousness and merriment, her strong-hearted adherence to\nintegrity and truth, her occasional recklessness and madness of spirit,\nher love of nature, her veneration for God. The grave and the gay, the\nold and the young, the religious and the reckless, all saw themselves\nrepresented in the glorious fragments of his witching poetry. Hence the\nenthusiasm with which his first volume of poems was received. It seemed\nas if a new realm had been added to the dominions of the British muse--a\nnew and glorious creation fresh from the hand of nature. There the humor\nof Smollett, the pathos and tenderness of Sterne and Richardson, the\nreal life of Fielding, and the description of Thomson, were all united\nin delineations of Scottish manners and scenery by the Ayrshire\nploughman! The volume contained matter for all minds--for the lively and\nsarcastic, the wild and the thoughtful, the poetical enthusiast and the\nman of the world. So eagerly was the book sought after, that when copies\nof it could not be obtained, many of the poems were transcribed and sent\nround in manuscript among admiring circles. His songs are the songs of\nScotland. A few have been furnished by Tannahill, Fergusson, Ramsay and\nothers; but the main body of the most exquisite and most popular\nScottish melodies are from the pen of Burns. Evermore they echo among\nher heathy hills and bosky dells. You hear them by the sides of her\n\"bonnie burns,\" and along the shores of her silver lakes and \"rivers\ngrand.\" At evening gray, they are heard resounding from gowan'd braes\nand \"birken shaws,\" in the shadow of haunted woods, and hoary ruins; and\nespecially, on winter nights, and \"tween and supper times\" from her ten\nthousand happy \"inglesides.\" In Burns's \"Cotter's Saturday Night\" are\nseen his reverence for religion \"pure and undefiled,\" combined with\nexquisite description and melodious verse; in \"Tam O'Shanter,\" his vivid\nfancy and dramatic energy; in \"Halloween,\" his spirit of humor and fun;\nin his \"Lines to a Mountain Daisy,\" his fine moral sense and tenderness\nof spirit; and in his \"Address to Mary in Heaven,\" his true heartedness,\nand sweet lyric power. His native country is beautifully pictured in all\nhis poetry. The \"Banks of the Dee,\" \"Edina's lofty seat,\" \"Old Coila's\nhills and streams\"--the \"Braes of Yarrow\"--\"Allan Water\"--\"Bonnie\nDoon\"--\"Sweet Afton among her green braes\"--\"Auld hermit Ayr,\" \"Stately\nIrwine,\" \"The birks of Aberfeldy,\"--where \"summer blinks o'er flowery\nbraes,\" the \"lovely Nith, with fruitful vales and spreading\nhawthorns,\"--\"Gowrie's rich valley and Firth's sunny shores,\" \"the clear\nwinding Devon,\"--\"Castle Gordon,--where waters flow and wild woods\nrave,\"--\"the banks and braes and streams around the Castle of\nMontgomery,\"--Bannockburn, Ellerslie and Sheriff Muir;--these, and a\nthousand other beautiful or storied scenes, mirror themselves in the\nstream of his sweet and varied verse.\n\nSome vulgar and foolish things he has written; and we condemn them as\nheartily as others. But his poetry embodies much that is pure and\nbeautiful and true, much of which Burns had no occasion to repent, even\non a deathbed, and much of which his native country may well be proud.\nHe was somewhat intemperate, but not to the extent which is generally\nsupposed. Strong temptations,--the habits of the times--the folly of his\nfriends, who thoughtlessly introduced him to the gaities of the\nmetropolis, and then left him to contempt and penury, broke down his\nconstitution, and consigned him to a premature grave. But he was not a\nman of base and vulgar passions. His was not the cold heart of the\nsceptic, nor the envenomed spirit of the villain. It was a wild and\nwayward heart, I grant, but honest and true, generous and kind. The\ntemple was shattered by the lightnings of Heaven, but it was a temple\nstill; and from its broken altars ever and anon ascended the sweet\nincense of prayer and praise. Burns could never forget his good old\nfather, and the hallowed influences of religion, shed upon his young\nheart. He loved the Psalms of David, and the holy melodies of his native\nland; and we presume often sang them, of an evening, accompanied, as he\nhimself intimates, with \"the wild woodland note,\" of his beloved wife.\nSeveral of his letters to Miss Dunlop and others indicate a strong\nconviction of the Divine existence and the immortality of the soul, his\nstruggles against the doubts which haunted his spirit, and his earnest\nlonging for purity and perfection. \"You may perhaps think it an\nextravagant fancy,\" he says in a letter to Mr. Aiken, \"but it is a\nsentiment which strikes home to my very soul; though sceptical on some\npoints of our current belief, yet I think, I have every evidence for the\nreality of a life beyond the stinted bourn of our present existence;\"\nand then adds--\"O thou great, unknown Power, thou Almighty God! who has\nlighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality! I have\nfrequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the\nperfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me.\"\nHaving expressed to Mrs. Dunlop his strong conviction of the immortality\nof the soul, he writes as follows, \"I know not whether I have ever sent\nyou the following lines, or if you have ever seen them; but it is one of\nmy favorite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress\nthrough life, in the language of the Book of Job,\n\n    \"Against the day of battle and of war.\"--\n\nspoken of religion:\n\n    \"'Tis _this_ my friend that streaks our morning bright,\n    'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night.\n    When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few;\n    When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;\n    'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart,\n    Disarms affliction, or repels her dart;\n    Within the breast bids purest raptures rise.\n    Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies.\"\n\nOne of the most beautiful letters ever written by Burns has reference to\nthis subject, and was addressed to the same lady, on New Year's\nday.--\"This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes; and would to God that I\ncame under the Apostle James's description!--'the prayer of the\nrighteous man availeth much.' In that case, Madam, you should welcome in\na year full of blessings: everything that obstructs or disturbs\ntranquillity and self-enjoyment should be removed, and every pleasure\nthat frail humanity can taste should be yours. I own myself so little a\nPresbyterian, that I approve of set times and seasons of more than\nordinary acts of devotion for breaking in on that habitual routine of\nlife and thought, which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of\ninstinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little\nsuperior to mere machinery.\n\n\"This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy, blue skyed noon, sometime\nabout the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the\nend of Autumn,--these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of\nholy day. * * * * I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the\nSpectator, \"The Vision of Mirza;\" a piece that struck my young fancy\nbefore I was capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables. 'On\nthe fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my\nforefathers, I always _keep holy_, after having washed myself, and\noffered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, in\norder to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer.'\n\n\"We know nothing, or next to nothing of the substance or structure of\nour souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them, that\none should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that,\nwhich, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary impression.\nI have some favorite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain\ndaisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild brier rose, the budding\nbirch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular\ndelight. I never heard the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a\nsummer noon, or the wild, mixing cadence of a troop of gray plover in an\nautumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the\nenthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can\nthis be owing? Are we a piece of machinery, which like the Aeolian harp,\npassive, takes the impression of the passing accident? Or do these\nworkings argue something within us above the trodden clod? I own myself\npartial to such proofs of those awful and important realities--a God\nthat made all things--man's immaterial and immortal nature--and a world\nof weal or woe beyond death and the grave.\"\n\nA fit comment on this and other passages of similar import in his\nletters is the following affecting poem, entitled \"A Prayer in the\nProspect of Death.\" It seems to us to utter the deep throbbings of the\npoet's spirit:\n\n    \"Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?\n      Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?\n    Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between;\n      Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms;\n    Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?\n      Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?\n    For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;\n      I tremble to approach an angry God,\n    And justly smart beneath his sin avenging rod.\n\n    Fain would I say, 'forgive my foul offence!'\n      Fain promise never more to disobey;\n    But should my Author health again dispense,\n      Again I might desert fair virtue's way;\n    Again in folly's path might go astray;\n      Again exalt the brute and sink the man.\n    Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray;\n      Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan,\n    Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?\n\n    O thou great Governor of all below,\n      If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,\n    Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,\n      Or still the tumult of the raging sea;\n    With that controling power assist ev'n me,\n      Those headlong furious passions to confine,\n    For all unfit I feel my powers to be,\n      To rule their torrent in the allowed line;\n    O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!\"\n\nAfter writing thus far, we read for the first time, \"The Genius and\nCharacter of Burns,\" by Professor Wilson, the richest garland yet\nwreathed around the poet's brow; and we are happy to find the views\nexpressed above fully corroborated by that distinguished writer. It is\ntrue that Wilson delineates the character of Burns with enthusiastic\nadmiration; but his views are so discriminating, and withal backed by\nsuch an array of facts, that no candid man can deny their correctness.\nWe cannot therefore resist the temptation of making the following\nextract, in which the finest discrimination is blended with the largest\ncharity. Long may the Literature of Scotland be guarded by such a\ncritic! But one thing must not be forgotten here, namely, that no one,\nand especially one personally unacquainted with Burns, can pronounce in\nregard to his actual spiritual state. Whether he was truly 'born of\nGod,' and notwithstanding the errors of his life, died a Christian and\nwent to heaven, is happily not a question which we are called to decide.\n\n\"We have said but little hitherto of Burns's religion. Some have denied\nthat he had any religion at all--a rash and cruel denial--made in the\nface of his genius, his character, and his life. What man in his senses\never lived without religion? \"The fool hath said in his heart, There is\nno God\"--was Burns an atheist? We do not fear to say that he was\nreligious far beyond the common run of men, even them who may have had a\nmore consistent and better considered creed. The lessons he received in\nthe \"auld clay biggin\" were not forgotten through life. He speaks--and\nwe believe him--of his \"early ingrained piety\" having been long\nremembered to good purpose--what he called his \"idiot piety\"--not\nmeaning thereby to disparage it, but merely that it was in childhood an\ninstinct. \"Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name!\" is\nbreathed from the lips of infancy with the same feeling at its heart\nthat beats towards its father on earth, as it kneels in prayer by his\nside. No one surely will doubt his sincerity when he writes from Irvine\nto his father--\"Honor'd sir--I am quite transported at the thought,\nthat ere long, perhaps soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the\npains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life; for I\nassure you I am heartily tired of it, and, if I do not very much deceive\nmyself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. It is for this reason\nI am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th\nchapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the\nwhole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they\ninspire me, for all that this world has to offer. '15. Therefore are\nthey before the throne of God and serve him day and night in his temple;\nand he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 16. They shall\nhunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on\nthem, nor any heat. 17. For the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne\nshall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters;\nand God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'\" When he gives\nlessons to a young man for his conduct in life, one of them is, \"The\ngreat Creator to adore;\" when he consoles a friend on the death of a\nrelative, \"he points the brimful grief-worn eyes to scenes beyond the\ngrave;\" when he expresses benevolence to a distressed family, he\nbeseeches the aid of Him \"who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;\" when\nhe feels the need of aid to control his passions, he implores that of\nthe \"Great Governor of all below;\" when in sickness, he has a prayer for\nthe pardon of all his errors, and an expression of confidence in the\ngoodness of God; when suffering from the ills of life, he asks for the\ngrace of resignation, \"because they are thy will;\" when he observes the\nsufferings of the virtuous, he remembers a rectifying futurity;--he is\nreligious not only when surprised by occasions such as these, but also\non set occasions; he had regular worship in his family while at\nEllisland--we know not how it was at Dumfries, but we do know that there\nhe catechised his children every Saturday evening;--Nay, he does not\nenter a Druidical circle without a prayer to God.\n\nHe viewed the Creator chiefly in his attributes of love, goodness and\nmercy. \"In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or distracted with\nanxiety, the ideas of a superintending Deity, an Almighty protector, are\ndoubly dear.\" Him he never lost sight of, or confidence in, even in the\ndepths of his remorse. An avenging God was too seldom in his\ncontemplations--from the little severity in his own character--from a\nphilosophical view of the inscrutable causes of human frailty--and most\nof all, from a diseased aversion to what was so much the theme of the\nsour Calvanism around him; but which would have risen up an appalling\ntruth in such a soul as his, had it been habituated to profounder\nthought on the mysterious corruption of our fallen nature.\n\nSceptical thoughts as to revealed religion had assailed his mind, while\nwith expanding powers it \"communed with the glorious universe;\" and in\n1787 he writes from Edinburgh to a \"Mr. James M'Candlish, student in\nphysic, College, Glasgow,\" who had favored him with a long\nargumentative infidel letter, \"I, likewise, since you and I were first\nacquainted, in the pride of despising old women's stories, ventured on\n'the daring path Spinoza trod;' but experience of the weakness, not the\nstrength of human powers, _made me glad to grasp at revealed religion_.\"\nWhen at Ellisland, he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, \"My idle reasonings\nsometimes make me a little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart\nalways give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for the heart\nweaned from earth; the soul affianced to her God; the correspondence\nfixed with heaven; the pious supplication and devout thanksgiving,\nconstant as the vicissitudes of even and morn; who thinks to meet with\nthese in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life! No: to find\nthem in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search\namong the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty and\ndistress.\" And again, next year, from the same place to the same\ncorrespondent, \"That there is an incomprehensibly Great Being, to whom I\nowe my existence, and that he must be intimately acquainted with the\noperations and progress of the internal machinery, and consequent\noutward deportment of this creature he has made--these are, I think,\nself-evident propositions. That there is a real and eternal distinction\nbetween vice and virtue, and consequently, that I am an accountable\ncreature; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as\nfrom the evident imperfection, nay positive injustice, in the\nadministration of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there\nmust be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave, must, I\nthink, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment's\nreflection. I will go farther and affirm, that from the sublimity,\nexcellence, and purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled, by\nall the aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, though\n_to appearance_ he was himself the obscurest and most illiterate of our\nspecies: therefore Jesus was from God.\" Indeed, all his best letters to\nMrs. Dunlop are full of the expression of religious feeling and\nreligious faith; though it must be confessed with pain, that he speaks\nwith more confidence in the truth of natural than of revealed religion,\nand too often lets sentiments inadvertently escape him, that, taken by\nthemselves, would imply that his religious belief was but a\nChristianized Theism. Of the immortality of the soul, he never expresses\nany serious doubt, though now and then, his expressions, though\nbeautiful, want their usual force, as if he felt the inadequacy of the\nhuman mind to the magnitude of the theme. \"Ye venerable sages, and holy\nflamens, is there probability in your conjectures, truth in your\nstories, of another world beyond death; or are they all alike baseless\nvisions and fabricated fables? If there is another life, it must be only\nfor the just, the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea this\nof the world to come! Would to God I as firmly believed it as I ardently\nwish it.\"\n\nHow, then, could honored Thomas Carlyle bring himself to affirm, \"that\nBurns had no religion?\" His religion was in much imperfect--but its\nincompleteness you discern only on a survey of all his effusions, and by\ninference; for his particular expressions of a religious kind are\ngenuine, and as acknowledgments of the superabundant goodness and\ngreatness of God, they are in unison with the sentiments of the\ndevoutest Christian. But remorse never suggests to him the inevitable\ncorruption of man; Christian humility he too seldom dwells on, though\nwithout it there cannot be Christian faith: and he is silent on the need\nof reconcilement between the divine attributes of Justice and Mercy. The\nabsence of all this might pass unnoticed, were not the religious\nsentiment so prevalent in his confidential communications with his\nfriends in his most serious and solemn moods. In them there is frequent,\nhabitual recognition of the Creator; and who that finds joy and beauty\nin nature has not the same? It may be well supposed that if common men\nare more ideal in religion than in other things, so would be Burns. He\nwho has lent the colors of his fancy to common things, would not\nwithhold them from divine. Something--he knew not what--he would exact\nof man--more impressively reverential than anything he is wont to offer\nto God, or perhaps can offer in the way of institution--in temples made\nwith hands. The _heartfelt_ adoration always has a grace for him--in the\nsilent bosom--in the lonely cottage--in any place where circumstances\nare a pledge of its reality; but the moment it ceases to be _heartfelt_,\nand visibly so, it loses his respect, it seems as profanation. \"Mine is\nthe religion of the breast;\" and if it be not, what is it worth? But it\nmust also revive a right spirit within us; and there may be gratitude\nfor goodness, without such change as is required of us in the gospel. He\nwas too buoyant with immortal spirit within him not to credit its\nimmortal destination; he was too thoughtful in his human love not to\nfeel how different must be our affections if they are towards flowers\nwhich the blast of death may wither, or towards spirits which are but\nbeginning to live in our sight, and are gathering good and evil here for\nan eternal life. Burns believed that by his own unassisted\nunderstanding, and his own unassisted heart, he saw and felt those great\ntruths, forgetful of this great truth, that he had been taught them in\nthe Written Word. Had all he learned in the \"auld clay biggin\" become a\nblank--all the knowledge inspired into his heart during the evenings,\nwhen \"the sire turned o'er wi' patriarchal air, the big ha'-bible, ance\nhis father's pride,\" how little or how much would he then have known of\nGod and Immortality? In that delusion he shared more or less with one\nand all--whether poets or philosophers--who have put their trust in\nnatural Theology. As to the glooms in which his sceptical reason had\nbeen involved, they do not seem to have been so thick--so dense--as in\nthe case of men without number, who have, by the blessing of God, become\ntrue Christians. Of his levities on certain celebrations of religious\nrites, we before ventured an explanation; and while it is to be\nlamented that he did not more frequently dedicate the genius that shed\nso holy a lustre over \"The Cotter's Saturday Night,\" to the service of\nreligion, let it be remembered how few poets have done so--alas! too\nfew--that he, like his tuneful brethren, must often have been deterred\nby a sense of his own unworthiness from approaching its awful\nmysteries--and above all, that he was called to his account before he\nhad attained his thoughtful prime.\"\n\nSpeaking of Burns's last sickness, Professor Wilson says: \"But he had\nhis Bible with him in his lodgings, and he read it almost\ncontinually--often when seated on a bank, from which he had difficulty\nin rising without assistance, for his weakness was extreme, and in his\nemaciation he was like a ghost. The fire of his eye was not\ndimmed--indeed fever had lighted it up beyond even its natural\nbrightness; and though his voice, once so various, was now hollow, his\ndiscourse was still that of a Poet. To the last he loved the sunshine,\nthe grass, and the flowers; to the last he had a kind look and word for\nthe passers-by, who all knew it was Burns. Laboring men, on their way\nfrom work, would step aside to the two or three houses called the Brow,\nto know if there was any hope of his life; and it is not to be doubted\nthat devout people remembered him, who had written the Cotter's Saturday\nNight, in their prayers. His sceptical doubts no longer troubled him;\nthey had never been more than shadows; and he had at last the faith of a\nconfiding Christian.\"\n\nLeaving Burns's Monument, we ascend the hill, in the opposite direction,\npass the unfinished Parthenon, consisting only of a few elegant columns,\nand intended to commemorate the battle of Waterloo, the Observatory, and\nthe Monument of Professor Playfair, the celebrated mathematician and\nastronomer, and reach the elegant though not imposing monument of\nProfessor Dugald Stewart, not the most acute, but certainly the most\nfinished and instructive of all the writers of the Scottish metaphysical\nschool. Let us linger here, a few moments, for the name of Professor\nStewart is peculiarly dear to Scotland. No man was ever more\nenthusiastically regarded by his pupils, or more generally loved and\nrevered by the community. Dr. Reid of Glasgow University, the immediate\npredecessor and preceptor of Stewart, was a man of an acute and original\nmind, though not possessed of half the grace and fluency of his\nillustrious pupil. It was Reid however that first gave clearness and\nmethod to the metaphysics of Scotland. His writings on first principles,\nor, as he called them, principles of Common Sense, gave a death-blow, at\nleast in Scotland, to the _ideal theory_ of Berkeley and Hume, and\ngreatly affected the course of philosophical investigation not only in\nEngland but in France. In fact, his philosophy supplanted, for a time,\nthe infidel metaphysics of Hume and the French rationalists. It cut the\nroots equally of idealism and sensualism, and was eagerly received by\nthoughtful men in Europe and in this country. It can be seen running\nlike a sunbeam, through the speculations of Royer Collard, Constant,\nJouffroy and even of Cousin. Based on the Baconian method, it proceeded,\nmodestly and unostentatiously, to ascertain, and then to classify the\nfacts of mind; and, because it projected no splendid theories, or\nblazing fancies, it has been rejected by superficial and visionary\nthinkers, with some degree of contempt. After all, it may yet be\nrecognized, by all genuine philosophers, as the only true scientific\nmethod. In the hands of Stewart and of Brown, his colleague and\nsuccessor, it began to assume a lofty and attractive position; but alas!\nit has remained stationary for the want of strong and true-hearted\ndefenders. Stigmatized by the Germans as \"pallid and insular--timid and\ncold,\" it has been forsaken, of late, by the more popular metaphysical\nwriters, for the brilliant and astounding, but ever varying visions of\nthe Transcendental School. Smitten with the love of Ontology, or the\ndoctrine of \"the absolute and the essential,\" scorning the methods of\nBacon and Newton as empirical and shallow, and setting their foot on the\nmodest, perhaps timid speculations of Reid and Stewart, metaphysicians\nhave plunged one after another into the abyss of an absolute\nSpiritualism, where, amid the glimmerings of a half-dark and lurid\nradiance, may be seen the disciples of Kant and Fichte, Hegel and\nSchelling, floundering in the gloom, changing places continually, now\nrising towards the light of heaven, and then sinking in the \"abysmal\ndark.\"\n\nThe writings of Reid, Stewart and Brown have exerted a great influence\non the thinking of Scotland, which, even among the common people, has a\nsomewhat metaphysical turn. Combining with religion and poetry, it has\ngiven to both a peculiar depth and earnestness of tone. In some it is\ndeeply practical, in others speculative and visionary.\n\nThomas Carlyle, the product chiefly of Scotland, but partly also of\nGermany--or perhaps, rather, a magnificent \"lusus naturae,\" has a large\namount of Scottish shrewdness, enthusiasm and speculation, overlaid and\nburnished with German spiritualism and romance. A native of Annandale,\nand imbued with the religion of the Covenant, and the poetry of the\nhills, he has wandered off into the fields of metaphysical speculation,\nwhere, amid dreams of gorgeous and beautiful enchantment, he is evermore\nuttering his burning oracular words, of half pagan, and half Christian,\nwisdom. A genuine _Teufelsdroeckh_,--he is yet a genuine _Scot_, and\ncannot therefore forget the holy wisdom of his venerable mother, and his\nAnnandale home.[16]\n\n[Footnote 16: The following graphic description of the residence,\npersonal appearance and conversation of Carlyle is from the pen of\nElizur Wright, Junr. \"Passing the long lines of new buildings which have\nstretched from Westminster up the Thames, and engulphed the old village\nof Chelsea, in omnivorous London, you recognize at last the old Chelsea\nHospital, one of the world-famous clusters of low brick palaces, where\nBritain nurses her fighting men when they can fight no more. A little\npast this and an old ivy-clad church, with its buried generations lying\naround it, you come to an antique street running at right angles with\nthe Thames, and a few steps from the river, you find Carlyle's name on\nthe door. A Scotch lass ushers you into the second story front chamber,\nwhich is the spacious workshop of the world-maker. Here are lots of\nbooks--ponderous tomes in Latin, Greek, and black letter English,--some\nare on shelves occupying nearly all the walls, and some are piled on\ntables and a reading rack as having just been read. The furniture speaks\nof Scotch economy, and the whole face of things of more than common\nScotch tidiness. In fact, a superbly wrought bell-rope indicates that\nthe wife is a true hero worshipper. Carlyle is a mere man, ordinary\nsize, lofty and jutting brow, keen--exceedingly keen eye, and modest\nunassuming manners. His voice is melodious, and with its rich Scotch\ncadence, and rapid flow, reminds you of Thalberg's music in some strange\nout of the way key. Just set him agoing, and he runs without stopping,\ngiving you whole masses of history, painting and poetry, and a great\nmass of the boundless system of Carlyleism. There is nothing which he\ndoes not touch; and figures of speech come tumbling in from all corners,\ntop and bottom of the universe, as the merest matter of course. Doubt,\nhesitation or qualification have no place among his opinions, he having\nkicked them all out of doors when he began his philosophy.\"\n\nMany inquiries have been made respecting Carlyle's religious opinions;\nbut it is difficult to say anything very decisive in reply. That he has\na deep reverence for the Christian faith,--that he strongly inclines to\na sort of transcendental orthodoxy,--that he loves, moreover,\ntrue-hearted piety, and is himself a model of integrity and affection\ncannot be doubted. He often speaks of Jesus as divine,--as the most\nperfect of all heroes--as the God man--as the Divine man. He possesses a\nprofound sympathy for the higher and more beautiful forms of Christian\nvirtue, and describes the lives and characters of good men with the\nliveliest relish. We incline therefore to believe, that notwithstanding\nhis transcendental speculations, and philosophical doubts, he has a true\n(though not thoroughly defined) heart faith in the essential doctrines\nof the Christian system. Clouds and darkness hang upon the horizon of\nhis spiritual vision, but gloriously irradiated with light from heaven,\nand here and there opening into vistas of serene and ineffable beauty.\nMany of his followers, we think, do not understand him, and we fear,\nwill never reach his purity and elevation of mind. They are more likely\nto be led astray, by the magnificent illusions of his gifted but\nsomewhat erring fancy. Instead of resting in the simple-hearted and\nheroic faith which he loves so much to describe, they may plunge into\nthe abysses of doubt and despair.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n     Preaching in Edinburgh--The Free Church--Dr. Chalmers--A Specimen\n     of his Preaching--The Secret of his Eloquence.\n\n\nEdinburgh has ever been distinguished for its preachers. In former times\nthe classic Blair, the fervid Walker, the impassioned Logan, the\njudicious Erskine, the learned Jamieson, the exquisite Alison, the\ncandid Wellwood and the energetic Thomson delighted and instructed all\nclasses of the community. To these have succeeded a host of learned and\ntruly eloquent men, some of whom are members of \"the Kirk,\" others of\nthe Episcopal communion, and others of the various bodies of\nPresbyterian \"Seceders,\" Congregationalists and Baptists. Among the\nclergymen of the Free Church, Dr. Chalmers of course is \"_facile\nprinceps_;\" Dr. Candlish, in effectiveness and popularity probably\nstands next, while Drs. Cunningham, Bruce, Gordon and Buchanan, the Rev.\nJames Begg, and one or two others form a cluster of influential and\neloquent preachers. Among the Congregationalists, Rev. William L.\nAlexander is the most learned and polished. He has written ably on the\nTractarian controversy and on the connection of the Old and New\nTestaments, and recently received a pressing invitation to become\nassociated with Dr. Wardlaw of Glasgow, as assistant pastor and\nProfessor of Theology. He is a fine looking man, being some six feet\nhigh, with expressive features, dark penetrating eyes, and massive black\nhair, clustering over a fair and lofty forehead. His manner is dignified\nand agreeable, but not particularly impassioned.\n\nAmong the \"seceding\" Presbyterians, Dr. John Brown, minister of\nBroughton Place, and one of the Professors of Theology in the United\nSecession Church, the Rev. Dr. Johnstone and the Rev. James Robertson of\nthe same communion are among the most effective preachers in Scotland.\nThe Baptists are justly proud of the learned and polished Christopher\nAnderson, author of an able work on the \"Domestic Constitution,\" and an\nelaborate \"History of the English Bible\"--the Rev. William Innes, one of\nthe most amiable and pious of men, and the Rev. Jonathan Watson, whose\nearnest practical discourses are well appreciated by his intelligent\naudience. Mr. Innes at one time was a minister of the established\nChurch, with a large salary and an agreeable situation, but abandoned it\nfor conscience' sake, as he could not approve of the union of Church and\nState, nor of some of the peculiarities of Presbyterianism. His pious,\nconsistent course, and liberal, catholic spirit, have won for him the\nadmiration of all denominations of Christians.\n\nBishop Terrot of the Episcopal Church is somewhat high in his church\nnotions, but is regarded as an amiable and learned man, while the Rev.\nMr. Drummond and others of the same church, are able and influential\npreachers. Among those who adhere to \"the Kirk\" as it was, the Rev. Dr.\nMuir is one of the most accomplished, and the Rev. Dr. Lee, of the\nUniversity, the most learned and influential.\n\nTaken as a whole, the Edinburgh clergy are fair representatives of the\nScottish preachers generally. Those therefore who wish to form a just\nestimate of the spirit and power of the pulpit in Scotland, have only to\nhear them repeatedly, in their respective places of worship. They hold\ndoctrinal views somewhat diverse, though essentially one, adopt\ndifferent styles of preaching, and in certain aspects different styles\nof life. Yet they manifestly belong to the same great family, and preach\nthe same glorious gospel. They are remarkably distinguished for their\nstrong common sense, laborious habits, pious spirit and practical\nusefulness. Occasionally they come into keen polemical strife; but it\namounts to little more than a gladiatorial exhibition, or rather a light\nskirmishing, without malice prepense, or much evil result. Generally\nspeaking, they are not pre-eminently distinguished for their learning,\nthough certainly well informed, and devoted to the great work of their\nministry. They are more practical than speculative, more devout than\ncritical, more useful than renowned. They live in the hearts of their\nflocks, and the results of their labors may be seen in the integrity,\ngood order and industry of the people. It is not our purpose to say much\non the subject of the recent \"break\" in the Scottish church, in which,\nas the members of the \"Free Church\" assert, the supremacy of Jesus\nChrist is concerned. The intrusion by lay patrons, of unpopular\nministers upon the churches, is certainly a vicious practice, and ought\nto be abolished. But this is only a fragment of a greater and more vital\nquestion, pertaining to the spirituality and authority of Christ's\nchurch, which must be settled one of these days. The Free Church\nmovement has developed much fine enthusiasm, and no small amount of\nself-denial; and the results will doubtless be favorable to the progress\nof spiritual freedom; but this is only a single wave of a mighty and\never increasing tide, which is destined to sweep, not over Scotland\nalone, but over the world. In this place, however, we cannot refrain\nfrom expressing our conviction that this division in the Presbyterian\nranks is not properly a schism or a heresy. It breaks up an existing\norganization, but affinity remains. The doctrines and discipline of the\ntwo churches are essentially the same. The one may be purer and stronger\nthan the other, but they are members of the same family, professedly\ncherish the same spirit, and aim at the accomplishment of the same ends.\nThis, too, may be said of nearly all the other sects; so that in\nScotland, there is more real unity among Christians than there is in\nPapal Rome. The latter is one, only as a mountain of ice, in which all\nimpurities are congealed, is one. The unity of the former is like that\nof the thousand streams which rush from the Alpine heights, proceeding,\nas they do, from a common source, and finally meeting and blending in a\ncommon ocean.\n\nBut enough of general speculation and description. Dr. Chalmers is to\npreach at Dr. Candlish's church, so let us go to hear him. He has lost\nsomething of his early vigor, but retains enough of it to make him the\nmost interesting preacher in Scotland or the world. Let us make haste,\nor we shall fail of obtaining a seat. Already the house is filled with\nan expectant congregation. The Doctor comes in, and all is hushed. He is\ndressed in gown and bands, and presents a striking and venerable\nappearance. His serious, earnest aspect well befits his high office. He\nis of the middle height, thick set and brawny, but not corpulent. His\nface is rather broad, with high cheek bones, pale, and as it were\ncare-worn, but well formed and expressive. His eyes are of a leaden\ncolor, rather dull when in a state of repose, but flashing with a\nhalf-smothered fire when fairly roused. His nose is broad and lion-like,\nhis mouth, one of the most expressive parts of his countenance, firm, a\nlittle compressed and stern, indicating courage and energy, while his\nforehead is ample and high, as one might naturally suppose, covered with\nthin, straggling grey hair. He reads a psalm in a dry, guttural\nvoice--reads a few verses of Scripture, without much energy or apparent\nfeeling, and then offers a brief, simple, earnest, and striking prayer.\nBy the way, the Doctor's prayers are among his most interesting\nexercises. He is always simple, direct, reverent, and occasionally quite\noriginal and striking. You feel while joining in his devotions, that a\nman of genius and piety is leading your willing spirit up to the throne\nof God. How striking, for example, when he calls us to remember \"that\nevery hour that strikes,--every morning that dawns, and every evening\nthat darkens around us, brings us nearer to the end of our pilgrimage.\"\nYet he has no mouthing or mannerism, in this solemn exercise. He is not\n_making_, but offering a prayer. His tones are earnest and solemn; most\nmanifest it is that his soul is holding intimate fellowship with the\nFather of Spirits.\n\nBut he announces his text--1 John iv. 16. \"God is love\"--a text from\nwhich he has preached before; but no matter for that.[17] He commences,\nwith a few broken sentences, pronounced in a harsh tuneless voice, with\na strong Scottish accent. The first feeling of a stranger would be that\nof disappointment, and apprehension that the discourse was to prove a\nfailure. This was the case with Canning and Wilberforce, who went to\nhear Dr. Chalmers, when he preached in London. They had got into a pew\nnear the door, when \"the preacher began in his usual unpromising way, by\nstating a few nearly self-evident propositions, neither in the choicest\nlanguage, nor in the most impressive voice; 'If this be all,' said\nCanning to his companion, 'it will never do.' Chalmers went on,--the\nshuffling in the congregation gradually subsided. He got into the mass\nof his subject; his weakness became strength, his hesitation was turned\ninto energy; and bringing the whole volume of his mind to bear upon it,\npoured forth a torrent of most close and conclusive argument, brilliant\nwith all the exuberance of an imagination which ranged over all nature\nfor illustrations, and yet managed and applied each of them with the\nsame unerring dexterity, as if that single one had been the study of his\nwhole life. 'The tartan beats us,' said Mr. Canning, 'we have no\npreaching like that in England.'\"\n\n[Footnote 17: In looking over the Doctor's printed works, we have found\nthis discourse in a somewhat different garb from that in which we have\npresented it. We were not at first aware of this, or we might have\nselected some other discourse; for it was our good fortune to hear the\nDoctor frequently. This and other delineations, however, are taken from\npersonal observation.]\n\nIt may be well to state here that Chalmers is a slavish reader,--that\nis, he reads every thing he says,--but then he reads so naturally, so\nearnestly, so energetically, that manuscript and everything else is\nspeedily forgotten by the astonished and delighted hearer.\n\nHe proceeds with his subject--_God is love_. His object, as announced,\nis not so much to elucidate the thought or idea of the text, as to\ndislodge from the minds of his hearers, the dread and aversion for God,\nexisting in all unregenerate men. He insists, in the first place, that\nit is not as a God of love, that the Deity is regarded by mankind--but\nsimply as God, as a being mysterious and dreadful, a being who has\ndispleasure towards them in his heart. This arises from two causes--the\nfirst, that they are ignorant of this great and awfully mysterious\nBeing--the second, that they have sinned against him. This feeling then\nis displaced first by the incarnation of the Deity in the person of his\nSon, so that we may know him and love him as a Father and a friend; and\nsecondly, by the free pardon of our sin, through the sacrifice of the\nCross. The division is rather awkward; but it serves the purpose of the\npreacher, who thus brings out some of the most sublime peculiarities of\nthe Gospel, and applies them with overwhelming force and pathos to the\nsinner's heart. Under the first head, he shows, in language of uncommon\nenergy, that it is impossible for man, in his present state, to regard a\nbeing so vast, so mysterious, and so little known as God, except with\nsuperstitious dread. \"All regarding him,\" says he, \"is inscrutable; the\ndepths of his past eternity, the mighty and unknown extent of his\ncreation, the secret policy or end of his government--a government that\nembraces an infinity of worlds, and reaches forward to an infinity of\nages; all these leave a being so circumscribed in his faculties as man,\nso limited in his duration, and therefore so limited in his experience,\nin profoundest ignorance of God; and then the inaccessible retirement in\nwhich this God hides himself from the observation of his creatures here\nbelow, the clouds and darkness which are about the pavilion of his\nthrone, the utter inability of the powers of man to reach beyond the\nconfines of that pavilion, render vain all attempts to fathom the\nessence of God, or to obtain any distinct conception of his person or\nbeing, which have been shrouded in the deep silence of many centuries,\ninsomuch that nature, whatever it may tell us of his existence, places\nbetween our senses and this mighty cause a veil of interception.\"\n\nIt is not unnatural to dread such a being. Nature, though full of God,\nfurnishes no clear and satisfying evidence of his designs; for sunshine\nand shower, green fields and waving harvests are intermingled with\ntempests and hurricane, blight and mildew, destruction and death. \"While\nin one case we have the natural affection and unnumbered sweets of many\na cottage, which might serve to manifest the indulgent kindness of him\nwho is the universal parent of the human family; we have on the other\nhand the cares, the heart-burnings, the moral discomforts, often the\npining sickness, or the cold and cheerless poverty, or, more palpably,\nthe fierce contests and mutual distractions even among civilized men;\nand lastly, and to consummate all, the death,--the unshaken and\nrelentless death with which generation after generation, whether among\nthe abodes of the prosperous and the happy, or among the dwellings of\nthe adverse and unfortunate, after a few years are visited, laying all\nthe varieties of human fortune in the dust,--these all bespeak if not a\nmalignant, an offended, God.\"\n\nBut this vague uncertainty and dread are corrected and displaced by the\nincarnation of the Deity in the person of Christ--\"the brightness of the\nFather's glory and the express image of his person.\" \"The Godhead then\nbecame palpable to human senses, and man could behold, as in a picture,\nand in distinct personification, the very characteristics of the Being\nthat made him.\"\n\nUpon this idea, a favorite one with Dr. Chalmers, he dwells with the\nprofoundest interest, presenting it with a strength of conception and\nexuberance of illustration which makes it clear and palpable to the\nminds of all. How his heart glows, almost to bursting, with the sublime\nand thrilling idea that God is manifest in the flesh. How he pours out,\nas in a torrent of light, the swelling images and emotions of his\nthrobbing spirit. \"We could not scale the height of that mysterious\nascent which brings us within view of the Godhead. It is by the descent\nof the Godhead unto us that this manifestation has been made; and we\nlearn and know it from the wondrous history of him who went about doing\ngood continually. We could not go in search of the viewless Deity,\nthrough the depths and vastnesses of infinity, or divine the secret, the\nuntold purposes that were brooding there. But in what way could a more\npalpable exhibition have been made, than when the eternal Son, enshrined\nin humanity, stepped forth on the platform of visible things, and there\nproclaimed the Deity? We can now reach the character of God in the human\nlooks, in the human language of Him who is the very image and visible\nrepresentative of the Deity; we see it in the tears of sympathy he shed;\nwe hear it in the accents of tenderness which fell from his lips. Even\nhis very remonstrances were those of a deep and gentle nature; for they\nare remonstrances of deepest pathos--the complaints of a longing spirit\nagainst the sad perversity of men bent on their own ruin.\"\n\nNot content with this clear and ample exhibition of his views, he\nreturns to it, as if with redoubled interest, and though presenting no\nnew conception upon the point, delights to pour upon it the exuberant\nradiance of his teeming imagination. The hearers, too, are as interested\nas he, and catch with delight the varying aspects of his peculiar\noratory. In fact, their minds are in perfect sympathy and harmony with\nhis; and tears start to every eye, as he bursts out, as if applying the\nsubject to himself, in the following beautiful and affecting\nstyle:--\"Previous to this manifestation, as long as I had nothing before\nme but the unseen God, my mind wandered in uncertainty, my busy fancy\nwas free to expatiate, and its images filled my heart with disquietude\nand terror; but in the life and person and history of Jesus Christ, the\nattributes of the Deity are brought down to the observation of the\nsenses, and I can no longer mistake them, when, in the Son, who is the\nexpress image of his Father, I see them carried home to my understanding\nby the evidence and expression of human organs--when I see the kindness\nof the Father, in the tears that fell from the Son at the tomb of\nLazarus--when I see his justice blended with his mercy, in the\nexclamation, 'O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!' by Jesus Christ, uttered with a\ntone more tender than human bosom or human sympathy ever uttered--I feel\nthe judgment of God himself flashing conviction on my conscience, and\ncalling me to repent, while his wrath is suspended, and he still waiteth\nto be gracious!\"\n\nBut a more distinct and well-grounded reason for distrust and fear in\nreference to the Deity arises from the consciousness of guilt. In spite\nof ourselves, in spite of our false theology, we feel that God has a\nright to be offended with us, that he is offended with us, and not only\nso, but that we deserve his displeasure. This he shows is counteracted\nby the doctrine of the atonement: \"Herein is love, not that we loved\nhim, but that he loved us, and sent his Son into the world to be a\npropitiation for our sins.\" By the fact of the incarnation, a conquest\nis gained over the imagination haunted with the idea of an unknown God;\nso also by that of the atonement, a conquest is gained over the solid\nand well-grounded fear of guilt. This idea the Doctor illustrates with\nequal force and beauty, showing that by means of the Sacrifice of the\nCross, justice and mercy are brought into harmony, in the full and free\npardon of the believing penitent. By this means the great hindrance to\nfree communion with God is taken away. Guilt is cancelled, for the sake\nof Him who died, and the poor trembling sinner is taken to the bosom of\nInfinite Love. \"In the glorious spectacle of the Cross, we see the\nmystery revealed, and the compassion of the parent meeting in fullest\nharmony with the now asserted and now vindicated prerogative of the\nLawgiver. The Gospel is a halo of all the attributes of God, and yet the\npre-eminent manifestation there is of God as love, which will shed its\nlustre amid all the perfections of the Divine nature. And here it should\nbe specially remarked, that the atonement was made for the sins of the\nwhole world; God's direct and primary object being to vindicate the\ntruth and justice of the Godhead. Instead of taking from his love, it\nonly gave it more emphatic demonstration; for, instead of love, simple\nand bending itself without difficulty to the happiness of its objects,\nit was a love which, ere it could reach the guilty being it groaned\nafter, had to force the barriers of a necessity which, to all human\nappearance, was insuperable.\" With this fine idea the Doctor concludes\nhis discourse, presenting it with a mingled tenderness and vehemence of\nstyle and tone perfectly irresistible. \"The love of God,\" he exclaims,\n\"with such an obstacle and trying to get over it, is a higher exhibition\nthan all the love which radiates from his throne on all the sinless\nangels. The affirmation that God is love, is strengthened by that other,\nto him who owns the authority of Scripture, that God _so_ loved the\nworld--I call on you to mark the emphatic _so_--as to give his\nonly-begotten Son. 'He spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for\nus all;' or that expression, 'herein is love, not that we loved God, but\nthat he loved us, and gave his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.'\nThere is a moral, a depth, an intensity of meaning, a richness of\nsentiment that Paul calls unsearchable, in the Cross of Christ, that\ntells emphatically that God is righteousness, and that God is love.\"\n\nSuch is a feeble and imperfect outline of a rich and eloquent discourse,\nfrom one of the richest and most expressive texts in the Bible. But we\ncannot transfer to the written or printed page the tone, look and\nmanner, the _vivida vis_, the natural and overwhelming energy, the\npathos and power of tone, which thrill the hearer as with the shocks of\na spiritual electricity. It is this peculiar energy which distinguishes\nChalmers, and which distinguishes all great orators. His mind is on fire\nwith his subject, and transfers itself all glowing to the minds of his\nhearers. For the time being all are fused into one great whole, by the\nresistless might of his burning eloquence. In this respect Chalmers has\nbeen thought to approach, nearer than any other man of modern times, the\nstyle and tone of Demosthenes. His manner has a torrent-vehemence, a\nsea-like swell and sweep, a bannered tramp as of armies rushing to\ndeadly conflict. With one hand on his manuscript, and the other jerked\nforward with electric energy, he thunders out his gigantic\nperiods, as if winged with \"volleyed lightning.\" The hearers are\nastonished,--awed,--carried away,--lifted up as on the wings of the\nwind, and borne \"whithersoever the master listeth.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n    Biographical Sketch of Dr. Chalmers.\n\n\nAs an evangelical divine, a preacher of great strength and earnestness,\na man of a truly devout and generous spirit, of great independence,\nenergy and perseverance, a leader of the Free Church of Scotland, and a\nsuccessful advocate of the doctrine of Christ's supremacy, Dr. Chalmers\nmay be regarded as a fair embodiment of the religious spirit of his\nnative land. In his mode of thinking, in his doctrinal belief and\npractice, especially in his devout and fervid eloquence, the Doctor is\neminently Scottish. His whole spirit is bathed in the piety of \"the\nCovenant.\" On this account a brief sketch of his history will not be\ninappropriate in this place.\n\nThomas Chalmers, D. D., was born about the year 1780, in the town of\nAnstruther in Fifeshire, the birth-place of another man of genius,\nProfessor Tennant, of St. Andrews, the celebrated author of \"Anster\nFair,\" one of the most facetious poems in the language, and making a\nnear approach to the dramatic energy of \"Tam O'Shanter.\" Young Chalmers\ngave decided indications of genius and energy, and was sent to the\nCollege of St. Andrews, and soon became \"a mathematician, a natural\nphilosopher, and though there was no regular professor of that science\nat St. Andrews, a chemist.\" After having been licensed as a preacher, he\nofficiated for sometime, as assistant minister, at Cavers in\nRoxburghshire. He was subsequently called to the care of the parish\nchurch in Kilmany, beautifully situated \"amid the green hills and\nsmiling valleys,\" of his native county. He was ordained on the 12th of\nMay, 1803, and soon displayed the vigor and activity of his mind. In\naddition to his regular parochial engagements, he devoted much attention\nto botany and chemistry; lectured on the latter science and kindred\nsubjects in the neighboring towns; became an officer in a volunteer\ncorps; assisted the late Professor Vilant in teaching the mathematical\nclass in the College of St. Andrews; on the succeeding session opened a\nprivate class of his own, on the same branch of science, to which all\nthe students flocked; and wrote one or two books, and several pamphlets\non the topics of the day. His first publication appeared at Cupar in\nFife on what was called the Leslie Controversy. It was written in the\nform of a letter addressed to Professor Playfair; and abounds in talent,\nwit and humor. It was published anonymously, and for a long time was not\nknown to be his. He vindicates in it very powerfully, the divines of the\nChurch of Scotland, from the imputation of a want of mathematical\ntalent, a reproach which he thought Professor Playfair had thrown upon\nthem. He also wrote a volume on the resources of the country, which\nattracted much attention, as a work of ability and eloquence.\n\nFrom these statements it must be evident that Dr. Chalmers had but\nlittle time to devote to the spiritual interests of his parish. He\nperformed his _stated_ duties, it is true, but devoted his energies\nchiefly to literary and scientific pursuits. Indeed he was in religious\nbelief a rationalist, and had not yet adopted those profound and\nspiritual convictions which subsequently formed the main-spring of his\nministry. In 1805 he offered himself as a candidate for the vacant chair\nof Mathematics in the University of Edinburgh, with considerable chances\nof success, but afterwards withdrew his name at the earnest solicitation\nof his friends, who wished to retain him in the Church.\n\nWhen Dr. Brewster's Edinburgh Encyclopedia was projected Dr. Chalmers\nwas engaged as one of the contributors, and wrote the article\n\"Christianity,\" which was subsequently published in a separate form. It\nwas about this time that his mind underwent a radical change on the\nsubject of vital religion. He discovered the utter inefficiency of a\nutilitarian morality, for the renovation and guidance of man, and\neagerly embraced those peculiar views of evangelical faith, which\nrecognize the sacrifice and intercession of Christ as a ground of hope\nto the fallen, the necessity of \"being born of the Spirit,\" and the\nineffable beauty and blessedness of \"a life hid with Christ in God.\" It\nis said that this change took place while writing the article referred\nto; he then felt the necessity of acting upon his own principles, of\nyielding his heart absolutely and forever, to the truths of that\nRevelation, the reality and authority of which he was called to prove.\nIt will be remembered by those acquainted with the article in question,\nthat he takes the ground that a divine revelation must necessarily be\nmysterious; that coming from God, it must belong to the infinite\nand the obscure, and thus contain many things which shock our\npreconceptions,--that _a priori_ objections to its doctrines are\ntherefore null and void, and that the whole must be received, without\nexception or modification. He insists that while we have experience of\nman, we have little or no experience of God, that the thoughts of such a\nBeing must infinitely transcend ours, and in all probability contradict\nours, especially with reference to the great problem touching the\nsalvation of the guilty. If then the genuineness and authenticity of the\nsacred books can be proved as historical facts, we have nothing to do\nwith the revelation which they contain, but to receive it with adoring\ngratitude and submission. The incarnation of the Godhead, the sacrifice\nof the Cross, justification by faith, the re-birth of the soul by the\nHoly Spirit, the resurrection of the body, and eternal judgement are\nrevealed facts or truths, already proved, and must therefore constitute\nthe heart's-creed of every true believer. These doctrines consequently\nwere embraced by Chalmers himself, and formed thenceforward the subjects\nof his preaching to the people. A great excitement ensued. The community\nwas aroused--multitudes were converted. Chalmers preached with the\ngreatest fervor and unction, and hundreds flocked to hear him from the\nneighboring parishes. This produced inquiry, and he found it necessary\nto give explanations in reference to the causes which had effected such\na change in his ministry. In this view the following will be read with\ninterest and profit:\n\n\"And here I cannot but record the effect of an actual though undesigned\nexperiment which I prosecuted upwards of twelve years amongst you. For\nthe greater part of that time I could expatiate on the meanness of\ndishonesty, on the villany of falsehood, on the despicable arts of\ncalumny--in a word upon all those deformities of character which awaken\nthe natural indignation of the human heart against the pests and the\ndisturbers of society. Now, could I, upon the strength of these warm\nexpostulations, have got the thief to give up his stealing, and the evil\nspeaker his censoriousness, and the liar his deviations from truth, I\nshould have felt all the repose of one who had gotten his ultimate\nobject. It never occurred to me that all this might have been done, and\nyet every soul of every hearer have remained in full alienation from\nGod; and that even could I have established in the bosom of one who\nstole such a principle of abhorrence at the meanness of dishonesty that\nhe was prevailed upon to steal no more, he might still have retained a\nheart as completely unturned to God, and as totally unpossessed of a\nprinciple of love to Him as before. In a word, though I might have made\nhim a more upright and honorable man, I might have left him as destitute\nof the essence of religious principle as ever. But the interesting fact\nis that during the whole of that period in which I made no attempt\nagainst the natural enmity of the mind to God, while I was inattentive\nto the way in which this enmity is dissolved, even by the free offer on\nthe one hand, and the believing acceptance on the other, of the Gospel\nsalvation; while Christ, through whose blood the sinner, who by nature\nstands afar off, is brought near to the Heavenly Lawgiver whom he has\noffended, was scarcely ever spoken of, or spoken of in such a way as\nstripped him of all the importance of his character and offices, even at\nthis time I certainly did press the reformations of honor, and truth,\nand integrity among my people; but I never even heard of any such\nreformations being effected amongst them. If there was anything at all\nbrought about in this way, it was more than I ever got any account of. I\nam not sensible that all the vehemence with which I urged the virtues\nand the proprieties of social life had the weight of a feather on the\nmoral habits of my parishioners. And it was not till I got impressed\nwith the utter alienation of the heart in its desires and affections\nfrom God; it was not till reconciliation to Him became the distinct and\nthe prominent object of my ministerial exertions; it was not till I took\nthe scriptural way of laying the method of reconciliation before them;\nit was not till the free offer of forgiveness through the blood of\nChrist was urged upon their acceptance, and the Holy Spirit given\nthrough the channel of Christ's mediatorship to all who ask him, was\nset before them as the unceasing object of their dependence and their\nprayers; it was not, in one word, till the contemplations of my people\nwere turned to these great and essential elements in the business of a\nsoul providing for its interest with God, and the concerns of its\neternity, that I ever heard of any of those subordinate reformations\nwhich I aforetime made the earnest and the zealous, but I am afraid, at\nthe same time, ultimate object of my earlier ministrations. To servants,\nwhose scrupulous fidelity has now attracted the notice and drawn forth,\nin my hearing, a delightful testimony from your masters, what mischief\nye would have done, had your zeal for doctrines and sacraments been\naccompanied by the sloth and remissness, and what, in the prevailing\ntone of moral relaxation, is counted the allowable purloining of your\nearlier days! But a sense of your heavenly Master's eye has brought\nanother influence to bear upon you; and while you are thus striving to\nadorn the doctrine of God your Saviour in all things, you may, poor as\nyou are, reclaim the great ones of the land to the acknowledgment of the\nfaith. You have, at least, taught me that to preach Christ, is the only\neffective way of preaching morality in all its branches; and out of your\nhumble cottages have I gathered a lesson, which I pray God I may be\nenabled to carry with all its simplicity into a wider theatre, and to\nbring, with all the power of its subduing efficacy upon the vices of a\nmore crowded population.\"\n\nIn 1815 Dr. Chalmers was translated to the Tron church of Glasgow, and\nhere displayed all the resources of his brilliant and vigorous mind.\nFired with a generous ardor for the salvation of souls, he poured the\ntruth of God upon rapt and crowded congregations. In addition to the\nindefatigable performance of his ministerial duties, he embarked with\neagerness in plans for the amelioration of the condition of the poor. He\nurged the importance of free school education, and although he had to\nencounter much prejudice, he accomplished a large amount of good for the\ncity of Glasgow. His views upon this subject are developed in a large\nwork, published at the time, on the \"Christian and Civic Condition of\nLarge Towns,\"--a production somewhat elaborate and diffuse, but\nabounding in important suggestions and earnest appeals.\n\nIn 1816 he was invited to preach before the King's Commissioner in the\nHigh Church of Edinburgh. His discourse on that occasion comprised the\nessence of his astronomical sermons, and was probably \"as magnificent a\ndisplay of eloquence as was ever heard from the pulpit.\" The effect upon\nthe audience was immediate and electric. It broke upon them like a\nshower of light from the opening heavens. By means of this discourse his\nfame was perhaps first widely established. From that day crowds followed\nhim wherever he went, and, to quote his own words, he began to feel the\nburden \"of a popularity of stare, and pressure and animal heat.\"\n\nIn 1819 Dr. Chalmers removed to the new church and parish of St.\nJohn's, in which place the writer, while a student at Glasgow College,\nhad the pleasure of hearing some of his thrilling discourses. He was\nthen in the hey-day of life, full of mental and bodily vigor, and\npreached with a rapidity, force, and pathos perfectly overwhelming. He\ncontinued to devote himself to the interests of the poor, and indeed\ntook part in every plan which contemplated the welfare of society.\n\nIn 1823 he was elected Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University\nof St. Andrews, \"where he imparted a very different character to this\ncourse from the mere worldly cast which it too generally assumes in our\nuniversities.\" Firmly convinced of the great truths of the Gospel, he\ninfused into his prelections the spirit of a profound and earnest\ngodliness. While here, he also delivered a separate course of lectures\non Political Economy, as connected with the chair of Moral Philosophy.\n\nIt may be supposed from his frequent changes that Dr. Chalmers was\neither a fickle or an ambitious man. But those best acquainted with the\ncircumstances, feel assured that this could not possibly have been the\ncase. He neither increased his income nor his popularity by means of\nthese changes, and all, we doubt not, were made with a view to greater\nusefulness. In one instance, certainly, he proved his disinterestedness\nby refusing the most wealthy living in the Church of Scotland, the west\nparish of Greenock, which was presented to him by the patron.\n\nHe was more than once offered an Edinburgh church, but uniformly\ndeclined it; as he had long conceived that his widest sphere of\nusefulness was a theological chair. He was accordingly elected to this\noffice, in the University of Edinburgh, and soon attracted the attention\nof a large and enthusiastic class of students. His lectures were able\nand brilliant; but this, in our judgment, was not the principal cause of\nhis success. It consisted, as we believe, in his own ardor and\nenthusiasm, and the consequent ardor and enthusiasm which he inspired in\nhis pupils. \"At one time the object of the young men seemed to be to\nevade attendance on the Divinity Lecture; now the difficulty became to\nget a good place to hear their eloquent instructor.\" By this means much\ngood was accomplished for the Church of Scotland, by diffusing amongst\nits ministry a true evangelical spirit. Still we believe that Dr.\nChalmer's true sphere of labor was the pulpit, and that here alone he\ncould exert his widest influence. It is true he preached occasionally\nwhile occupying the chair of Divinity, and gave a series of lectures on\nChurch Establishments, which at that time he earnestly defended. \"He\nconsidered that each established _church_ throughout the land may be\ntermed a centre of _emanation_, from which Christianity, with proper\nzeal, be made to move by an aggressive and converting operation, on the\nwide mass of the people; whilst a dissenting _chapel_ he views as a\ncentre of _attraction_ only for those who are religiously disposed.\"\nRecently the Doctor has found his _centre_ of _emanation_ sadly\ncurtailed. The union of church and state has proved, even to him, a\nprodigious hindrance and difficulty--a proof this, that theory and fact\nare very different things.\n\nIt was while Professor of Theology in Edinburgh, as we believe, that he\nvisited London, and attracted so much attention by his sermons and\nlectures. While there, Mr. Canning, Lord Castlereagh, Lord Eldon, the\nDuke of Sussex, with several branches of the Royal Family, whom, as the\njournals remarked, \"they were not accustomed to elbow at a place of\nworship,\" were found anxiously waiting to hear this modern Chrysostom.\nCaught by the irresistible charm of true genius and piety, they listened\nwith wonder and delight to his honest and earnest appeals. They felt and\nacknowledged that his sermons, \"as far transcended those of the mawkish\nproductions to be frequently met with, as does the genius of Milton or\nof Newton surpass that of the common herd of poets and philosophers.\" It\nwas a sublime sight to behold crowds of all ranks and conditions\nlistening devoutly to the vehement exhortations of this man of God.\n\n                        \"Can earth afford\n    Such genuine state, pre-eminence, so free,\n    As when arrayed in Christ's authority,\n    He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand;\n    Conjures, implores, and labors all he can\n    In resubjecting to Divine command\n    The stubborn spirit of rebellious man?\"\n\n    WORDSWORTH.\n\nDr. Chalmers, as all are aware, is the principal leader of the Free\nChurch movement. He has uniformly asserted the supremacy of Christ in\nhis own church, and the right of the people to the election of their\npastors. This being denied and withheld by the legal authorities in\nScotland, Dr. Chalmers, and the noble host of ministers and churches\nthat agreed with him, departed in a body from \"the Established Kirk.\" In\n1843 he relinquished his station as Professor of Theology in the\nUniversity; and since that time has occupied the same office, in\nconnection with \"the Free Church of Scotland.\" He is now considerably\nadvanced in years. His head is silvered with gray, and much of his\nnatural strength is abated. But his mind is yet clear and strong, his\nheart calm and joyful; and we can only hope and pray that he may be\nspared many years to come, as an ornament to his country, and an honor\nto the Church.\n\nIt is not our purpose in this place to say much on the subject of the\npublished works of Dr. Chalmers. These are quite voluminous. The English\nedition of his works consists of twenty-five duodecimo volumes. Of these\nthe two first volumes on _Natural Theology_, the third and fourth on the\n_Evidences of Christianity_, the fifth on _Moral Philosophy_, the sixth,\n_Commercial Discourses_, the seventh, _Astronomical Discourses_, and the\nlast four on _Paul's Epistle to the Romans_, are the most interesting\nand valuable.[18] In style and arrangement, in logic and definition,\nthey possess some obvious defects, but ever indicate a genius of the\nhighest order, a heart burning with love and zeal, a conscience void of\noffence toward God and toward all men; and a devotion, akin to that of\nangels and the spirits of just men made perfect.[19]\n\n[Footnote 18: All these, with the addition of four volumes of Sermons,\nforming the Theological Works of Dr. Chalmers, have been republished, in\nhandsome form, by Mr. Carter of New York.]\n\n[Footnote 19: In the introduction to \"Vinet's Vital Christianity,\" I\nhave given a more elaborate estimate of the mental peculiarities of Dr.\nChalmers, in connection with those of Vinet, \"the Chalmers of\nSwitzerland.\"\n\nSince the above sketch was written Dr. Chalmers has gone to his rest. He\ndied suddenly and unexpectedly on the 31st of May, 1847.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n     Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh--Rev. John Brown of\n     Whiteburn--Professor John Brown of Haddington--Rev. Dr.\n     Candlish--Specimen of his Preaching.\n\n\nBefore leaving the Edinburgh clergy, I wish to give you some account of\nthe Rev. Dr. John Brown, minister of Broughton Place Chapel, and\nProfessor of exegetical Theology in the United Secession Church, one of\nthe most amiable and accomplished of the Scottish ministers. He is the\nson of the Rev. John Brown of Whiteburn, and the grandson of the Rev.\nJohn Brown of Haddington, of whom I shall have something to say before\nthe close of the chapter.\n\nDr. Brown is between fifty and sixty years of age, with a fine form and\nexpressive countenance. Rather tall and slender, he looks much as one\nmight conceive the Apostle John to have done. His countenance is mild\nand dignified, nose slightly aquiline, brow arched and high, eyes dark\nand piercing, and his mouth indicative of mingled firmness and delicacy\nof character. His hair, once dark as the ravens, bears the marks of age\nand thought. In his youth, he was extremely vigorous and active; but he\nis evidently passing into \"the sere and yellow leaf.\"\n\nDr. Brown is a man of decided talent, though distinguished more for\nclearness and strength of intellect, than for genius and imagination.\nHis mind is highly cultivated, but it seldom glows and sparkles. His\ndiscourses are always interesting and instructive, but not often\nthrilling or overpowering. They never fall below mediocrity, are always\nclear, sensible and useful, but perhaps never rise to the highest heaven\nof invention. In this respect he much resembles the celebrated Dr.\nWardlaw, though, as a speaker, he is more effective. Dr. Wardlaw\nuniformly reads his sermons, Dr. Brown does not even use notes. He\npreaches probably from memory, as is the case with most of the Scottish\nclergy. They practice \"the committing\" of their sermons from their\nyouth, and acquire astonishing facility in this exercise, on which\naccount their preaching is often distinguished as much for its accuracy,\nas its energy and freedom. Dr. Brown appears to great advantage in the\npulpit. His ease, energy, gracefulness and variety of tone, attitude,\nand expression, are equally striking. Occasionally he hesitates for a\nword, but never fails to find the right one. His language is remarkably\nfull and accurate. His topics, too are uniformly well selected, clearly\ndivided and thoroughly discussed. If he does not, like Chalmers, awe and\nsubdue his audience, he seldom fails to interest and instruct them. His\nstyle is lucid and vivacious, and well adapted to useful practical\npreaching. A tone of deep and fervid piety pervades the whole, giving\nthe impression that a man of God is addressing to you the messages of\nHeaven.\n\nDr. Brown is orthodox, but liberal in his views and feelings. As a\ntheologian he belongs to the school of the moderate Calvinists. In\nconnection with the late amiable and accomplished Dr. Balmer of Berwick,\nhe was called to account some years ago, for his views of the atonement,\nwhich he regards not as a restricted, but as a universal blessing, that\nis to say, as a blessing, intended for the benefit not of a class, but\nof the whole world. This gave rise to a war of words, and to much\nuseless recrimination in the courts of the United Secession Church,\nwhich have left the matter pretty much where it was before. Dr. Brown's\nviews, however, are becoming prevalent in Scotland.\n\nDr. Brown has done much to promote the study of Biblical Literature,\nwhich has received comparatively little attention in Scotland. As\ntheologians the Scottish preachers are sound and practical, but with the\nexception of Dr. Campbell of Aberdeen, and Dr. McKnight of Edinburgh,\nthey have not distinguished themselves for their critical\ninvestigations. A new spirit begins to prevail among them. The highly\nrespectable denomination with which Dr. Brown is connected, is making\nrapid advances in this interesting branch of Biblical study.\n\nDr. Brown has taken an active part in the discussion of the question\ntouching the seperation of Church and State, and has published one or\ntwo pamphlets upon the subject. In polemics he has always evinced a\nsober and generous spirit.\n\nThe family, from which the subject of these remarks is descended, has\nbeen highly distinguished for its talents and piety. The most of its\nmembers have been eminent and useful preachers for several generations.\nDr. Brown's father, the Rev. John Brown, of Whiteburn, was for many\nyears one of the most devout and useful ministers of the Secession\nChurch. Indeed, he was a perfect patriarch in the rural district, where\nhe exercised his ministry. Every one knew him and loved him, as a man of\nsingular goodness and apostolic zeal. When a boy the writer used to\nattend his church, and well does he remember his meek and venerable\ncountenance, and the thrilling tones of his musical voice. He rode about\nhis parish on an old white pony, fat and good-natured like his master;\nand never failed, when he met one of his youthful parishioners, to stop\nand enter into conversation with him. \"Weel, my lad,\" he would say,\npatting my head, \"how d'ye do--and how's your faither, and how's your\nmither? And a' the family, are they weel? Gie them my compliments. And\nnow you maun be a good boy; dinna forget to say your prayers, and God\nwill bless you. Gude day!\" So off he would amble with a benignant smile,\nleaving a sweet and holy impression behind him, not forgotten to this\nvery day. In preaching, Mr. Brown had a peculiar tone or tune, which at\ntimes was perfectly thrilling. He frequently used the Scottish dialect\nin the more pathetic and practical parts of his discourses, and by this\nmeans produced a great impression upon his simple-hearted hearers. His\nstyle, too, was naturally quaint and terse, and this, set off by his\nbenignant look, his varied and tender tones, often made his sermons very\nmemorable. Some of his illustrations I remember now, though I ceased to\nhear him preach in my eighth year, having been removed to another part\nof the country. The following are specimens, perhaps not the best that\nmight be given, but certainly characteristic. \"There are three sorts of\nfolks in the world; the butterfly, the wasp, and the bee. The butterfly\nis the gaudy fool, the wasp is the malicious wicked, but the bee is the\ngude Christian!\" Imagine this, and the following, uttered with a\npeculiar sing-song and most expressive look and emphasis. \"When ye see\nreek coming out at the chimney, ye may conclude there's fire in the\nhouse; so, when ye hear a man cursing and swearing, ye may be sure that\nthe fire of hell is kindled in that man's heart!\" \"O my friends, hold on\nand persevere in the good ways of the Lord. A few more losses and\ncrosses, a few more troubles and trials, and we'll cross the swellings\no' Jordan, and then, O then, we'll sit and sing thegither on the hills\nof Zion!\" \"Fear not, little flock, it is your Father's good pleasure to\ngive you the kingdom. O the heart of our heavenly Father is a heart of\ntenderness and love. He will never leave you, nor forsake you. Why, only\nthink on't--ye'r his ain dear bairns; he'll tak you by the han', and\nlead you through the wilderness, till he bring you safe to the Heavenly\nCanaan, the hame of his children, the inheritance of his family!\"\n\nGood old man! he has gone, long since, to that blessed \"hame\" where\nfaithful ministers meet their beloved flocks, and \"sing together on the\nhills of Zion!\"\n\nMr. Brown had a brother _Ebenezer_, minister of Inverkeithing, who was\nstill more distinguished as a preacher. In his boyhood he was \"a great\nrogue,\" and used to teaze his \"douce\" and pious brother John, and\noccasion a good deal of trouble to his worthy father. But he was\nconverted when a young man, and became an exceedingly devout and\neloquent preacher. I had the pleasure of hearing him preach once in the\nopen air, at a sacramental occasion connected with his brother's\ncongregation in Whiteburn, but have a very indistinct recollection of\nthe discourse. But I well remember his earnest look, and the thrilling\ntones of his powerful voice. He was of small stature, but spoke with\ngreat force and vehemence, and occasionally with the same sing-song\nvoice, common among the old Scottish preachers. The congregation was\nrapt: a solemn stillness pervaded the atmosphere all around, so that one\ncould hear the chirpings of the grasshopper, and the song of the bird in\nthe neighboring woods, during the pauses of his long and earnest\nsentences.\n\nThe father of John Brown of Whiteburn, and grandfather of Dr. John Brown\nof Edinburgh, was the celebrated professor John Brown, author of the\nSelf-Interpreting Bible, Exposition of the Assembly's Shorter Catechism,\nand other works; and teacher of Theology in the United Secession Church.\nHe was an extraordinary man. When a poor shepherd boy, he conceived the\nidea of learning Latin and Greek, and having procured a few old books,\nactually accomplished the task, while tending his cattle on the hills.\nSo successful was he, that some of the old and superstitious people in\nthe neighborhood concluded that he must have been assisted by \"the evil\nspirit.\" On one occasion he went to Edinburgh, plaided and barefoot,\nwalked into a bookseller's shop, and asked for a Greek Testament. \"What\nare you going to do with a Greek Testament?\" said the bookseller. \"Read\nit,\" was the prompt reply. \"Read it!\" exclaimed the sceptical\nbookseller, with a smile; \"ye may have it for nothing if ye'll read it.\"\nTaking the book, he quietly read off a few verses, and gave the\ntranslation; on which he was permitted to carry off the Greek Testament\nin triumph.\n\nProfessor Brown was an eminently holy man. He was equally distinguished\nfor his simplicity and dignity of character. His preaching was much\nadmired by old and judicious persons. On one occasion, when he and\nothers were assisting a brother minister in services preparatory to the\ncelebration of the Lord's Supper, which services in Scotland usually\ntake place on the last days of the week preceding the \"sacramental\nsabbath,\" and are frequently held in the open air, a couple of gay young\nmen had been out hunting, and on their return home drew near to the\nlarge congregation who were listening at that moment to the preaching of\nan eloquent but somewhat showy divine. After standing a few moments, the\none said to the other, \"Did you ever hear such preaching as that?\"\n\"No,\" he replied with an oath, \"but he don't believe a word of it!\"\nAfter this preacher had closed, there stood up, in the \"tent,\" (a\ntemporary pulpit erected in the open air for the accommodation of the\nministers,) an old, humble looking man, who announced his text in a\ntrembling voice, as if he were afraid to speak in God's name. He went\non, and became more and more interesting, more and more impressive. The\nyoung men were awed, and listened with reverent attention to the close,\nwhen the one, turning to the other, said, \"And what d'ye think of that?\"\n\"Think of it,\" he replied, \"I don't know what to think. Why, didn't you\nsee how every now and then he turned round in the tent, as if Jesus\nChrist were behind him, and he was asking, 'Lord, what shall I say\nnext?'\" This preacher was John Brown, the secret of whose pulpit\neloquence was, the inspiration of an humble and contrite heart, touched\nby the finger of the Almighty; an eloquence as far transcending that of\nthe mere orator as the divine and heavenly transcends the human and\nearthly. This too, was the eloquence of the early Scottish\npreachers,--of Knox and Rutherford, of Guthrie and Erskine, of Cameron\nand Boston. This fired the hearts of the people with a holy and\nall-conquering zeal; this shed a glory over the death of the martyrs,\nand diffused among their descendants the love of \"the Covenant\" and the\nlove of God. May this ever continue to be the eloquence not only of the\nChurch in Scotland but of the Church throughout the world!\n\nThere is one other preacher in Edinburgh, of whom it would be desirable\nto give a full-length portrait. I refer to Dr. Candlish, certainly one\nof the most popular and effective preachers in the Free Church of\nScotland. But I am not in possession of the materials for such a\nportrait, having heard him preach only once, and being imperfectly\nacquainted with the events of his life. He is probably about forty-five\nyears of age, rather short of stature, and not particularly imposing or\nprepossessing in appearance. His face is rather long and sallow, but set\noff by an immense forehead, dark bushy hair, and a pair of fine black\neyes. He stands bolt upright in the pulpit, and speaks in a clear,\nstrong, deliberate, yet rapid voice. Judging from his published\ndiscourses, and the single specimen which I heard, I should think him\ndestitute of pathetic power. He is evidently most at home in the regions\nof ratiocination. His language is copious, energetic, and harmonious. In\nclearness and finish it is decidedly superior to that of Chalmers, and\nlittle inferior to Robert Hall's. It possesses a stateliness, combined\nwith a bounding energy, which render it very effective. His method is\nremarkably lucid, and his reasoning strong and convincing. In fancy, in\ntouching pathos, in overwhelming energy, in the vivid lightning flashes\nof genius, he is greatly inferior to Chalmers; but in clearness of\ndefinition, in compactness and purity of style, in strength of logic,\nand in completeness of arrangement and finish, he must be acknowledged\nsuperior. His discourses are highly evangelical. They abound in clear\nand instructive statements, and defences of the cardinal truths of the\nGospel. If deficient, it is in directness and pungency of appeal, in\nholy pathos, in solemn and subduing unction.\n\nAs a debater, Dr. Candlish stands pre-eminent. He may not possess the\nponderous strength of Cunningham, the overpowering energy of Chalmers,\nthe quick and versatile humor of Guthrie, or the eloquent polish of\nBuchanan. But he possesses, in unusual combination, clearness of method,\nlogical acumen, force and beauty of style, and an easy, graceful,\ncommanding elocution. When Chalmers dies, we predict that Candlish will\nbe the leader in the courts of the Free Church of Scotland.\n\nDr. Candlish has published quite a number of occasional sermons, and a\nvolume of lectures on the record of the Creation in the book of Genesis.\nThese lectures are interesting and instructive, but to our taste, they\nare too diffuse and elaborate, and not sufficiently critical, or rather\nexegetical and compact. They say much about a thing, without actually\nsaying the thing itself. But this is rather the fault of their design or\nplan, than of their execution, which as a whole indicates a high degree\nof talent. They contain many fine passages, and valuable suggestions.\n\nAmong his published discourses, one of the best is on the \"Incompetency\nof Reason, and the Fitness of Revelation;\" from Acts xvii. 23. \"Whom\ntherefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you.\" The following\npassage from that discourse will give a fair idea of his power. Speaking\nof the mournful condition of those who delight to investigate the works\nof God, but have never found God himself, he says:--\"They may feel a\nproud and high satisfaction, arising from the importance of the\nknowledge acquired in the successful employment of their powers and\nfaculties of mind. But brethren, they scarcely meet, in all the various\nand diversified tracks which they take, and in all the endless varieties\nof objects which encounter their judgments--they scarcely ever meet\ntheir God; they scarcely ever find him in the way; they scarcely ever\nseek him. In the wondrous elements, the richly scattered treasures of\npower, and wisdom and goodness, through which they make their progress,\nthey cannot shut their eyes to the presence of God; they must\nacknowledge a God: but it is God with attributes of their own choosing,\nnot the God of Scripture,--the God of nature, not the God of justice.\n_Him_ they exclude from their view; _Him_ they do not like to retain in\ntheir thoughts; and in the circumstances in which they cultivate the\nidea of a God, if mingling in their researches at all, they strip their\nideas of all which might remind them of their unsettled controversy with\nHim. Conceive of a man in such a state, so blind as to have exercised\nhis powers of discovery, in the full blaze of all the glory and the\nterrible majesty of a just God and a Saviour, without really finding\nhim, condemned to carry on his future work of discovery with a clear and\nstartling apprehension of all the moral attributes of God--his\nholiness,--his justice,--his truth--all as manifested in the cross of\nChrist, and all still carried on in a carnal mind and a self-condemned\nheart. Where now will be the joy of his lofty inquiries? Where now the\ntriumph of his lofty powers of knowledge? Every object he contemplates\nnow, is connected with the idea of a righteous God; every subject he can\nexamine now, is fraught with the presence of a righteous God; every new\nray of light that meets his eye, reveals to him a righteous God; every\nsound carries to his ear the name of God, repeated by a thousand echoes.\nHe can make no experiment now that will not show him more of the wonders\nand terrors of God. He can look at nothing, he can think of nothing,\nthat does not speak to him of God, and remind him of his justice: and\nall the bold traces of his profound discoveries regarding nature, now do\nbut suggest reminiscences of nature's God as a God of judgment; and so\nthe very faculty which was ever his pride and admiration,--the capacity\nof deep reflection and enlightened inquiry, does but add new sting and\ntorture to his reprobate mind, by suggesting always, everywhere, and in\nall things, new images and representations of that awful, that Almighty\nBeing, whom he has chosen to make his foe.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n     Ride into the Country--The Skylark--Poems on the Skylark by Shelley\n     and the 'Ettrick Shepherd'--Newhall--'The Gentle\n     Shepherd'--Localities and Outlines of the Story--Its Popularity in\n     Scotland.\n\n\n'Tis a beautiful morning in early June. The sun is peeping over Arthur's\nSeat, and glancing from the turrets of the old Castle. The carriage is\nready, and Sandy the driver is cracking his whip with impatience. So,\ntake your place, and let us be off. Passing 'Bruntsfield Links' we\nplunge into the very heart of the country, so rich and varied, with park\nand woodland scenery, handsome villas, and sweet acclivities. Yonder is\nMerchiston Castle, the birth-place of the celebrated Napier, the\ninventor of Logarithms. A little further on, we reach the smiling\nvillage of Morningside, and pass some pretty country residences, with\npleasant grounds and picturesque views. We enter a narrow and thickly\nwooded dell, through which tinkles a small rivulet, called the Braid\nBurn. At the bottom we come to the Braid Hermitage, as sweet a sylvan\nretreat as ever greeted the eye of the rural wanderer. Those rocky\nheights above us are the Braid Hills, from which can be enjoyed some of\nthe most splendid views in Scotland. Leaving the carriage a few minutes\nwe ascend that lofty eminence, and gaze, with delight upon the vast and\nbeautiful landscape, including the city of Edinburgh, the Firth of\nForth, with its \"emerald islands,\" and the winding shores of Fife in the\ndistance. Blackford hill, a little to the north of us is the spot\nmentioned in \"Marmion:\"\n\n    \"Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd,\n    For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd,\n    When sated with the martial show\n    That peopled all the plains below,\n    The wandering eye could o'er it go,\n    And mark the distant city glow\n      With gloomy splendor red;\n    For on the smoke wreaths, huge and slow,\n    That round her sable turrets flow,\n      The morning beams were shed,\n    And tinged them with a lustre proud,\n    Like that which streaks a thunder cloud;\n    Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,\n    Where the huge castle holds its state,\n      And all the steep slope down,\n    Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,\n    Piled deep and massy, close and high,\n      Mine own romantic town!\n\n    But northward far with purer blaze\n    On Ochil mountains fell the rays,\n    And as each heathy top they kiss'd,\n    It gleamed a purple amethyst.\n    Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;\n    Here Preston Bay, and Berwick-Law,\n      And broad between them roll'd\n    The gallant Firth the eye might note,\n    Whose islands on its bosom float,\n      Like emeralds chased in gold.\"\n\nDescending from the hill we resume our journey, musing on the days of\nold, when \"shrill fife and martial drum\" awakened the echoes of these\npeaceful vales, now resounding with the melody of birds. How delightful\nthe gushing music of those sky-larks, which descends upon us from\n\"heaven's gates,\" like a shower of \"embodied gladness.\" Why, it seems as\nif a hundred of them were soaring \"i' the lift,\" and singing with a\njoyous energy, akin to that of the blessed spirits in heaven. To me, the\nlark is the noblest of all birds, the most pure and spirit-like of all\naerial songsters. In Scotland, too, she seems to sing the sweetest and\nstrongest. Others may praise the nightingale, if they please, and my own\nheart has often thrilled, to hear, at the \"witching time of night,\" her\nwild and melancholy strain from some English copsewood, or Italian\ngrove. But nothing so rich and beautiful, so spirit-like and divine ever\ngreeted my ear as the glad singing of the heaven-aspiring lark. It\nseemed as if the very spirit of song had taken wings, and were ascending\nto God, in a flood of melody. But listen to the following strains\nwritten by Shelley under the inspiration of the sky-lark's song:\n\n          Hail to thee, blithe spirit,\n            Bird thou never wert,\n          That from heaven or near it\n            Pourest thy full heart\n    In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.\n\n          Higher still and higher\n            From the earth thou springest,\n          Like a cloud of fire!\n            The blue deep thou wingest,\n    And singing, still dost soar; and soaring, ever singest.\n\n          In the golden lightning\n            Of the sunken sun,\n          O'er which clouds are brightening,\n            Thou dost float and run;\n    Like an embodied joy, whose race has just begun.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n          All the earth and air\n            With thy voice is loud,\n          As, when night is bare\n            From one lonely cloud,\n    The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.\n\n          What thou art, we know not.\n            What is most like thee?\n          From rainbow clouds there flow not\n            Drops so bright to see,\n    As from thy presence showers a rain of melody\n\n          Like a poet hidden\n            In the light of thought,\n          Singing hymns unbidden\n            Till the world is wrought\n    To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n          Sound of vernal showers\n            On the twinkling grass,\n          Rain awakened flowers,\n            All that ever was\n    Joyous and fresh and clear thy music doth surpass.\n\n          Teach me, sprite or bird,\n            What sweet thoughts are thine:\n          I have never heard\n            Praise of love or wine\n    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.\n\n          Chorus hymeneal\n            Or triumphant chaunt,\n          Match'd with thine would be all\n            But an empty vaunt--\n    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.\n\n          What objects are the fountains\n            Of thy happy strain?\n          What fields or waves or mountains?\n            What shapes of sky or plain?\n    What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?\n\n          With thy clear keen joyance\n            Languor cannot be:\n          Shadow of annoyance\n            Never came near thee:\n    Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.\n\n          Waking or asleep\n            Thou of death must deem,\n          Things more true and deep\n            Than we mortals dream,\n    Or how could thy note flow in such a crystal stream?\n\n          We look before and after,\n            And pine for what is not;\n          Our sincerest laughter,\n            With some pain is fraught:\n    Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought.\n\n          Better than all measures\n            Of delightful sound,\n          Better than all treasures\n            That in books are found,\n    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!\n\n          Teach me half the gladness,\n            That thy brain must know;\n          Such harmonious madness\n            From my lips would flow,\n    The world should listen then, as I am listening now.\n\nInferior to this, but still very beautiful, more natural, and more\nespecially Scottish, are the following lines to the Skylark by the\n\"Ettrick Shepherd:\"\n\n        Bird of the wilderness,\n        Blithesome and cumberless,\n    Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!\n        Emblem of happiness,\n        Blest is thy dwelling place--\n    O to abide in the desert with thee!\n        Wild is thy lay and loud,\n        Far in the downy cloud,\n    Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.\n        Where on thy dewy wing,\n        Where art thou journeying?\n    Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.\n\n        O'er fell and fountain sheen,\n        O'er moor and mountain green,\n    O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,\n        Over the cloudlet dim,\n        Over the rainbow's rim,\n    Musical cherub, soar singing away!\n        Then when the gloaming comes\n        Low in the heather blooms,\n    Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!\n        Emblem of happiness,\n        Blest is thy dwelling place--\n    O to abide in the desert with thee!\n\nFilled with these pleasant images, we pursue our journey, and wind along\nthe edge of the Pentland Hills, with their thrilling memories of\n\"Auld-lang-syne;\" pass the \"bonnie braes\" of Woodhouselee, and reach old\nGlencorse Church, \"bosomed high 'mong tufted trees;\" cross \"a bonnie\nburn,\" called \"Logan Water,\" and get a glimpse of \"House of Muir,\" in\nthe vicinity of which the old Scottish Covenanters met with a terrible\nslaughter, from General Dalzell of Binns, the \"bluidy Dalzell,\" as the\nScots call him to this day. Passing through the humble village of Silver\nBurn, we reach Newhall, once the residence of Dr. Pennycuick, a poet\nand an antiquary, and subsequently of the Forbes family highly\ndistinguished for their talents and virtues. Disposing of our carriage,\nlet us ramble, at our \"own sweet will,\" amid those beautiful grounds.\nThe mansion of Newhall, once a battlemented castle of the Crichtoun\nfamily, stands on the left bank of the North Esk, within a curvature of\nthe stream, under the shadow of the Pentland Hills. On either side is a\ndeep ravine, terminating in the glen of the Esk, one of the most\nromantic spots in Scotland. Passing round on the eastern side, we gaze\ndown into the ravine, overhung by the remains of a small round tower,\nand densely shaded with tangled trees. A dark rill gurgles at the\nbottom, here and there leaping into beautiful cascades, and flinging its\nglittering spray among the dark woods. Passing to the other side, we\ncome to what was formerly the site of an old prison and chapel,\nencircled by a pleasant walk. The ravine beneath is filled with trees\nand shrubbery, but has no stream. From this point the eye glances up\nthrough the wooded glen, echoing with the songs of the mavis and the\nlinnet, and over to a mineral well, sheltered by copsewood and pines.\n\nBut Newhall, and the grounds around it, derive their chief interest from\ntheir connection with the well-known pastoral poem of \"Allan Ramsay.\"\nThe very air seems redolent with the poetry of \"The Gentle Shepherd.\"\nLeaving the house, we reach a little \"haugh,\" or low sheltered spot,\nwhere the Esk and the rivulets from the Harbour Craig mingle their\nwaters. At the side of the stream are some romantic gray crags, directly\nfronting the south, and looking up a turn in the glen. These, adorned\nwith green birches, shrubs, and copsewood, and shading the limpid stream\nwhich makes a curve, and then glides underneath their overhanging\ncliffs, form \"a shady bield,\" completely protected from observation. In\nthis spot is laid the first act of \"The Gentle Shepherd.\"\n\n    \"Beneath the south side of a craggy field,\n    Where crystal springs the halesome water yield,\n    Twa youthful shepherds on the gowans lay,\n    Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May.\"\n\nAscending the vale, and just behind the house, we come to a considerable\nholm or green, with the babbling burn, now gentler in its movement,\nwinding sweetly among the white pebbles. At the head of this quiet\nretreat, on the edge of the burn, are the ruins of an ancient\nwashing-house, protected by an aged thorn. It was here that the \"twa\nlasses\" proposed to wash their \"claes,\" unseen by their lovers.\n\n    \"A flowery howm between twa verdant braes,\n    Where lasses use to wash and spread their claes,\n    A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground;\n    Its channel pebbles shining smooth and round.\"\n\nA little further up the burn we come to a hollow, a little beyond what\nis called \"Mary's Bower,\" where the Esk divides it in the middle, and\nforms a linn or cascade, called the \"How Burn;\" a small enclosure above\nis called the \"Braehead Park;\" and this hollow beneath the cascade with\nits bathing pool and little green, its rocks and birches, its wild\nshrubs and natural flowers, and general air of sequestered and romantic\nbeauty, in every respect corresponds with the poet's exquisite\ndescription of the spot called \"Habbie's Howe.\"\n\n    \"Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's Howe,\n    Where a' the sweets o' spring and summer grow,\n    There, 'tween twa birks out ower a little linn,\n    The water fa's and mak's a singand din;[20]\n    A pule breast deep, beneath as clear as glass,\n    Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering grass.\"\n\n[Footnote 20: Singing noise.]\n\nAscending yet further, at a place called the \"Carlops,\" (a contraction\nof \"Carline's Loups,\" so called, in consequence of a witch or carline\nhaving been seen leaping, at night, from one rock to another,) two tall\nrocks shoot up on either side. Near this, by the side of that old ash\ntree, stood Mause's Cottage.\n\n    \"The open field, a cottage in a glen,\n    An auld wife spinning at the sunny end,\n    At a sma' distance, by a blasted tree,\n    Wi faulded arms and half-raised look, ye see\n                              Bauldy his lane!\"[21]\n\n    \"A green kail-yard; a little fount,\n      Where water poplin springs;\n    There sits a wife[22] wi' wrinkled front,\n      An' yet she spins and sings.\"\n\n[Footnote 21: Alone.]\n\n[Footnote 22: Old woman.]\n\nWith these localities in our mind, let us sit down on this \"gowan'd\nbrae,\" and run over the story of \"The Gentle Shepherd,\" one of the most\ngraphic pictures of Scottish manners, and one of the sweetest pastorals\nin any language.\n\nPatie or Patrick, a humble shepherd-lad, born and bred in the region we\nhave entered, about the middle of the seventeenth century, was a\nhandsome fellow, and remarkably distinguished for his good temper and\nrustic accomplishments. He was of a gay-hearted cheerful disposition,\nand made the woods and hills ring again with his mirthful songs.\nMoreover, he was sensible and well-informed. His mind, indeed, was\nsuperior to his station; still he was contented and happy.\n\nSymon Scott, a worthy man and a wealthy farmer, with whom Patie had\nlived from his childhood, was a tenant of Sir William Preston's, owner\nof the neighboring lands, who, to save his head, he having taken part\nwith the royalists, had fled his native country, and was living abroad,\nno one knew where.\n\nPatie loved Peggy Forsyth, a \"neebor lassie,\" of excellent character and\ngreat beauty, who fully requited his attachment. This girl was the\nreputed niece of Glaude Anderson, a comfortable farmer, and a tenant of\nSir William's. He had found her one summer morning, at his door,\ncarefully wrapped in swaddling clothes. Being a warm-hearted man, he had\nadopted the little stranger as his own relative.\n\nThe interviews and conversations of the lovers, and their friends, Roger\nand Jenny, who after some embarrassments from Jenny's independence, are\nfound to be warmly attached to each other are related by the dramatist\nwith great beauty and simplicity. The reader sees them at early morn, or\namid the shadows of the gloaming, wandering by the \"bonnie burnie's\nside,\" and with hearts of innocence, giving themselves up to the full\nenjoyment of nature's beauties and their own sweet affections. Glaude\nand Symon are fine specimens of the honest and hospitable farmers of\nScotland. The house of the former is such as one often sees in the rural\ndistricts:\n\n    \"A snug thack[23] house, before the door a green,\n    Hens on the midden, ducks in dubs[24] are seen.\n    On this side stands a barn, on that a byre:[25]\n    A peat stack joins, an' forms a rural square.\n    The house is Glaud's;--there you may see him lean,\n    And to his divot[26] seat invites his frien.\"\n\n[Footnote 23: Thatch.]\n\n[Footnote 24: Pools.]\n\n[Footnote 25: Barn for the cows.]\n\n[Footnote 26: Turf.]\n\nThe character and fate of Bauldy are graphically described. He is a\nwealthy but vulgar minded farmer, attached to Peggy, and resolved, if\npossible, to withdraw her affections from Patie and secure them for\nhimself. For this purpose he has recourse to Mause, a sensible and\nworthy old woman, but reputed a witch, from her superiority to the\ncommon people. Mause agrees to assist him, but secretly resolves to\nexpose his ignorance and punish his effrontery. The following is\nBauldy's account of the matter:\n\n                \"Ah! Sir, the witch ca'd Mause,\n    That wins aboon the mill amang the haws,\n    First promised that she'd help me wi' her art,\n    To gain a bonnie thrawart[27] lassie's heart.\n    As she had trysted, I met wi' 'er this night;\n    But may nae frien o' mine get such a fright!\n    For the curst hag, instead of doing me guid,\n    (The very thocht o'ts like to freeze my bluid!)\n    Raised up a ghaist, or deil, I kenna whilk,\n    Like a dead corse, in sheet as white as milk;\n    Black hands it had, and face as wan as death;\n    Upon me fast the witch and it fell baith,\n    And got me down; while I like a great fool\n    Was 'laboured[28] as I used to be at school:\n    My heart out o' its hool[29] was like to loup,\n    I pithless[30] grew wi' fear, an' had nae houp,\n    Till wi' an elritch laugh, they vanished quite;\n    Syne I, hauf dead wi' anger, fear and spite,\n    Crap up, and fled straught frae them.\"\n\n[Footnote 27: Wayward.]\n\n[Footnote 28: Belabored.]\n\n[Footnote 29: Place or socket.]\n\n[Footnote 30: Powerless.]\n\nTidings had arrived that Sir William, who had now been absent several\nyears, might be expected home, as the king was restored and the royal\nparty was now predominant.\n\nThis tidings created the liveliest sensations of joy among Sir William's\ntenantry, as he was much beloved for his kindness and generosity of\ndisposition. Old Symon Scott and Glaude Anderson were especially\ndelighted, and resolved, each of them, to celebrate the event with a\nfeast. Symon however had already begun to make preparations for a\nbanquet, to which he invited Glaude and all the old and young people of\nthe neighborhood:\n\n    \"It's Symon's house, please to step in,\n      And vissy't[31] round and round,\n    There's nought superfluous to gie pain,\n      Or costly to be found.\n    Yet a' is clean--a clear peat ingle[32]\n      Glances amidst the floor[33];\n    The green horn spoons, beech luggies[34] mingle\n      On skelfs[35] foregainst the door.\n    While the young brood sport on the green,\n      The auld anes think it best,\n    Wi' the brown cow[36] to clear their een\n      Snuff, crack and tak their rest.\"\n\n[Footnote 31: Examine it.]\n\n[Footnote 32: A fire of peats.]\n\n[Footnote 33: In Scotland the old peasant houses have the fire in their\ncentre.]\n\n[Footnote 34: Cups of beech wood.]\n\n[Footnote 35: Shelves opposite the door.]\n\n[Footnote 36: Brown ale.]\n\nWhile they are engaged Sir William appears among the young people on the\ngreen, in the garb of a fortune teller. Jenny runs into the house and\ntells her father, who, particularly good-natured and hospitable at such\nan hour, replies:--\n\n    \"Gae bring him in; we'll hear what he can say,\n    Nane shall gae hungry by my house the day.      [_Exit Jenny._\n    But for his telling fortunes, troth I fear\n    He kens nae mair o' that than my grey mare.\n\n    _Glaud._--Spae men![37] the truth o' a' their saws I doubt,\n    For greater lears never ran thereout.\n\n    [_Jenny returns bringing in Sir William;--with them Patie._\n\n    _Symon._--Ye're welcome honest carle, here take a seat.\n\n    _Sir W._--I gie ye thanks, gudeman, I'se be no blate.[38]\n\n    _Glaud._--Come, t'ye[39] frien. How far came ye the day?\n\n    _Sir W._--I pledge ye, neibour, e'en but little way.\n\n    _Symon._--Ye're welcome here to stay a' night wi' me.\n    And tak sic bed and board as we can gie.\n\n    _Sir W._--That's kind unsought.--Weel gin[40] ye hae a bairn.\n    That ye like weel, an wad his fortune learn,\n    I shall employ the farthest o' my skill,\n    To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill.\n\n    _Symon_ (_pointing to Patie_).--Only that lad: alake! I hae nae mae\n    Either to mak me joyfu' now or wae.\n\n    _Sir W._--Young man, let's see your hand; what gars[41] ye sneer?\n\n    _Patie._--Because your skill's but little worth, I fear.\n\n    _Sir W._--Ye cut before the point: but, Billy, bide,\n    I'll wager there's a mouse-mark on your side.\n\n[Footnote 37: Fortune-tellers.]\n\n[Footnote 38: Bashful.]\n\n[Footnote 39: Your health.]\n\n[Footnote 40: If.]\n\n[Footnote 41: Makes.]\n\nThis being the case, all are astonished at the old man's knowledge, who\ngoes on to predict that Patie, one of these days, will be a rich laird.\n\n    _Elspa._--Hear, ye gudeman, what think ye now?\n\n    _Symon._--I dinna ken! Strange auld man, what art thou?\n    Fair fa[42] your heart, it's guid to bode o' wealth\n    Come, turn the timmer to laird Patie's health.\n\n    (_Patie's health goes round._)\n\n[Footnote 42: Good befall.]\n\nOld Symon, by the request of the spaeman, goes out to meet him, and they\nhave much conversation together. At length--\n\n    \"Sir William drops his masking beard,\n      Symon transported sees\n    The welcome knight, wi' fond regard,\n      An' grasps him round the knees.\"\n\nThey converse concerning Patie, who is actually Sir William's son and\nheir, and agree to make known his true position. This is accordingly\ndone, and produces great excitement among the parties. Patie is glad and\nsorrowful at the same time, and Peggy sees nothing in it but\ndisappointment and grief. A gulf has intervened between her and Patie,\nand she feels that she must give him up for ever. But Patie assures her\nof his constant affection, and the \"puir thing\" absolutely \"greets for\njoy to hear his words sae kind.\"\n\nNext morning--\n\n    \"While Peggy laces up her bosom fair\n    Wi' a blue snood, Jenny binds up her hair;\n    Glaud by his morning ingle, taks a beek,[43]\n    The rising sun shines motty[44] thro' the reek,[45]\n    A pipe his mouth, the lasses please his een,\n    An' now and then his joke must intervene.\"\n\n[Footnote 43: A glass of beer.]\n\n[Footnote 44: Mottled.]\n\n[Footnote 45: Smoke.]\n\nBut all parties are sent for to Symon's house--\n\n    \"To hear and help to redd[46] some odd debate\n    'Tween Mause and Bauldy, 'bout some witchcraft spell,\n    At Symon's house: the knight sits judge himsell.\"\n\n[Footnote 46: Clear up, unravel.]\n\nAll then are assembled--\n\n    \"Sir William fills the twa armed chair,\n      While Symon, Roger, Glaud, and Mause,\n    Attend, and wi' loud laughter hear\n      Daft Bauldy bluntly plead his cause:\n    For now it's tell'd him that the taz[47]\n      Was handled by revengeful Madge,\n    Because he brak guid breeding's laws,\n      And wi' his nonsense raised their rage.\n\n[Footnote 47: _Birch_ or strap.]\n\nBauldy, however, confesses his wrong, and adds--\n\n                                    \"But I had best\n    Haud in my tongue, for yonder comes the _ghaist_[48]\n    An' the young bonny _witch_, whose rosy cheek\n    Sent me, without my wit, the de'il to seek.\"\n\n    _Sir William_ (_looking at Peggy_).\n    --Whose daughter's she that wears the aurora gown,\n    With face so fair, and locks o' lovely brown?\n    How sparkling are her eyes? What's this I find,\n    The girl brings all my sister to my mind.\n    Such were the features once adorned a face,\n    Which death so soon deprived of sweetest grace.\n    Is this your daughter Glaud?\n\n    _Glaud._--Sir, she's my niece,\n    An' yet she's not, but I shoud haud my peace.\n\n    _Sir Wil._--This is a contradiction. What d' ye mean?\n    She is, and is not! pray thee, Glaud, explain.\n\n    _Glaud._--Because I doubt, if I shou'd mak' appear,\n    What I hae kept a secret thirteen year--\n\n    _Mause._--You may reveal what I can fully clear.\n\n    _Sir Wil._--Speak soon; I'm all impatience.\n\n    _Patie._--Sae am I!\n    For much I hope, an' hardly yet ken why.\n\n    _Glaud._--Then, since my master orders, I obey.\n    This _bonny foundling_, ae' clear morn o' May,\n    Close by the lea-side o' my door I found,\n    A' sweet an' clean an' carefully hapt[49] 'round,\n    In infant weeds, o' rich and gentle make.\n    What could they be, thought I, did thee forsake?\n    Wha, worse than brutes, cou'd leave exposed to air\n    Sae much o' innocence sae sweetly fair,\n    Sae helpless young? for she appeared to me\n    Only about twa towmands[50] auld to be.\n    I took her in my arms; the bairnie smiled,\n    Wi' sic a look, wad mak a savage mild.\n    I hid the story: she has pass'd sinsyne[51]\n    As a poor orphan, an' a niece o' mine:\n    Nor do I rue my care about the wean,\n    For she's weel worth the pains that I hae tane.\n    Ye see she's bonny; I can swear she's guid,\n    An' am right sure she's come o' gentle bluid,\n    O' wham I kenna.[52] Naething I ken mair,\n    Than what I to your honor now declare.\n\n    _Sir Wil._--This tale seems strange!\n\n    _Patie._--The tale delights my ear!\n\n    _Sir Wil._--Command your joys, young man, till truth appear.\n\n    _Mause._--That be my task. Now sir, bid a' be hush;\n    Peggy may smile; thou hast nae cause to blush.\n    Lang hae I wish'd to see this happy day,\n    That I may safely to the truth gi'e way;\n    That I may now Sir William Worthy name,\n    The best and nearest friend that she can claim:\n    He saw 't at first, an' wi' quick eye did trace\n    His sister's beauty in her daughter's face.\n\n    _Sir Wil._--Old woman, do not rave,--prove what you say,\n    It's dangerous in affairs like this to play.\n\n    _Patie._--What reason, Sir, can an auld woman have\n    To tell a lie when she's sae near her grave?\n    But how or why, it should be truth I grant\n    I every thing that looks like reason want.\n\n    _Omnes._--The story's odd! we wish we heard it out.\n\n    _Sir Wil._--Make haste, good woman, and resolve each doubt.\n\n          [_Mause goes forward, leading Peggy to Sir William._]\n\n    _Mause._--Sir, view me weel; has fifteen years sae plow'd\n    A wrinkled face that you hae often viewed,\n    That here I as an unknown stranger stand.\n    Wha nursed her mother that now hauds my hand?\n    Yet stronger proofs I'll gie, if you demand.\n\n    _Sir Wil._--Ha! honest nurse, where were my eyes before?\n    I know thy faithfulness, and need no more;\n    Yet from the lab'rinth to lead out my mind,\n    Say, to expose her, who was so unkind?\n\n          [_Sir William embraces Peggy and makes her sit by him._]\n\n    Yes surely thou'rt my niece; truth must prevail,\n    But no more words till Mause relates the tale.\"\n\n[Footnote 48: Ghost.]\n\n[Footnote 49: Covered.]\n\n[Footnote 50: Two years.]\n\n[Footnote 51: Since then.]\n\n[Footnote 52: Know not.]\n\nMause then relates how Peggy's life being threatened by a wicked aunt,\nwho wished to take possession of her estate, she herself had stolen her\naway, in the dead of night, and travelled with her some fifty miles, and\nleft her at Glaud's door; that she had taken a cottage in the vicinity,\nand had watched over the child ever since. All of course are delighted\nwith this discovery. The betrothment of Patie and Peggy is sanctioned by\nSir William; and even Bauldy\n\n                  \"the bewitch'd, has quite forgot\n    Fell Madge's taz, and pawky Madge's plot,\"\n\nand exclaims:\n\n    \"I'm friends wi' Mause,--wi' very Madge I'm greed,\n    Although they skelpit[53] me when woodly flied:[54]\n    I'm now fu' blithe, an' frankly can forgive\n    To join and sing, 'Lang may Sir William live.'\"\n\n[Footnote 53: Whipt.]\n\n[Footnote 54: Sorely frightened.]\n\nSir William bestows upon \"faithful Symon,\" and \"kind Glaud,\" and upon\ntheir heirs, \"in endless fee,\" their \"mailens,\" or farms, and takes old\nMause into his family, in peace\n\n                            \"to close her days,\n    With naught to do but sing her Maker's praise.\"\n\nGlaud consents to give Jenny to Roger, who says;\n\n    \"I ne'er was guid o' speaking a' my days,\n    Or ever loo'd to make o'er great a fraise;[55]\n    But for my master, father, an' my wife,\n    I will employ the cares o' a' my life.\"\n\n[Footnote 55: Fuss or perhaps flattering speech.]\n\nTo which, Sir William adds, summing up the whole:\n\n    \"My friends I'm satisfied you'll all behave,\n    Each in his station as I'd wish or crave.\n    Be ever virtuous, soon or late you'll find\n    Reward and satisfaction to your mind.\n    The maze o' life sometimes looks dark and wild;\n    And oft when hopes are highest, we're beguiled.\n    Oft when we stand on brinks of dark despair,\n    Some happy turn, with joy, dispels our care.\"\n\nThus ends the \"Gentle Shepherd,\" which with all its faults, possesses an\ninimitable charm. In Scotland it is a sort of household poem. Every one,\nyoung and old, reads it with delight. Indeed, it is probably the most\npopular pastoral drama ever written. The common people, in the rural\ndistricts of Scotland, know it by heart. The Bible, the Pilgrim's\nProgress, Robinson Crusoe and \"the Gentle Shepherd\" are read by them a\nthousand times more than any other book.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n     Biographical Sketch of Allan Ramsay--Lasswade--Ramble along the\n     banks of the North Esk--Glenesk--A Character--Anecdote of Sir W.\n     Scott--Hawthornden--Drummond the Poet--His Character and\n     Genius--Sonnets--Chapel and Castle of Roslin--Barons of\n     Roslin--Ballad of Rosabelle--Hunting Match between Robert Bruce and\n     Sir William St. Clair.\n\n\nLeaving Habbie's Howe, we will let Sandy drive us along the banks of the\nriver, through Auchindinny, Roslin and Hawthornden, to the pretty\nvillage of Lasswade, where we will spend the night. Sandy can take the\ncarriage back to Edinburgh, and to-morrow we will ramble on foot through\nthe classic shades of Roslin and Hawthornden, visit Dalkeith and some\nother places, and return to Edinburgh by the railway. In the meantime I\nwill give you some account of Allan Ramsay.\n\nAllan was born on the 15th of October, 1686, in Crawford Muir,\nLanarkshire, and died in the city of Edinburgh, in the year 1784. He was\nat first a wigmaker, and afterwards a bookseller. In 1726 he kept a\nlittle bookstore opposite Niddry's Wynd in the city of Edinburgh, whence\nhe removed to another, somewhat more commodious at the east end of the\nLuckenbooths, having exchanged his old sign of Mercury for the heads of\nBen Jonson and Drummond of Hawthornden, whom he greatly admired. His\nearly education was limited. He attended the village school at\nLeadhills, where, as he himself informs us, he acquired just learning\nenough to read Horace \"faintly in the original.\" Of a vigorous\nconstitution, and a cheerful temper, he spent his time happily in the\ncountry, till his fifteenth year, though his lot seems to have been a\nhard one.\n\n    \"Wading through glens wi' chorking feet,\n    Where neither plaid nor kilt could fend[56] the weet;\n    Yet blithely would he bang out o'er the brae,\n    And stend o'er burns as light as ony rae,\n    Hoping the morn[57] might prove a better day.\"\n\n[Footnote 56: Keep off.]\n\n[Footnote 57: To-morrow.]\n\nHe went to Edinburgh, a poor country boy, and gradually made his way to\ncompetence, and respectability. Whether he was particularly successful\nas a wigmaker we are not informed; but he found the trade of bookseller\ninfinitely more congenial. Ensconced behind his counter, he could study,\nwrite poetry, chat with his customers, and publish his own lucubrations.\nHis first principal poem was \"Christ's Kirk on the Green,\" a\ncontinuation of King James's poem of the same name, a rough but graphic\nand humorous picture of rustic revelry. Its indelicacy is rather gross,\nbut it has all the vigor and humor of Hogarth's pictures. His other\npoems, containing songs, fables, pastorals, complimentary verses (of\nwhich he has a very large number,) stories and epistles are quite\nnumerous. They contain a large amount of trash, with here and there\nsome beautiful gems. He is mainly successful in Scottish verse. His\nimitations of the English poets are rather poor. \"_The Vision_\" is one\nof his ablest productions. The Genius of Scotland is painted \"with a\ntouch of the old heroic Muse:\"\n\n    \"Great daring darted frae his ee,\n    A braid sword shaggled[58] at his knee,\n      On his left arm a targe;\n    A shining spear filled his right hand,\n    Of stalwart make in bane and brawnd,\n      Of just proportions large;\n    A various rainbow colored plaid\n      Owre his left spaul[59] he threw,\n    Down his braid back, frae his white head\n      The silver wimplers[60] grew.\n        Amazed, I gazed\n          To see, led at command,\n        A stampant and rampant\n          Fierce lion in his hand.\"\n\n[Footnote 58: Dangled.]\n\n[Footnote 59: Shoulder.]\n\n[Footnote 60: Tassels or dangles.]\n\nBut his most popular production is the \"Gentle Shepherd\" which appeared\nin 1725--and was received with enthusiasm, not only in Scotland, but in\nEngland and Ireland. It was much admired by Pope and Gay, the latter of\nwhom, when on a visit to Scotland, with the Duke and Duchess of\nQueensberry, used to lounge in Allan Ramsay's shop, and obtain from him\nexplanations of the Scottish expressions that he might communicate them\nto Pope.\n\nAllan uniformly had an eye to the \"main chance.\" He sedulously courted\nthe great, and managed to accumulate a good many pennies. \"In the\nmingled spirit of prudence and poetry,\" he contrived\n\n    \"To theek[61] the out and line the inside\n    Of many a douce and witty pash,[62]\n    And baith ways gathered in the cash.\"\n\n[Footnote 61: Thatch.]\n\n[Footnote 62: Head.]\n\nHe was foolish enough however to lay out his gains in the erection of a\ntheatre which was prohibited by the magistrates, as an injury to good\nmorals. So that Allan lost his cash and his pains together, and not only\nso, but his good temper. This exposed him to much obloquy, in part\nperhaps deserved. He was somewhat Jacobinical in his views, and hated\nthe Presbyterian clergy, who were afraid of him, as \"a half papist,\" and\na some what licentious writer. Hence he lampooned them with great\nseverity, in consequence of which he was pretty well lampooned in his\nturn.\n\nAfter all Allan was a true poet, and by no means a bad man. He was\nhonest, kind-hearted and cheerful. Some of his poetical strains indicate\nmuch elevation and tenderness of spirit.\n\nIn personal appearance he was somewhat peculiar. The following amusing\ndescription he has given of himself:\n\n    \"Imprimis, then, for tallness, I\n    Am five foot and four inches high,\n    A black a viced[63] snod dapper fellow,\n    Nor lean, nor overlaid wi' tallow;\n    With phiz of a morocco cut,\n    Resembling a late man of wit,\n    Auld gabbet Spec[64] who was sae cunning,\n    To be a dummie ten years running.\n    Then for the fabric of my mind,\n    'Tis mair to mirth than grief inclined:\n    I rather choose to laugh at folly\n    Than show dislike by melancholy;\n    Well judging a sour heavy face\n    Is not the truest mark of grace.\n    I hate a drunkard or a glutton,\n    Yet I'm nae fae[65] to wine and mutton:\n    Great tables ne'er engaged my wishes\n    When crowded with o'er many dishes;\n    A healthfu' stomach, sharply set,\n    Prefers a back-say,[66] piping het,\n    I never could imagine 't vicious\n    Of a fair fame to be ambitious;\n    Proud to be thought a comic poet,\n    And let a judge of numbers know it,\n    I court occasion thus to show it.\"\n\n[Footnote 63: Of a dark complexion.]\n\n[Footnote 64: Does this mean Spectator?]\n\n[Footnote 65: Foe.]\n\n[Footnote 66: Sirloin.]\n\nAllan never suffered his poetry to interfere with his business. Indeed\nhe abandoned verse altogether in the latter part of his life, rightly\njudging that he might not equal his earlier productions, and feeling\nmoreover that other and more serious engagements demanded his attention.\nThe following epistle to Mr. Smibert, an eminent painter and intimate\nfriend, dated Edinburgh, 10th May, 1736, is highly characteristic;\n\n     \"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND:--\n\n     Your health and happiness are ever _ane_ addition to my\n     satisfaction. God make your life ever easy and pleasant. Half a\n     century of years have now row'd oe'r my brow, that begins now to\n     be _lyart_;[67] yet thanks to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep\n     as sound as I did twenty years _syne_;[68] yes, I laugh heartily\n     too, and find as many subjects to employ that faculty upon as ever;\n     fools, fops and knaves, grow as rank as formerly, yet here and\n     there are to be found good and worthy men, who are _ane_ honor to\n     _human_ life. We have small hopes of seeing you again in our world;\n     then let us be virtuous and hope to meet in heaven. My good _auld_\n     wife is still my bedfellow; my son Allan has been pursuing your\n     science since he was a dozen years _auld_--was with Mr. Hyffidg, at\n     London, for some time, about two years ago--has been since at home,\n     painting here like a Raphael--sets out for the seat of the beast,\n     beyond the Alps, in a month hence--to be away about two years. I'm\n     _sweer_[69] to part with him, but _canna_ stem the current which\n     flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclination. I\n     have three daughters, one of seventeen, one of sixteen, and one of\n     twelve years of old, and no _rewayled dragle_[70] among them, all\n     fine girls. These six or seven years past I have not written a line\n     of poetry. I e'en gave over in good time, before the coolness of\n     fancy, that attends advanced years, should make me risk the\n     reputation I had acquired.\n\n     Frae twenty-five to five and forty,\n     My muse was neither _sweer_[71] nor _dorty_,[72]\n     My Pegasus wad break her _tether_,[73]\n     E'en at the _shagging_ of a feather;\n     And _throw_[74] ideas scour like _drift_,\n     _Streaking_ his wings up to the lift;\n     Then when my soul was in a low[75]\n     That gart[76] my numbers safely row;[77]\n     But _eild_[78] and judgment _gin_[79] to say,\n     Let be your _sangs_ and learn to pray.\n\n     I am, Sir, your friend and servant,\n     ALLAN RAMSAY.\"\n\n[Footnote 67: Wrinkled.]\n\n[Footnote 68: Since.]\n\n[Footnote 69: Loth.]\n\n[Footnote 70: Uncouth sloven.]\n\n[Footnote 71: Reluctant.]\n\n[Footnote 72: Proud or stiff.]\n\n[Footnote 73: Halter.]\n\n[Footnote 74: Through.]\n\n[Footnote 75: Blaze.]\n\n[Footnote 76: Caused.]\n\n[Footnote 77: Roll.]\n\n[Footnote 78: Age.]\n\n[Footnote 79: Begin.]\n\nIn 1743 his circumstances were such as enabled him to build a small\noctagon shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which he\nnamed Ramsay Lodge, but which some of his witty friends compared to a\ngoose pie. He told Lord Elibank one day of this ungracious comparison.\n\"What,\" said the witty peer, \"a goose pie! In good faith, Allan, now that\nI see _you_ in it, I think the house is not ill named.\" He lived in this\nodd-looking edifice till the day of his death, enjoying the society of\nhis friends, and cracking his jokes with perhaps greater quietness, but\nwith as much gust and hilarity as ever. He was a man of genius, and has\nexerted great influence on the lighter literature of Scotland. He was an\nimmense favorite with Burns, his equal in genius, his superior in depth\nof feeling, in tenderness and beauty of expression. But Burns doubtless\nowed something to the \"wood notes wild,\" of his illustrious predecessor.\nBoth have done much to illustrate and beautify their native land.\n\nNext morning at early dawn we are rambling in and around the pretty\nvillage of Lasswade, which lies so sweetly on the left bank of the North\nEsk. The river runs in many charming sinuosities through the parish, now\npassing over a smooth ledge of rocks, then \"wimpling\" over shining\npebbles, then gliding with a scarcely perceptible motion \"among the\ngreen braes,\" now wetting the pendant branches of the birch and broom,\nanon sleeping in a deep pellucid pool, then leaping \"o'er a linn,\" and\nthen gushing with a hollow murmur, among the loose gray rocks. Nothing\ncan be more beautiful and picturesque. Many pretty cottages and handsome\nvillas adorn the neighborhood. De Quincy, the celebrated English \"opium\neater\" lives here, and Sir Walter Scott at one time occupied a cottage\nin the vicinity. The following is a happy description from his pen, of\nthe enchanting scenes through which the North and South Esk flow. It is\ntaken from his ballad of the \"Grey Brother.\"\n\n    Sweet are the paths--O passing sweet!\n      By Esk's fair streams that run,\n    O'er airy steep, through copsewood's deep,\n      Impervious to the sun.\n\n    There the rapt poet's step may rove,\n      And yield the muse the day;\n    There beauty led by timid love,\n      May shun the tell-tale ray.\n\n    From that fair dome[80] where suit is paid,\n      By blast of bugle free,\n    To Auchindinny's hazel glade,\n      And haunted Woodhouselee.\n\n    Who knows not Melville's beechy groove,\n      And Roslin's rocky glen,\n    Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,\n      And classic Hawthornden.\n\n[Footnote 80: Pennycuick House, the romantic and elegant residence of\nSir George Clerk, Baronet. \"It stands on a flat, in a curve of the\nriver, with a picturesque glen behind, carrying up the view to the ruins\nof Branstane Castle, and the western extremity of the Pentlands--a a\nlittle plain in front, gemmed with a beautiful artificial pond, and\noverhung by ascents which are mantled all over with wood--and swells and\neminences on each side, dissevered by ravines, and moulded into many\ncurvatures of beauty. On the opposite side of the river, at the end of\nan avenue at the top of a bank, stands an obelisk, raised by Sir James\nClerk, to the memory of his friend and frequent inmate, Allan Ramsay.\"]\n\nIt is not surprising that multitudes from Edinburgh come to reside here\nin the summer time; for what with the varied scenery of rock and river,\ncopsewood and fell, the pleasant associations of the present, and the\nthrilling memories of \"Auld lang syne,\" no region can be more attractive\nand agreeable.\n\nSauntering along, we approach Glenesk, so called from the deep and\ncharming glen, formed by the winding river. Yonder is an old man at work\nin his garden, who looks quite patriarchal, and I dare say knows a good\ndeal of the neighborhood. Let us accost him.\n\n\"Good morning, sir!\"\n\n\"Gude mornin' gentlemen!\"\n\n\"You seem to be quite early in your garden this morning.\"\n\n\"Ou aye, we maun mak hay while the sun shines, ye ken, and this is a\ngraund time for planting.\"\n\n\"You have lived in the neighborhood a considerable time, I presume.\"\n\n\"A' my days.\"\n\n\"Well, it's a beautiful country.\"\n\n\"Ou aye, it's weel eneuch. My faither before me lived in that bit housie\nout yonder amang the trees, and he used aften to say, gude auld man!\nthat the lines had fallen to us in pleasant places, and that we had a\ngoodly heritage. For my pairt, I like the country unco weel. The burn\nthere is verra pleasant, its sae caller[81] like, wimpling amang the\nrocks and bushes. And what's mair to the pint, it has got a fouth[82] of\nfine fish in 't, though thae new fangled mills are frightening them\nawa.\"\n\n[Footnote 81: Fresh.]\n\n[Footnote 82: Abundance.]\n\n\"Trout, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, and fine anes too. Ah! mony's the day I hae paidlt in that\nburn, when a wee bit callant, catching the trout amang the stanes, when\nthe water was low.\"\n\n\"Did you know any thing of Sir Walter Scott? He used to live near\nLasswade, and I dare say often wandered this way to fish.\"\n\n\"Ken him! That I did fu' weel. And an honest freendly man he was. He cam\nup the burn every noo and then, sometimes wi' a fishing-rod, and\nsometimes wi' a staff in his han. He and I got weel acquaint after a\ntime, for he was nane o' your upstarts, but an unco frank, freespoken\nkind of a man. Not that he talked sae muckle himsel, but he was aye\naskin about something or ither, and kept my tongue waggin' a' the time.\nAh yes, Sir Walter was a canny man. He knew the hail kintra side, and\nused to spier a great many questions about the ways o' the auld folks.\nOne day he cam alang the burn side, wi' anither gentleman. I happened to\nbe working down there. His line got tangled in a stane, and he got me to\nfetch it out. He then coost it into the deep pule below, making the flee\nskim alang the top o' the water, as skeelfully as onything ye ever saw.\nWhen up louped a muckle spotted trout, and in a moment dragged the line\nto the other side, then spanked up the burn at an unco rate, running the\nline aff the reel, which birred like a spinnin' wheel. Sir Walter\nhobbled after it as weel as he could. He was lame, ye ken, but managed\nto move pretty quick. The trout plunged and flounced over the shallow\nwater, got into another deep pule, and ran into the bank, in the hollow\nof twa big stanes that were lying there. Now, cried Sir Walter, I have\nyou my boy; so he kept jerkin awa at him, and out he cam again, when Sir\nWalter gave him a wallop, and laid him flat amang the gowans. 'Twas a\nbonny sight, I tell you. The trout was nae less than a fit and a quarter\nlang, as thick as my arm, and spotted all o'er wi' shining spots, like a\nleopard. Sir Walter was unco pleased--rubbed his hans', and every now\nand then broke into a smile, as he cracked some joke about the trout.\nHech! it was a guid sight for sair een--to see Sir Walter after the\ntrout, and specially to see the trout walloping amang the gowans.\"\n\n\"But don't you think that it was rather cruel sport?\"\n\n\"Cruel! why man, the fish kens naething ava, and out o' its ain element,\nit gets choked in a minute. And, for my pairt, I dinna see what fish is\nguid for, if not to be catch'd and eaten, specially the big anes! My\ngude auld faither used often to say to us, 'Boys, ye mauna be cruel to\nthe dumb beasts, and when ye gang a fishing, be sure to let the wee fish\ngae.'\"\n\n\"Your father was a worthy man, I dare say.\"\n\n\"That he was, I can assure you. He was respeckit by the hail kintra\nside. When auld and feeble, he wud sit before the door, on a divot seat,\nthe hail simmer day, wi' a braid bonnet on his head, and a lang staff by\nhis side, reading the Bible, or maybe 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or takin'\nwi' the neebors wha cam to see him.\"\n\n\"Did he belong to the established kirk?\"\n\n\"Na, na, he was ane o' the auld Covenanters, and used to talk a deal\nabout Cameron and McMillen, as unco powerfu' preachers. He thocht the\npresent times were wonderfu' degenerate, that the solemn League and\nCovenant o' Scotland was amaist forgotten, and that the people\nnow-a-days were a sort o' inferior race. But he was a gude man; unco\npleasant to look upon, and unco pleasant to hear, when he talked o' the\nfaithfulness o' Israel's God, and the comfort and blessedness of being\nhis children. When he deed, he seemed to fa' asleep. A smile was on his\npale face, and his han' lay upon his breast, as it were in token of\nresignation to the will o' heaven. He lies buried in the auld\nkirk-yard, o'er yonder, wi' the words on his head-stane at his ain\nrequest, 'Blessed are the deed that dee in the Lord.'\"\n\n\"Are you too a Cameronian?\"\n\n\"Why no, to tell ye the honest truth. The auld Cameronians are amaist a'\ngane; and I just gang o'er here to the free kirk, where, to my notion,\nwe hae as guid sound preachin as ye'll meet wi' in the hail kintra side.\nI'm no sae gude a man as my faither; but I canna forget his counsels and\nhis prayers.\"\n\n\"Have you any family, my friend?\"\n\n\"Ou aye. A bit callant, and twa strapping lasses, one of whom is\nmarried.\"\n\n\"Well, that's a comfort.\"\n\n\"A great comfort, sir, in my auld days. Jeanie is weel married, and has\nbairns o' her ain. Marion wad a been married, but she was kind a skary,\nand so she stays at hame. The bit callant is no my ain, but a neebor's\nson that we adopted frae pity, seeing his mither is puir, and his\nfaither was lost at sea.\"\n\n\"And your wife, is she well?\"\n\n\"Well! Aye, that she is--in heaven! She's been gane these five\nyears--(here the tears started in the old man's eyes.) We maun a' dee.\n(A brief pause.) But, as my gude auld faither used to say, 'The Lord\ngave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'\"\n\n\"Yes, my good old friend, the hope of a Christian, which you seem to\ncherish, is a source of infinite comfort. It sweetens the cares of life,\nand robs death of its sting. Good morning.\"\n\n\"Gude mornin; and the Lord bless you!\"\n\nAscending the river a short distance, we come to Hawthornden, once the\nproperty and residence of the celebrated poet and historian, William\nDrummond, the friend of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson. The house, originally\nconstructed with reference to strength, surmounts the very edge of a\nprecipitous cliff, which rises above the river. Winding around it are\ncharming walks, among the green foliage, which fringes the summit and\nsides of the rock, down to the very edge of the water. Wild tangled\nbushes, flowering shrubs, birches and oak trees, are mingled in most\npicturesque and delightful confusion; while the gray cliffs here and\nthere, peep out from their sylvan garniture as if sunning themselves in\nthe summer radiance. Below, the stream, impeded in its course by huge\nledges of rocks, hurries unseen, but distinctly heard, amid the woods;\nfurther on, emerges into the light of day, and forms a broad clear pool,\non the banks of which you may see some industrious fisherman plying his\nrod.\n\n          \"The spot is wild, the banks are steep,\n    With eglantine and hawthorn blossomed o'er,\n    Lychnis and daffodils, and hare-bells blue.\n    From lofty granite crags precipitous,\n    The oak with scanty footing topples o'er,\n    Tossing his limbs to heaven; and from the cleft,\n    Fringing the dark brown, natural battlements,\n    The hazel throws his silvery branches down:\n    There starting into view, a castled cliff,\n    Whose roof is lichen'd o'er, purple and green,\n    O'erhangs thy wandering stream, romantic Esk,\n    And rears its head among the ancient trees.\"\n\nStanding in front of it you see certain artificial caves, hollowed with\nimmense labor, out of the solid rock. These communicate with each other,\nand contain a well of prodigious depth bored from the court-yard of the\nmansion. The caves are reported by tradition to have been a stronghold\nof the ancient Pictish kings, and three of them bear respectively the\nname of 'the king's Gallery, the king's Bed-chamber and the king's\nGuard-room.' They were doubtless hewn out, as places of refuge, during\nthe terrible wars between the English and the Picts, or the English and\nthe Scots. In the reign of David II, when the English had possession of\nEdinburgh, they and the neighboring caves of Gorton afforded shelter to\nthe heroic Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie and his adventurous band.\n\nAdjoining the house, and overlooking the stream, a kind of seat is cut\nin the face of the rock, called 'Cypress Grove,' where Drummond is\nreported to have sat, in the fine summer weather, and composed many of\nhis poems. The magnificent woods in the vicinity suggested to Peter\nPindar the caustic remark respecting Dr. Samuel Johnson, that he\n\n    \"Went to Hawthornden's fair scene by night,\n    Lest e'er a Scottish tree should wound the sight.\"\n\nCrossing the river at a suitable place, we will saunter towards Roslin\non the other side, and while doing so, will beguile the way by talking\nof Drummond, whose genius haunts every nook and corner of the shady\ndell.\n\nWilliam Drummond was born in 1585 and died in 1649. His father, John\nDrummond, was gentleman usher to King James. He was hence educated in\nprofound reverence for royalty and its prerogatives. Indeed his feelings\nupon this subject were entirely slavish; and it is said that his strong\ngrief at the death of Charles the First hastened his death.\n\nHe was well versed in classic literature, and enjoyed the advantages of\na refined and liberal education. Having studied civil law for four years\nin France, he succeeded in 1611 to an independent estate, and took up\nhis residence in Hawthornden. Its cliffs, caves, and wooded dells were\nin harmony with his genius, and he spent many happy years in this\nbeautiful retreat. His first publication was a volume of occasional\npoems, of various merit, to which succeeded a moral treatise, in prose,\ncalled \"Cypress Grove,\" in allusion probably to the fairy nook on the\nface of the rock where he meditated and wrote, and a second poetical\nwork entitled \"Flowers of Zion.\" He also wrote the History of the Five\nJames's, a production of no great merit, in which he urges, to an\nextravagant length, the doctrine of the absolute supremacy of kings.\n\"The Cypress Grove\" contains reflections upon death, written in a solemn\nand agreeable strain, and contains some fine passages. \"This earth,\"\nsays he, \"is as a table book, and men are the notes; the first are\nwashen out, that new may be written in. They who forewent us did leave\nroom for us; and should we grieve to do the same to those who should\ncome after us? Who, being suffered to see the exquisite rarities of an\nantiquary's cabinet, is grieved that the curtain be drawn, and to give\nplace to new pilgrims? And when the Lord of the Universe hath shown us\nthe amazing wonders of his various frame, should we think it hard, when\nhe thinketh time, to dislodge? This is his unalterable and inevitable\ndecree; as we had no part of our will in our entrance into this life, we\nshould not presume to any in our leaving it; but soberly learn to will\nthat which he wills, whose very will giveth being to all that it wills.\"\n\nThe death of a beautiful young lady, to whom he was betrothed, affected\nhim deeply; and he sought relief to his wounded feelings in foreign\ntravel. On returning, some years afterwards, he met a young lady by the\nname of Logan, bearing a strong resemblance to the former object of his\naffections; on account of which he solicited and obtained her hand in\nmarriage.\n\nDrummond was intimate with Drayton and Ben Jonson. The latter paid him a\nvisit at Hawthornden, and they had much free conversation together.\nDrummond kept private notes of these conversations, which subsequently\nsaw the light, and were found to be somewhat injurious to Jonson's\nmemory. But Drummond himself had no hand in their publication.\n\nAs a poet Drummond belonged to the school of Spenser, though far\ninferior to the latter in strength of conception and splendor of\nimagination. His poems are distinguished for their singular harmony and\nsweetness of versification. They seem to partake of the character of the\nquiet romantic scenery amid which they were composed. His \"Tears on the\nDeath of Moeliades,\" (Prince Henry, son of James I.,) and his \"River\nForth Feasting,\" have been much admired. His sonnets, however, are his\nbest productions. They flow with as much grace and beauty, (though not\nperhaps with the same variety,) as the romantic river which murmurs past\nhis \"wooded seat.\" His madrigals, complimentary verses, and other short\npieces, abound in foolish conceits, and what is worse, in coarse and\nlicentious language. But he was one of the best poets of the age, and\nonly inferior to two or three of his great contemporaries.\n\nThe following sonnet--\"To His Lute\"--is very sweet. It was probably\nwritten after the death of the lady to whom he was betrothed;\n\n    My lute be as thou wert when thou didst grow,\n    With thy green mother, in some shady grove,\n    When immelodious winds but made thee move,\n    And birds their ramage[83] did on thee bestow.\n    Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,\n    Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,\n    Is reft from earth to join the spheres above,\n    What art thou but a harbinger of woe?\n    Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,\n    But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,\n    Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;\n    For which be silent as in woods before;\n    Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,\n    Like widowed turtle still her loss complain.\n\n[Footnote 83: Warbling.]\n\nHis sonnet \"In Praise of a Solitary Life\" was written, we can well\nimagine, in his summer bower on the banks of the Esk. It is peculiarly\nharmonious:\n\n    Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,\n    Far from the clamorous world doth live his own,\n    Thou solitary, who is not alone,\n    But doth converse with that eternal love.\n    O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,\n    Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,\n    Than those smooth whisperings near a prince' throne,\n    Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!\n    O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,\n    And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold,\n    Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath.\n    How sweet are streams, to poison drank in gold!\n    The world is full of horror, troubles, slights:\n    Woods, harmless shades have only true delights.\n\nThe following, \"To a Nightingale,\" is still more beautiful:\n\n    Sweet bird! that singst away the early hours\n    Of winters past or coming, void of care,\n    Well pleased with delights which present are,\n    Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:\n    To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,\n    Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,\n    And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,\n    A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.\n    What soul can be so sick as by thy songs\n    (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven\n    Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs,\n    And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?\n    Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost raise\n    To airs of spheres--yes, and to angels' lays.\n\nBut we have entered the vale of Roslin, and there, in its beauty, stands\nthe Chapel of Roslin, one of the most exquisite architectural ruins in\nScotland. It was founded in 1484, or even earlier than that, by the\nEarl of Caithness and Orkney. The whole Chapel is profusely decorated\nwith the most delicate sculpture both within and without. The roof, the\ncapitals, key-stones and architraves, are all overlaid with sculpture,\nrepresenting foliage and flowers, grotesque figures, sacred history and\ntexts of Scripture. The fine fluted column called the \"Apprentice's\nPillar,\" so named from a tradition which no one believes, and which\ntherefore we do not repeat, is exceedingly beautiful, being ornamented\nwith wreaths of foliage and flowers twining around it in spiral columns.\nSo perfect are these alto relievos, that the author of a pamphlet\ndescribing them, says that he can liken them to nothing but Brussels\nlace.\n\nHow solemn a thing it is in this chequered light, to wander amid these\nsounding aisles and ancient monuments! In the vaults beneath lie the\nBarons of Roslin, all of whom, till the time of James the Seventh, were\nburied without a coffin, in complete armor. This circumstance, and the\nvulgar belief that on the night preceding the death of any of these\nbarons, the chapel appeared in flames, has been finely described by\nWalter Scott, in his touching ballad of Rosabelle.\n\n    O listen, listen, ladies gay!\n      No haughty feats of arms I tell;\n    Soft is the note, and sad the lay,\n      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.\n\n    \"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!\n      And gentle ladye deign to stay!\n    Rest thee in castle Ravensheuch,\n      Nor tempt the stormy Firth to-day.\n\n    \"The blackening wave is edged with white,\n      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;\n    The fishers have heard the water sprite,\n      Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.\n\n    \"Last night the gifted seer did view,\n      A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay!\n    Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch;\n      Why cross the gloomy Firth to-day?\"\n\n    \"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir,\n      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,\n    But that my ladye mother there,\n      Sits lonely in her castle hall.\n\n    \"'Tis not because the ring they ride--\n      And Lindesay at the ring rides well--\n    But that my sire the wine will chide\n      If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle.\"\n\n    O'er Roslin all that dreary night,\n      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam,\n    'Twas broader than the watchfire's light,\n      And redder than the bright moonbeam.\n\n    It glared on Roslin's castled rock,\n      It ruddied all the copsewood glen,\n    'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,\n      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.\n\n    Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,\n      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,\n    Each baron, for a sable shroud,\n      Sheathed in his iron panoply.\n\n    Seem'd all on fire, within, around,\n      Deep sacristy and altar pale;\n    Shone every pillar, foliage bound,\n      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.\n\n    Blazed battlement and pinnet high,\n      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair,--\n    So still they blaze, when fate is nigh\n      The lordly line of high St. Clair.\n\n    There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold,\n      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;\n    Each one the holy vault doth hold--\n      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.\n\n    And each St. Clair was buried there,\n      With candle, with book, and with knell,\n    But the sea caves rung, and the wild winds sung,\n      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.\n\nWe now pass over a bridge of great height, spanning a deep cut in the\nsolid rock, and reach Roslin Castle, with its triple tier of vaults,\nstanding upon a peninsular rock overhanging the romantic glen of the\nEsk. This castle was, for ages, the seat of the St. Clairs, or\nSinclairs, descended from William de Sancto Clare, the son of Waldernus\nde Clare, who came to England with William the Conqueror, and fought at\nthe battle of Hastings. The enumeration of their titles, says Sir Walter\nScott, would take away the breath of a herald. Among others, they were\nPrinces of the Orcades, Dukes of Oldenburgh, Lord Admirals of the\nScottish Seas, Grand Justiciaries of the kingdom, Wardens of the border,\nEarls of Caithness, titularies of more than fifty baronies, patrons and\nGrand Masters of Masonry in Scotland, &c. &c.\n\nOf the grandeur and opulence of the family, some conception may be\nderived from the following description, given in a manuscript in the\n\"Advocate's Library,\" of the state maintained by William St. Clare,\nfounder of the chapel.--\"About that time (1440) the town of Roslin,\nbeing next to Edinburgh and Haddington in East Lothian, became very\npopulous by the great concourse of all ranks and degrees of visitors\nthat resorted to this Prince, at his palace of the Castle of Roslin; for\nhe kept a great court, and was royally served at his own table, in\nvessels of gold and silver, Lord Dirleton being his master of the\nhousehold, Lord Borthwick his cup-bearer, and Lord Fleming his carver,\n&c. He had his halls and other apartments richly adorned with\nembroidered hangings. He flourished in the reigns of James the First and\nSecond. His princess, Elizabeth Douglass, was served by seventy-five\ngentlewomen, whereof fifty-three were daughters of noblemen, all clothed\nin velvets and silks, with their chains of gold and other ornaments, and\nwas attended by two hundred riding gentlemen in all her journeys; and if\nit happened to be dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings\nwere at the foot of Blackfriars' Wynd, eighty lighted torches were\ncarried before her.\"\n\nThe old castle is almost entirely gone, and the present structure is a\ncomparatively modern one. It belongs to the Earl of Rosslyn, descended\nfrom a collateral branch of the St. Clair family.\n\nIt is interesting to think of the magnificent old barons who kept state\nin the mouldering castles which everywhere adorn the Scottish landscape.\nSome of them were noble specimens of humanity, but the greater\nproportion of them were but splendid barbarians. They led a sort of rude\nanimal life, and were distinguished chiefly for their towering pride and\nungovernable passion. The following story of a hunting match between\nKing Robert Bruce and Sir William St. Clair, throws an interesting\nlight on the spirit of the age and the history of the St. Clair family.\n\"The king had been repeatedly baulked by a fleet white deer which he had\nstarted in his hunt among the Pentland Hills; and having asked an\nassembled body of his nobles whether any dogs in their possession could\nseize the game that had escaped the royal hounds, Sir William St. Clair\npromptly offered to pledge his head that two favorite dogs of his called\n'Help and Hold,' would kill the deer before she crossed the March burn.\nThe king instantly accepted the knight's bold and reckless offer, and\npromised himself to give the forest of Pentland Moor in guerdon of\nsuccess. A few slow hounds having been let loose to beat up the deer,\nand the king having taken post on the best vantage-ground for commanding\na view of the chase, Sir William stationed himself in the fittest\nposition for slipping his dogs, and in the true style of a Romanist, who\nasks a blessing upon a sin, and supposes the giver of the blessing to be\na creature, earnestly prayed to St. Katherine to give the life of the\ndeer to his dogs. Away now came the raised deer, and away in full chase\nwent Sir William on a fleet-footed steed; and hind and hunter arrived\nneck and neck at the critical March burn. Sir William threw himself in a\ndesperate fling from his horse into the stream; 'Hold,' just at this\ncrisis of fate, stopped the deer in the brook, and 'Help' the next\ninstant came up, drove back the chase, and killed her on the winning\nside of the stream. The king, who had witnessed the nicely poised\nresult, came speedily down from his vantage-ground, embraced Sir\nWilliam, and granted him, in free forestry, the lands of Logan House,\nKirkton, and Carncraig. Sir William, in gratitude for the fancied\ninterference of St. Katherine in his favor, built the chapel of St.\nKatherine in the Hopes. The tomb of the wildly adventurous knight who\nwas so canine in his nature as to reckon his life not too high a pledge\nfor the fleetness and fierceness of his dogs, is still to be seen in\nRoslin chapel; and it very properly represents the sculpture of his\narmed person to be attended by a greyhound, as a joint claimant of the\nhonor and fame of his exploits.\"\n\nIn the neighboring moor of Roslin is the scene of a great battle, in\n1302, in which the Scottish army gained, in one day, three successive\nvictories, a circumstance touchingly referred to by _Delta_, Dr. Moir of\nMusselburgh, author of 'Casa Wappy,' 'Wee Willie,' and many other\nexquisite contributions to Blackwood's Magazine.\n\n    \"Three triumphs in a day!\n      Three hosts subdued by one!\n    Three armies scattered like the spray,\n      Beneath one summer sun\n    Who pausing 'mid this solitude\n      Of rocky streams and leafy trees,--\n    Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood,\n      Would ever dream of these?\n    Or have a thought that ought intrude\n      Save birds and humming bees?\"\n\nHow delightful, as we wander amid these hoary ruins and leafy bowers, so\nstill and beautiful under the rich light of a summer noon, to think that\nthe old stormy times of feudal warfare have passed away forever, and\nthat peace, with balmy wing, is brooding over this and other Christian\nlands.\n\nBut in this everyday life, the wants of nature must be met. Let us hie\nthen to the village inn, just beyond the chapel. With our keen\nappetites, a snug dinner there will relish better than the most splendid\nbanquet of the St. Clairs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n     Ramble through the Fields--Parish Schools--Recollections of Dominie\n     Meuross--The South Esk--Borthwick and Crichtoun Castles--Newbattle\n     Abbey--Dalkeith--Residence of the Duke of Buccleugh--\"Scotland's\n     Skaith,\" by Hector Macneil--His Character and Writings--Extracts\n     from the \"History of Will and Jean.\"\n\n\nRecrossing the North Esk, we ramble through the country in a\nnorth-easterly direction, passing through highly cultivated farms, with\nlarge comfortable homesteads. The fields everywhere are filled with\nlaborers, hoeing, ploughing, and weeding, most of them cheerful as\nlarks, and making the woods ring with 'whistle and song.' That plain but\nsubstantial edifice, under the shadow of the great oak tree hard by the\nold church, is a parish school-house, in which perhaps are gathered some\nfifty or sixty boys and girls, from all ranks of society, plying their\nmental tasks, under the supervision of an intelligent schoolmaster.\nEvery morning in that school-house the Word of God is reverently read,\nand earnest prayer offered, exerting upon all minds a healthful moral\ninfluence, and producing impressions of a religious kind, which may last\nforever. Any boy may be fitted for college, or for commercial pursuits,\nin such a school, and the expense to the parent will be next to nothing.\nWhat then must be the amount of good accomplished by the combined\ninfluence of all the parish schools in Scotland, equally endowed, and\nsupplied with adequate teachers? Popular education has made great\nadvances in Scotland within a few years. The greatest zeal for learning\nexists among the people, and they require no compulsive acts, as in\nGermany, to induce them to send their children to school. Not to be able\nto read and write is regarded, in Scotland, as a great disgrace; and\nhence the poorest people are equally ready with the rich to avail\nthemselves of the benefits of instruction. Good teachers are uniformly\nsecured, because they receive an ample compensation, and none but\nwell-educated and truly moral men would be accepted. In this respect\ntheir situation is greatly superior to that of parish schoolmasters in\nGermany or in the United States. On this subject, Kohl, the German\ntraveller, mentions an amusing conversation which he had with the parish\nschoolmaster at Muthil. Having stated to the latter that the situation\nof Scottish teachers was far superior to that of teachers in his\ncountry, he inquired what was the average pay of schoolmasters there.\n\n\"It varies a good deal,\" was the reply of Kohl. \"Some have a hundred,\nsome a hundred and fifty, but many no more than fifty dollars.\"\n\n\"How many pounds go to a dollar?\" asked he.\n\n\"Seven dollars go to a pound.\"\n\n\"What!\" he exclaimed, springing up from his chair, \"do you mean to tell\nme that they pay a schoolmaster with _seven pounds_ a year?\"\n\n\"Even so,\" was the reply, \"seven pounds; but how much then do they get\nwith you?\"\n\n\"I know no one who has less than from forty to fifty pounds in all\nScotland; but the average is seventy or eighty pounds; and many go as\nhigh as a hundred and fifty pounds.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Kohl, springing up in his turn, \"a hundred and fifty\npounds! that makes one thousand and fifty dollars. A _baron_ would be\nsatisfied in Germany with such a revenue as that; and do you mean to say\nthat there are schoolmasters who grumble at it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he; \"but recollect how dear things are with us. Sugar costs\neighteenpence a pound; coffee two shillings; chocolate is still dearer,\nand tea not much cheaper. And then how dear are good beef, and pork, and\nplums, and puddings, and everything else!\"\n\n\"I could not deny this,\" adds Kohl; \"but I thought that our poor\nschoolmasters were content if they had but bread.\"\n\nIn former times the parish schoolmasters did not receive so much as they\nnow do; but then they were clerks of the parish, frequently _precentors_\nin the church, and received a multitude of little perquisites. Their\nsupport has been made quite ample, having an average salary of a hundred\npounds, with a free house.\n\nBut the sight of that school-house brings back the days of \"lang syne.\"\nWell do I remember the old parish school--a long thatched building, at\nthe \"Kirk of Shotts,\" where I received my preparation for college,\nunder the free and easy, but most efficient, administration of 'Dominie\nMeuross,' famed through all the country for his great classical\nattainments, his facetious disposition, his kind-heartedness, and his\nlove of the pure 'Glenlivet.' Those were not the days of temperance\nsocieties, and the Dominie had so much to do with christenings and\nweddings, parish difficulties, \"roups\" and law-suits, that he was\ngreatly tempted by the bottle. But he was a worthy man, and an\nenthusiastic teacher, especially of the classics. Teaching A, B, C, was\nrather a dull business to the Dominie; but oh, how _merrily_ he would\nconstrue the Odes of Horace, what jokes he would crack over our lessons,\nand what effulgent light he would cast upon the classic page! Yet\nDominie Meuross was a dignified man--no one more so. The boys, indeed,\nenjoyed considerable latitude, especially at that end of the school\nopposite the one in which the Dominie sat, and many facetious tricks\nwere played upon the duller boys, the \"sumphs,\" as we used to call them.\nBut the Dominie had only to pull down his glasses from his forehead,\nwhere they were usually perched, and direct a keen glance to \"the other\nend,\" instantly to bring us all to perfect order. Dear old man! he has\nlong ago \"gone to the yird,\" but his memory is green as the grass which\nwaves upon his grave.\n\nThe school and the church, the light of learning, and the light of\nreligion, form the glory of Scotland. These have twined around her\nrustic brow a wreath of fadeless glory. These have given her stability\nand worth, beauty and renown.\n\nBut we have reached Dalhousie Castle, with its charming and romantic\ngrounds, situated on a branch of the South Esk, a stream similar to the\nNorth Esk, and running in the same direction. These streams, after\npassing through scenery the most picturesque and beautiful, and watering\na hundred spots consecrated by song and story, as if by a mutual\nattraction, unite a little above Dalkeith, and fall near the old town of\nMusselburgh into the Firth of Forth. Behind us, at the distance of a few\nmiles, are the celebrated ruins of Borthwick and Crichtoun castles, the\none on a branch of the South Esk, the other somewhat to the right, in\nthe vale of Tyne. It was into Borthwick Castle that Queen Mary retired\nafter the death of Darnley, and her unhappy marriage with Bothwell, and\nfrom which she was obliged, a few days afterwards, to flee to Dunbar in\nthe guise of a page. Crichtoun Castle is beautifully described by Sir\nWalter Scott, in Marmion, and as we cannot visit this interesting ruin,\ntake his description of it as the best substitute.\n\n    \"That castle rises on a steep\n      Of the green vale of Tyne;\n    And far beneath, where slow they creep\n    From pool to eddy, dark and deep,\n    Where alders moist, and willows weep,\n      You hear her streams repine.\n    The towers in different ages rose;\n    Their various architecture shows\n      The builders' various hands;\n    A mighty mass, that could oppose,\n    When deadliest hatred fired its foes,\n      The vengeful Douglas' bands.\n\n    \"Crichtoun! though now thy miry court\n      But pens the lazy steer and sheep,\n      Thy turrets rude and tottered Keep,\n    Have been the minstrel's loved resort.\n    Oft have I traced within thy fort,\n      Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,\n      Scutcheons of honor or pretence,\n    Quartered in old armorial sort,\n      Remains of rude magnificence.\n    Nor wholly yet hath time defaced\n      Thy lordly gallery fair;\n    Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,\n    Whose twisted knots with roses laced,\n      Adorn thy ruined stair.\n    Still rises unimpaired below,\n    The court-yard's graceful portico:\n    Above its cornice, row and row,\n    Of fair hewn facets richly show,\n      Their pointed diamond form,\n    Though there but houseless cattle go,\n      To shield them from the storm.\n    And shuddering still may we explore,\n      Where oft whilom were captives pent,\n    The darkness of thy Massy More;[84]\n      Or from thy grass-grown battlement.\n    May trace, in undulating line,\n    The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.\"\n\n[Footnote 84: The prison vault.]\n\nProceeding along the stream, we pass Cockpen, reminding us of the Laird\nof Cockpen and his amusing courtship, when\n\n    \"Dumb-founder'd was he,\n      But nae word did he gae;\n    He mounted his mare,\n      And he rade cannilie.\n\n    But aften he thought,\n      As he gaed through the glen,\n    She's a fule to refuse\n      The Laird o' Cockpen.\"\n\nWe linger a few minutes by Newbattle Abbey, founded by David I., for a\ncommunity of Cistercian monks, brought hither from Melrose, but now the\nresidence of the Marquis of Lothian; and soon after reach the old \"burgh\ntown\" of Dalkeith, most delightfully situated between the two Esks, and\nreminding us forcibly of \"Mansie Waugh,\" the _pawkie tailor_ of\nDalkeith, whose amusing history we read in our boyhood. Dalkeith is a\nconsiderable place, and has many elegant residences. In its immediate\nvicinity is Dalkeith Palace, seat of the Duke of Buccleugh, standing on\nan overhanging bank of the North Esk. Here too, in earlier times, lived\nthe Grahams, and the Douglases; and into this strong retreat, then\ncalled the \"Lion's den,\" retired the celebrated Regent Morton, who was\nsubsequently beheaded. We might enter the house, as this favor is often\ngranted to strangers, but we will not now; though it boasts the\npossession of some fine old paintings, and some exquisite pieces of\nfurniture. But the grounds around it are infinitely more attractive,\nadorned, as they are, with magnificent trees and shrubbery, and the\nserpentine windings of the two Esks, whose waters unite in the park, a\nlittle distance below the house. How placidly the stream glides through\nthe verdant meadows, and mirrors the green foliage of the overhanging\ntrees, or the branching horns of some deer, bent to drink its clear\nwaters! How softly and delicately the pencil rays of green and yellow\nlight glimmer through those shady retreats to the right. See the\nstartled deer bounding through the woods! How softly and lovingly sleeps\nthe sunshine on that wide pool at the bottom of the green slope, adorned\nwith flowers and honeysuckles! And see, through that shady vista the\nopen sky in the distance, \"so darkly, deeply, beautifully blue.\" The\nbirds too, mavis, lintie, and bulfinch, are caroling among the trees, as\nif their little hearts were filled with boundless joy.\n\nThe cottage of \"Jeanie Gairlace,\" supposed to be conferred upon her by\nthe Duchess of Buccleugh, is placed by Macneil, the author of\n\"Scotland's Skaith,\" in this beautiful vicinity. As we have yet to wait\nsome time for the rail cars that are to take us to Edinburgh, let us sit\ndown on this rustic seat, and I will give you some account of Macneil,\nand his touching poem of \"Will and Jean.\"\n\nHector Macneil was born in 1746, and died in 1818. He was brought up to\nmercantile pursuits, but did not succeed in business. He cultivated in\nsecret his passion for the muses, and published at intervals several\npoetical effusions, among which were \"The Harp, a Legendary Poem,\"--\"The\nLinks of the Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Sterling,\" and\n\"Scotland's Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean,\" his most natural\nand successful production. Though not successful in lyrical effusions,\nor in song writing, he is the author, we believe, of that exquisite\nballad, \"Bonny Wee Mary o' Castlecary.\" He also wrote some prose tales,\nin which he laments the effects of modern changes and improvements. In\nthe latter years of his life, he resided in comparative comfort, at\nEdinburgh, enjoying the congenial society of its refined and literary\ncircles.\n\n\"Scotland's Skaith (curse) or the History of Will and Jean,\" is intended\nto depict the ruinous effects of intemperance, and the possibility of\nreform, with the happiness thence resulting. A happy couple, in humble\nlife are gradually drawn into the vortex of intemperance, and at last\nare reduced to the deepest extremities. The husband enlists as a\nsoldier, and the wife is compelled, with her children, to beg her bread.\nIn the commencement of the poem Willie is represented as passing a\nrustic alehouse, whose attractions prove too much for him. The situation\nof the alehouse, and the commencement of Willie's career as a drunkard,\nare admirably described. The rhythm of the poem is peculiarly harmonious\nand lively.\n\n    In a howm[85] whose bonnie burnie,\n      Whimpering rowed its crystal flood,\n    Near the road where travellers turn aye,\n      Neat and bield[86] a cot house stood.\n\n    White the wa's, wi' roof new theckit,[87]\n      Window broads[88] just painted red;\n    Lown[89] 'mang trees and braes it reekit,[90]\n      Hafflins[91] seen and hafflins hid.\n\n    Up the gavel[92] end thick spreading,\n      Crap the clasping ivy green,\n    Back owre firs the high craigs cleadin,[93]\n      Raised around a cosey screen.\n\n    Down below a flowery meadow;\n      Joined the burnies rambling line,\n    Here it was that Howe the widow\n      That same day set up her sign.\n\n    Brattling[94] down the brae, and near its\n      Bottom, Will first marvelling sees\n    'Porter, ale, and British spirits,'\n      Painted bright between twa trees.\n\n    'Godsake Tam! here's walth for drinking!\n      Wha can this new-comer be?'\n    'Hout,' quo Tam, 'there's drouth in thinking--\n      Let's in Will, and syne[95] we'll see.'\n\n[Footnote 85: Hollow, or glen.]\n\n[Footnote 86: Sheltered.]\n\n[Footnote 87: Thatched.]\n\n[Footnote 88: Boards.]\n\n[Footnote 89: Serene and lonely.]\n\n[Footnote 90: Smoked.]\n\n[Footnote 91: Half.]\n\n[Footnote 92: Gable.]\n\n[Footnote 93: Clothing.]\n\n[Footnote 94: Rattling, or running.]\n\n[Footnote 95: Then.]\n\nThe two thoughtless friends have \"a jolly meeting,\" and do not break up\ntill \"'tween twa and three\" next morning. A weekly club is set up at the\nalehouse, a newspaper is procured, and things move on bravely. Willie\nbecomes a \"pot-house politician,\" and a hard drinker, the consequence of\nwhich is that he speedily goes to ruin. His wife also, to drown her\nsorrows, takes to drinking. The contrast between their past and present\ncondition is touchingly described by the poet.\n\n    Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace?\n      Wha in neeboring town or farm?\n    Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,\n      Deadly strength was in his arm.\n\n    When he first saw Jeanie Miller,\n      Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?\n    Thousands had mair braws and siller.[96]\n      But war ony half so fair?\n\n    See them now! how chang'd wi' drinking!\n      A' their youthfu' beauty gane!\n    Davered,[97] doited,[98] dazed[99] and blinking--\n      Worn to perfect skin and bane.\n\n    In the cauld month o' November,\n      (Claise,[100] and cash, and credit out,)\n    Cowering o'er a dying ember,\n      Wi' ilk face as white's a clout.[101]\n\n    Bond and bill, and debts a' stoppit,\n      Ilka sheaf selt[102] on the bent;[103]\n    Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit,[104]\n      Now to pay the laird his rent.\n\n    No anither night to lodge here--\n      No a friend their cause to plead!\n    He's ta'en[105] on to be a sodger,\n      She wi' weans[106] to beg her bread!\n\n[Footnote 96: Fine clothing and money.]\n\n[Footnote 97: Bewildered.]\n\n[Footnote 98: Foolish.]\n\n[Footnote 99: Stupid.]\n\n[Footnote 100: Clothes.]\n\n[Footnote 101: Cloth.]\n\n[Footnote 102: Sold.]\n\n[Footnote 103: Stubble field.]\n\n[Footnote 104: Sold at auction.]\n\n[Footnote 105: Engaged.]\n\n[Footnote 106: Children.]\n\nFortunately, Jeanie attracts the attention of the Duchess of Buccleugh,\nand obtains from her a pretty cottage, rent free, and such aid and\nprotection as her circumstances demand. Willie loses a leg in battle,\nand returns a changed man, with a pension from government. Finding his\nwife and family, he is received to their embrace. The soldier's return,\nand the situation of the cottage are beautifully depicted.\n\n    Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin',\n      Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth;\n    On a cart or in a wagon,\n      Hirplin[107] aye towards the north.\n\n    Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly,[108]\n      Pondering on his thraward[109] fate,\n    In the bonny month o' July,\n      Willie, heedless, tent[110] his gate.[111]\n\n    Saft the southland breeze was blowing,\n      Sweetly sughed[112] the green oak wood;\n    Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing,\n      Strack the ear with thundering thud.\n\n    Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating;\n      Linties chirped on ilka tree;\n    Frae the west the sun near setting,\n      Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie.[113]\n\n    Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny!\n      Craigs and water, woods and glen!\n    Roslin's banks unpeered by ony,\n      Save the Muses' Hawthornden!\n\n    Ilka sound and charm delighting,\n      Will (though hardly fit to gang,)[114]\n    Wandered on through scenes inviting,\n      Listening to the mavis' sang.\n\n    Faint at length, the day fast closing,\n      On a fragrant strawberry steep,\n    Esk's sweet dream to rest composing,\n      Wearied nature drapt asleep.\n\n    'Soldier, rise!--the dews o' e'ening,\n      Gathering fa' wi' deadly skaith!--\n    Wounded soldier! if complaining,\n      Sleep na here, and catch your death.'\n\n[Footnote 107: Limping.]\n\n[Footnote 108: Carefully.]\n\n[Footnote 109: Untoward.]\n\n[Footnote 110: Lost.]\n\n[Footnote 111: Way.]\n\n[Footnote 112: Sighed.]\n\n[Footnote 113: High.]\n\n[Footnote 114: Walk.]\n\nAccepting an invitation to take shelter in a neighboring cottage,\nslowfully and painfully he followed his guide.\n\n    Silent stept he on, poor fellow!\n      Listening to his guide before,\n    O'er green knowe, and flowery hollow,\n      Till they reached the cot-house door.\n\n    Laigh[115] it was, yet sweet and humble:\n      Decked wi' honeysuckle round;\n    Clear below Esk's waters rumble,\n      Deep glens murmuring back the sound.\n\n    Melville's towers sae white and stately,\n      Dim by gloaming glint[116] to view;\n    Through Lasswade's dark woods keek[117] sweetly,\n      Skies sae red and lift sae blue.\n\n    Entering now in transport mingle,\n      Mother fond, and happy wean,[118]\n    Smiling round a canty[119] ingle,\n      Bleezing on a clean hearth-stane.\n\n    'Soldier, welcome! Come, be cheery!\n      Here ye'se[120] rest, and tak' your bed--\n    Faint, waes me! ye seem and weary,\n      Pale's your cheek, sae lately red!'\n\n    'Changed I am,' sighed Willie till[121] her;\n      'Changed nae doubt, as changed[122] can be;\n    Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller\n      Naught o' Willie Gairlace see?'\n\n    Hae ye mark'd the dews o' morning,\n      Glittering in the sunny ray,\n    Quickly fa' when, without warning,\n      Rough blasts came and shook the spray?\n\n    Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing,\n      Drap when pierced by death mair fleet?\n    Then see Jean, wi' color deeing,[123]\n      Senseless drap at Willie's feet.\n\n    After three lang years' affliction,\n      A' their waes now hush'd to rest,\n    Jean ance mair, in fond affection,\n      Clasps her Willie to her breast.\n\n[Footnote 115: Low.]\n\n[Footnote 116: Gleam.]\n\n[Footnote 117: Peep.]\n\n[Footnote 118: Child.]\n\n[Footnote 119: Merry.]\n\n[Footnote 120: You shall.]\n\n[Footnote 121: To.]\n\n[Footnote 122: As much as possible.]\n\n[Footnote 123: Dying.]\n\nBut hark! the first bell rings for the cars; so let us be off, and get\nour places. The sun has slipped down behind the trees yonder, and it\nwill be gloaming, if not ''tween and supper time,' before we get to\nEdinburgh.\n\nAll is right, and off we go, whirring through the quiet and beautiful\nscenery of these highly cultivated regions. We pass through \"Samson's\nribs,\" that is, the granite rocks of Duddingston, by means of a tunnel,\nglide along the base of Arthur's Seat, on whose summit linger the last\nrays of evening; and land at the upper end of the city, well prepared to\nrelish a Scottish supper of substantial edibles, and after that, \"tired\nnature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n     City of Glasgow--Spirit of the place--Trade and Manufactures--The\n     Broomielaw--Steam--George's Square--Monuments to Sir Walter Scott,\n     Sir John Moore, and James Watt--Sketch of the Life of Watt--Glasgow\n     University--Reminiscences--Brougham--Sir D. K. Sandford--Professor\n     Nichol and others--High Kirk, or Glasgow Cathedral--Martyrdom of\n     Jerome Russel and John Kennedy.\n\n\nTaking the steam-cars from Edinburgh, we arrive at Glasgow, a distance\nof forty-four miles, in a couple of hours. As Edinburgh is the\nrepresentative of Scottish literature and refinement, Glasgow is the\nrepresentative of its commerce and manufactures. It is an immense city,\nand contains a prodigious number of inhabitants. At the period of the\nUnion it had a population of only twelve thousand: since which time it\nhas doubled this number twelve or thirteen times, and now contains\nnearly three hundred thousand inhabitants. It owes this unprecedented\nincrease to its trade, domestic and foreign, which is almost\nunparalleled in its extent. There is probably not a single inland town\nin Great Britain, with the exception of London, which can show such a\nshipping list.\n\nGlasgow has ever been distinguished for its mechanical ingenuity, its\nindustry and enterprise. Its situation doubtless is highly favorable,\nbut without an intelligent, ingenious and active population, it could\nnever have reached such a height of prosperity.\n\nBut it is not our intention to visit this commercial city as tourists.\nThere are enough such to describe her agreeable situation, and handsome\npublic edifices, her long and elegant streets, her beautiful \"green,\"\nand magnificent river. At present we shall not fatigue ourselves with\nvisiting the Royal Exchange, the Royal Bank, the Tontine and the\nAssembly Rooms. Neither shall we trouble our readers to go with us\nthrough Queen street, St. Vincent street, Greenhill Place, or Woodside\nCrescent.\n\nIt might be worth while however, to look into some of those immense\nfactories; from which rise innumerable huge chimnies, some of which\novertop the steeples and towers of the churches, and reach far up into\nthe heavens.[124] Thousands and thousands of spindles and power looms,\nwith thousands and thousands of human hands and heads are moving there\nfrom morn to night, and from night to morn. What masses of complicated\nand beautiful machinery! What prodigious steam-engines, great hearts of\npower in the centres of little worlds, giving life energy and motion to\nthe whole. Here is a single warehouse, as it is called, for the sale of\nmanufactured goods, containing no less than two hundred clerks. What\npiles of silks and shawls, cottons and calicoes! The productions of\nGlasgow reach every part of the world. You will find them in India,\nChina, and the United States, in the wilds of Africa and the jungles of\nBurmah, amid the snows of Labrador, and the savannahs of Georgia.\n\n[Footnote 124: One of these chimnies is said to be over 400 feet high.]\n\nBut let us go down to the Broomielaw, and take a look at the river\nClyde. That mile of masts, and those immense steamers, plying up and\ndown the river, connect Glasgow with every part of the British Empire\nand the world.\n\nWhat grand agency has accomplished all this? Steam!--steam, under the\nguidance and control of genius and enterprise. The extended prosperity\nof Glasgow commenced with the inventions of Watt, the greatest\nmechanical genius of the age, and the first man that constructed a\nsteam-engine of much practical use. Steam has raised all those huge\nfactories which we have been admiring, and keeps their innumerable\nwheels and pistons, spindles and power looms in motion. Steam it is\nwhich brings untold masses of coal and iron from the bowels of the\nearth, and converts them into machinery and motive power. Yonder it\ncomes, rolling and dashing, in a long train of cars and carriages filled\nwith the produce and population of the land. Here it gives life and\nenergy to a cotton mill with a thousand looms! There it casts off, from\nday to day, the myriads of printed sheets which spread intelligence\nthrough the country. All around us it moves the cranks and pullies,\nropes and wires, wheels and tools, which work such wonders in beating\nand grinding, cutting and carving, polishing and dyeing. Steam has added\nthousands, nay millions to the annual income of Glasgow. It has\naugmented the resources of Great Britain to such an extent that it\nsaves seventy millions of dollars annually in the matter of motive\npower alone! No pen can describe the additions which it has made in\nother parts of the world to their manufactures and commerce. It has\nbrought all nations into more intimate relations, and is yet destined,\nin many respects, to revolutionize the world.\n\nLet us go then to George's Square, near the centre of the city, and look\nat Chantrey's monument of the man who has done so much to bring about\nsuch a change. The Square contains also a fine monument of Sir Walter\nScott, in the form of a fluted Doric column, about eighty feet high,\nsurmounted by a colossal statue of \"the great magician of the north.\" He\nis represented standing in an easy attitude, with a shepherd's plaid\nthrown half around his body. The likeness is said to be remarkably good.\nIt has that expression of shrewdness, honesty and good nature for which\nhe was distinguished, but none of that ideal elevation which graces the\ncountenances of Schiller, Goethe and Shakspeare. Immediately in front of\nthis monument, is a beautiful pedestrian statue in bronze, by Flaxman,\nof Sir John Moore, the subject of Wolfe's exquisite lyric,--\n\n    \"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,\n      As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried,\n    Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,\n      O'er the grave where our hero we buried.\"\n\nSir John Moore was a citizen of Glasgow, and his townsmen have erected\nthis statue as expressive of their veneration for his memory. To the\nright of this monument, in the south-west angle of the square, you see\nin bronze, and of colossal magnitude, the noble figure of James Watt. He\nis represented in a sitting posture on a circular pedestal of Aberdeen\ngranite. It is considered one of the happiest productions of the\ndistinguished Chantrey. The fine meditative features of the great\ninventor are strikingly developed. Watt was born in Greenock, on the\n19th of January, 1736, but conducted his experiments chiefly in Glasgow.\nHe came thither in 1757, first as a mathematical instrument maker to the\ncollege, and subsequently as an engineer. In early life he gave\nindications of his peculiar genius, by various little mechanical\ncontrivances. At the age of six years, he was occasionally found\nstretched on the floor, delineating with chalk the lines of a\ngeometrical problem. At other times he greatly obliged his young\ncompanions by making and repairing their toys; and before he had reached\nhis seventeenth year he had amused them with the wonders of an\nelectrical machine of his own construction. He had also instructed\nhimself by making experiments on the steam of a tea-kettle. He\nsubsequently stored his mind with the wonders of physics, chemistry and\nmedicine.\n\nIn the University of Glasgow, Watt was employed to fit up the\ninstruments of the Macfarlane Observatory, which gave him an opportunity\nof becoming acquainted with Adam Smith, Joseph Black, and Robert Simson,\nnames immortal in the scientific annals of Scotland. Here also he formed\nan intimacy with John Robinson, then a student at college, and\nsubsequently the celebrated Dr. Robinson, who first called the attention\nof Watt to the subject of steam engines, and threw out the idea of\napplying them to steam carriages and other purposes.\n\nThe steam-engine had existed before this time, but it was extremely\nimperfect, and, moreover, of no great practical use. Hence Mr. Watt was\nnot, properly speaking, the inventor but the improver of the\nsteam-engine. Still his improvement was equal to an invention of the\nhighest order. It made the instrument _available_ for the highest\npractical purposes. \"He found the crazy machines of Savery and Newcomen\nlaboring and creaking at our mine heads, and occupying the same rank as\nprime movers with the wind-mill and the water-wheel; and by a succession\nof _inventions_ and _discoveries_, deduced from the most profound\nchemical knowledge, and applied by the most exquisite mechanical skill,\nhe brought the steam-engine to such a degree of perfection as to stamp\nit the most precious gift which man ever bequeathed to his race.\"[125]\n\n[Footnote 125: Edinburgh Review.]\n\nWatt had \"a sore fight of existence,\" at least in the early part of his\ncareer, and he came near being deprived of the emolument which was his\njust due as a benefactor of his race. But he eventually triumphed over\nall opposition, retired from business, and continued to reside during\nthe rest of his life on his estate at Heathfield Soho. He was\nexceedingly happy in his domestic relations, though called, in 1804, to\nsuffer a painful bereavement in the loss of his youngest son Gregory,\nwho had given high promise of literary and scientific eminence. In 1808\nhe was elected a corresponding member of the Institute of France; and in\n1814, he was nominated by the Academy of Sciences as one of its _eight_\nforeign correspondents. In 1819 his health suffered a rapid decline, and\nhe himself felt that this was his last illness. \"Resigned, himself, he\nendeavored to make others resigned. He pointed out to his son the topics\nof consolation which should occupy his mind; and expressing his sincere\ngratitude to Providence for the length of days he had enjoyed, for his\nexemption from most of the infirmities of age, and for the serenity and\ncheerfulness which marked the close of his life; he expired at\nHeathfield on the 25th of August, 1819.\" He was interred in the parish\nchurch of Handsworth; and over his tomb his son erected an elegant\nGothic chapel, containing a beautiful marble bust by Chantrey. Another\nbust by the same artist has been placed in one of the halls of Glasgow\nCollege. A colossal statue of Carrara marble, procured at great expense\nby public subscription, graces the recesses of Westminster Abbey.\n\nThe most useful memorial of Watt, however, exists in Greenock, in the\nform of a large and handsome building for a public library, erected by\nhis son, in which the citizens have caused to be placed a handsome\nmarble statue, with an inscription from the pen of Lord Jeffrey. Lord\nBrougham concluded an eloquent speech on the merits of Mr. Watt, in the\nfollowing striking terms:--\"If in old times the temples of false gods\nwere appropriately filled with the images of men who had carried\ndevastation over the face of the earth, surely our temples cannot be\nmore worthily adorned with the likenesses of those whose triumphs have\nbeen splendid indeed, but unattended by sorrow to any--who have achieved\nvictories, not for one country only, but to enlarge the power and\nincrease the happiness of the whole human race.\"\n\nPassing up High Street, we come to an arched gateway, and find ourselves\nin a quadrangular court, with antique looking buildings on each side.\nBeyond this we come to another quadrangle, also surrounded by buildings\nof perhaps more recent date. Passing straight on we reach a handsome\nedifice of polished freestone, directly in front of us, and standing\nalone, which is nothing less than the Hunterian museum. These then are\nthe buildings of Glasgow University. Beyond us is the college-green,\nornamented with trees, and divided into two parts by a sluggish stream\nwhich passes through the centre. A number of the students, having laid\naside their scarlet gowns, are playing at football, a violent but\ndelightful and invigorating exercise.\n\nThe University of Glasgow was founded in 1450, in the time of James the\nSecond. Bishop Turnbull was then in possession of the see, and his\nsuccessors were appointed chancellors. The history of the institution\nhas been various; but, generally speaking, it has enjoyed a high degree\nof prosperity. Of late years the number of students has declined, from\nwhat cause we know not. The number, in all the departments, does not\nexceed a thousand, whereas, in 1824, when the writer was a student in\nGlasgow, there were from fourteen to fifteen hundred. Well does he\nremember the enthusiasm with which they welcomed their popular candidate\nfor rector, Henry Brougham, Esq., M. P., as he was then termed, and the\neager interest with which they listened to his inaugural discourse. Sir\nJames McIntosh, a fine hearty looking man, with bland expressive eyes,\nand two of the sons of Robert Burns, tall, good looking young men, but\nwith no particular resemblance to their illustrious father, were\npresent, with others, to grace the occasion. Brougham was in the\nmaturity of his strength, and the hey-day of his fame. Tall, muscular,\nand wiry, with searching visage, dark complexion, keen piercing eyes,\nample forehead, and long outstretched finger, he stood up the very\npersonification of strength and eloquence. But Brougham has been\nfrequently described, and we therefore pass him by. The next rector that\nwas chosen was Thomas Campbell, the poet, once a member of the college,\nand one of its most distinguished ornaments. A large portion, if not the\nwhole of the \"Pleasures of Hope\" was written while he was a student at\ncollege.\n\nMany distinguished men have been professors in this institution. Among\nthese Dr. Reid and Dr. Hutcheson, Dr. Simpson and Dr. Moore, Adam Smith,\nand Professor Sandford stand pre-eminent. Well does the writer remember\nthe accomplished, but unfortunate Sandford, and the profound enthusiasm\nfor the Greek classics which he inspired in his students. He was a son\nof the venerable Bishop Sandford, a distinguished graduate of Oxford,\nand a man of the highest attainments in Greek and English literature. Of\nsmall stature, he yet possessed an elegant and commanding form. His pale\nface, finely chiselled mouth, dark eyes, and marble forehead are before\nme now. I hear his clear, musical voice, rolling out, _ore rotundo_, the\nresounding periods of Homer, or the energetic lines of Eschylus. No man\never recited Greek with such enthusiasm and energy. It was a perfect\ntreat to hear him read the odes of Anacreon or the choral hymns of\nEschylus; to say nothing of his elegant translations, or his fine\ncritical remarks. He was created a baronet by the government, and bade\nfair to be one of the most distinguished and influential literary men in\nthe country. But he was seduced into party politics, was sent as the\nrepresentative of Glasgow to parliament, and failed--failed utterly and\nforever; for his want of success in the House of Commons preyed upon his\nspirits, and caused his death.\n\nAmong the distinguished men now occupying places in this university we\nfind Mr. Lushington, of Trinity College, Cambridge, professor of Greek,\nand Dr. Nichol, author of the popular Lectures on the Wonders of the\nHeavens, professor of practical astronomy. Mr. Mylne, professor of moral\nphilosophy, and Mr. Buchanan, professor of logic, are acute and learned\nmen.\n\nLeaving the college, we ascend High Street, and after reaching the top\nof the hill, a little to the right, we see before us the \"High Kirk,\" or\nrather the old cathedral of Glasgow, one of the finest remains of\nantiquity, surrounded by a vast church-yard, containing many rich and\nancient monumental tombs, and the mouldering bones of many by-gone\ngenerations. It has a superb crypt, \"equalled by none in the\nkingdom,\"--once used as a place of worship, but now as a place for\nburying the dead. The author of Waverley has invested it with additional\ninterest by making it the scene of a striking incident in Rob Roy. The\nwhole edifice has a most commanding appearance.\n\nAt the north-east end of the cathedral the spot is yet to be seen where\npapal bigotry and superstition lighted the fires of religious\npersecution. There in the year 1538, Jerome Russel, a member of the\nconvent of Franciscan friars, in Glasgow, a man of considerable talents,\nand John Kennedy, a young man from Ayr, of high family, only about\neighteen years of age, were burned for having embraced the doctrines of\nthe infant Reformation. They sustained the terrible ordeal through which\nthey passed to glory with a becoming dignity and fortitude. \"This is\nyour hour and power of darkness,\" said Russel, \"now you sit as judges,\nand we are wrongfully condemned, but the day cometh which will clear our\ninnocency, and you shall see your own blindness to your everlasting\nconfusion--go on and fulfil the measure of your iniquity.\" Is it\nsurprising that the reaction of reform which followed such proceedings\nshould occasionally have gone to unjustifiable lengths, and that the\npeople should have torn down \"the rookeries,\" which sheltered those\nbirds of prey, as the papal tyrants of that day might well be termed?\nNever were a nobler or more heroic set of men than the martyrs and\nconfessors of that trying time! Knox, Melville, and Wishart might be\nstern, but they were men of godlike temper and heroic zeal, of whom the\nworld was not worthy; and whatever poetasters and novelists, sentimental\njournalists, and infidel historians may say of them, they will be found\nat last, occupying an honored place, at God's right hand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n     The Necropolis--Jewish Burial Place--Monument to John\n     Knox--Monuments of William Macgavin and Dr.\n     Dick--Reminiscences--Character and Writings of Dr. Dick--Pollok and\n     'the Course of Time'--Grave of Motherwell--Sketch of his Life--His\n     Genius and Poetry--'Jeanie Morrison.'--'My Heid is like to rend,\n     Willie.'--'A Summer Sabbath Noon.'\n\n\nEast of the Cathedral, a few steps, lies the Necropolis, on the brow of\na hill which overlooks the city and the surrounding regions. We pass\nover the \"Bridge of Sighs,\" so named from its leading to the Cemetery,\nand consisting of a handsome arch, spanning the \"Molendinar Burn,\" a\nbrawling rivulet, whose waters, collected into a small basin, dash over\nan artificial cascade into the ravine below. The Necropolis covers the\nrocky eminence formerly crowned with dark firs, and supposed, in ancient\ntimes to have been a retreat of the Druids, who here performed their\nfearful rites. But how sweet and peaceful now, ornamented with fine\ntrees and shrubbery, shady walks, and beautiful monuments, a serene\nretreat for the peaceful dead. In point of situation and appearance, the\nNecropolis is superior to \"Pere la Chaise,\" though certainly inferior to\n\"Greenwood\" and \"Mount Auburn,\" in our opinion the most attractive\nburying-places in the world. Still, each of these has a beauty of its\nown, well fitted to soften and subdue those feelings of grief and\nhorror naturally excited by death and the grave. Such sweet and\nattractive places of burial are in harmony with the genius of the\nGospel. The ancient Greeks, from their very horror of death and their\nignorance of futurity, endeavored to invest the tomb with festal\nassociations. Why, then, should not we, upon whom the light of\nimmortality has descended, lay those we love in scenes of quiet beauty,\nwhere \"the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest?\" Does\nnot Holy Writ declare, \"_Blessed_ are the dead that die in the Lord?\" It\nis therefore meet to place their bodies only in scenes which remind us\nof rest, of hope, and of Heaven.\n\n                \"The Dead cannot grieve,\n    Not a sob nor a sigh meets mine ear,\n      Which compassion itself could relieve.\n    Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;\n    Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one here.\"\n\nLet affection, then, bury her dead and build her tombs amid the trees\nand the flowers, which preach to us of the resurrection-morn and the\nparadise of God.\n\n      \"The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,\n    And look for the sleepers around us to rise!\n      The second to Faith which insures it fulfilled;\n    And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,\n    Who bequeathed us them both when he rose from the skies!\"\n\nThis cemetery was founded in 1831, and the first sale was to the Jews,\nwho require a burying-place for themselves. It lies in the north-west\ncorner of the grounds. The enclosure contains the requisite\naccommodations for washing the bodies before interment as required by\nthe Jewish law, which also forbids one body to be deposited above\nanother. The place is ornamented with excellent taste. On the left is a\nbeautiful pillar, in imitation of Absalom's pillar in the \"King's dale.\"\nOn the front of this column, and immediately under its capital, is a\npiece of fret-work, formed of Hebrew letters, representing the words,\n\"Who among the gods is like unto Jehovah?\" On the shaft of the column\nare those touching stanzas from Byron's Hebrew Melodies, concluding\nthus:\n\n    \"Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,\n    Where shall ye flee away and be at rest;\n    The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,\n    Mankind their country--Israel but the grave.\"\n\nOn the lower part of the column is the following:\n\n     \"Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let\n     thy widows trust in me.\"\n\nOn the other side of the gateway are engraved the following verses:\n\n     \"A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel\n     weeping for her children, refused to be comforted for her children,\n     because they were not.\"\n\n     \"Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine\n     eyes from tears, for thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord,\n     and they shall come again from the land of the enemy.\"\n\n     \"And there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children\n     shall come again to their own border.\"\n\nAnd on the opposite pillar is the following:\n\n     \"How hath the Lord covered the daughter of Sion with a cloud in\n     his anger, and cast down from heaven to the earth the beauty of\n     Israel, and removed not his footstool in the day of his anger.\"\n\n     \"But though he caused grief, yet will he have compassion according\n     to the multitude of his mercies. For he doth not afflict willingly,\n     nor grieve the children of men.\"\n\nOn the summit of the hill, and towering above the rest, is the\ncommanding monument of John Knox, intended to be commemorative of the\nReformation. On a lofty square pedestal, stands the statue of the stern\nold Reformer, with the Bible in one hand, and the other stretched out,\nas if in the act of addressing the multitude. On one side of the\npedestal is the following inscription:\n\n               To testify gratitude for inestimable services\n          In the cause of Religion, Education, and Civil Liberty,\n                           To awaken admiration\n             Of that Integrity, Disinterestedness and Courage,\n                Which stood unshaken in the midst of trials,\n              And in the maintenance of the highest objects--\n                                 Finally,\n      To cherish unceasing reverence for the principles and blessings\n         of that Great Reformation, by the influence of which our\n            country, though in the midst of difficulties, has\n               risen to honor, prosperity, and happiness,\n           This Monument is erected by Voluntary Subscription,\n                            To the Memory of\n                               JOHN KNOX,\n           The chief instrument, under God, of the Reformation\n                              in Scotland,\n                      On the 22d day of Sept. 1825.\n    He died rejoicing in the faith of the Gospel, at Edinburgh, on the\n              24th of Nov. 1532, in the 69th year of his age.\n\nOn the other sides are the following:\n\n     \"The Reformation produced a revolution in the sentiments of\n     mankind, the greatest as well as most beneficial that has happened\n     since the publication of Christianity.\"\n\n     \"In 1547, and in the city where his friend George Wishart had\n     suffered, John Knox, surrounded with dangers, first preached the\n     doctrines of the Reformation. In 1559, on the 24th of August, the\n     parliament of Scotland adopted the confession of faith, presented\n     by the reformed ministers, and declared popery no longer to be the\n     religion of this kingdom.\n\n     \"John Knox became then a minister of Edinburgh, where he continued\n     to his death, the incorruptible guardian of our best interests.\n\n     \"'I can take God to witness,' he declared, 'that I never preached\n     in contempt of any man, and wise men will consider that a true\n     friend cannot flatter; especially in a case that involves the\n     salvation of the bodies and the souls, not of a few persons, but of\n     the whole realm.' When laid in the grave, the Regent said: 'There\n     lieth he who never feared the face of man, who was often threatened\n     with pistol and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and\n     honor.'\n\n     \"Patrick Hamilton, a youth of high rank and distinguished\n     attainments, was the first martyr in Scotland in the cause of the\n     Reformation. He was condemned to the flames in St. Andrews, in\n     1528, and the 24th year of his age.\n\n     \"From 1530 to 1540, persecution raged in every quarter, many\n     suffered the most cruel deaths, and many fled to England and the\n     continent. Among these early martyrs were Jerome Russel and\n     Alexander Kennedy, two young men of great piety and talent, who\n     suffered at Glasgow. William Wishart returned to Scotland, from\n     which he had been banished, and preached the Gospel in various\n     quarters. In 1546, this heavenly-minded man, the friend and\n     instructor of Knox, was committed to the flames at St. Andrews.\"\n\nLet the thoughtful ponder these interesting memorials, and say whether\nthe Reformation in Scotland was not a glorious event!\n\nAt a little distance from Knox's monument, is one to the memory of Mr.\nMacgavin, a banker in Glasgow, and author of \"the Protestant;\" and\nanother of great elegance and beauty, to the memory of Dr. Dick, late\nprofessor of theology in the United Secession Church. \"Say not that the\ngood ever die,\" and \"he sleeps a sacred sleep,\" are engraven, in Greek,\nupon the sides of the monument, beautiful and appropriate sentiments for\nthe tomb of a Christian. Dr. Dick was pre-eminently a good man, and not\nonly so but a man of the highest attainments. Well does the writer\nremember his dignified bearing, fine countenance, and silver hair. But a\nfew years ago, he sat at the feet of this venerable man, as his\ninstructor in theology, and received from his lips lessons of holy\nwisdom. While professor of theology, the reverend doctor was also pastor\nof one of the largest and most influential of the Secession churches in\nthe city of Glasgow. He was greatly venerated, both by the people of his\ncharge and by his theological pupils, for his dignity and purity of\ncharacter, his clear, well balanced intellect, his calm and consistent\npiety. He wrote lucidly and elegantly on the \"Inspiration of the\nScriptures,\" a work which a distinguished English bishop so much admired\nthat he carried it about with him in his pocket. His \"Lectures on the\nActs of the Apostles,\" though inferior to the production just named, is\nalso a valuable work. Since his death, his \"Theological Prelections\"\nhave been published, and are much esteemed for their clear statement,\nand defence of evangelical truth. Always lucid, always logical and\nsatisfactory, he is never profound or original. His style glides in\npellucid beauty, like a rivulet through the meadow, mirroring in its\ncalm depths the green foliage which adorns its banks, and the blue\nheavens bending above it, but never cutting itself a new channel, or\nsweeping onward, with majestic force, like a torrent to the sea. The\nlabors of Dr. Dick were pre-eminently useful; and a host of young men,\neducated under his influence, now fill posts of the highest\nresponsibility in Scotland, and in other parts of the world. Pollok was\na student of the Doctor's at the same time with the writer, but was not\nknown to be possessed of any extraordinary genius till after the\npublication of \"The Course of Time.\" He was considered a man of talent,\nhowever, and had written two or three sermons, containing passages of\nconsiderable power. But his heart was in his great poem during the whole\nof his student life. So intensely did he work upon it, that he had often\nto be assisted to bed, from sheer exhaustion. \"The Course of Time\" has\nmany obvious faults, but abounds in strokes of genius and power. A great\nsoul has poured itself into this rugged and sometimes gloomy channel,\nwhich, traversing the whole course of time, finally loses itself in the\nocean of eternity. Pollok was tall, well proportioned, of a dark\ncomplexion, \"sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,\" with deep-set\neyes, heavy eyebrows and black bushy hair. A smothered light burned in\nhis dark orbs, which flashed, with a meteor brilliancy, whenever he\nspoke with enthusiasm and energy. He was born in 1798, at North\nMuirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,--\n\n                \"'Mong hills and streams\n    And melancholy deserts, where the sun\n    Saw as he pass'd, a shepherd only here\n    And there, watching his little flock; or heard\n    The ploughman talking to his steers.\"\n\nHis father was an honest farmer, and his early home a scene of much\ndomestic endearment. To the trees which overshadowed the paternal\nmansion he thus pays homage in his verse:\n\n    \"Much of my native scenery appears,\n    And presses forward, to be in my song;\n    But must not now; for much behind awaits,\n    Of higher note. Four trees I pass not by,\n    Which o'er our house their evening shadow threw;--\n    Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were,\n    And old; and had been old a century\n    Before my day. None living could say aught\n    About their youth; but they were goodly trees;\n    And oft I wondered, as I sat and thought\n    Beneath their summer shade, or in the night\n    Of winter heard the spirits of the wind\n    Growling among their boughs--how they had grown\n    So high, in such a rough, tempestuous place:\n    And when a hapless branch, torn by the blast\n    Fell down, I mourned as if a friend had fallen.\"\n\nPollok had just finished his studies, and was licensed as a preacher, by\nthe United Secession Church, when he published his poem which thrilled\nall hearts in Scotland, and struck his fellow-students with perfect\namazement, not unmingled, however, with delight. But he was then sick.\nHis over-wrought frame began to yield, and he sought health in a foreign\ncountry, which he did not live to reach. He died in England in the\nautumn of 1827, the same year in which he had published his poem,\nhaving lived just long enough to complete it, and receive the applause\nof his countrymen.\n\nBefore leaving the Necropolis, we must visit a grave at one corner of\nthe grounds, in a quiet, shady spot, as if retired somewhat from the\nrest. There it is, the grave of William Motherwell, one of the sweetest\nof the Scottish poets, the author of \"Bonnie Jeanie Morrison\" and \"My\nHeid is like to rend, Willie,\" and many other poems of exquisite grace\nand pathos.\n\nWilliam Motherwell was born in the city of Glasgow in the year 1797, and\ndied there in 1835. In his eleventh year he was transferred to the care\nof his uncle in Paisley, who brought him up. Here he received a liberal\neducation, and commenced the study of law. At the age of twenty-one he\nwas appointed Deputy to the Sheriff-Clerk of Paisley, a highly\nrespectable but not lucrative situation. He early evinced a love of\npoetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany, called \"The Harp of\nRenfrewshire,\" which he conducted with much taste and judgment. A relish\nfor antiquarian research led him to investigate the subject of the\nballad poetry of Scotland, the results of which he published in 1827, in\ntwo volumes, entitled \"Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern.\" His introduction\nto this collection is admirably written, and must form the basis of all\nfuture investigations upon this subject. He seems to have been unusually\nsuccessful in recovering many of the old ballads, which were never\ncommitted to writing, and known to very few persons. Some of these,\nthough rude and grotesque in thought or style, are exquisitely\nbeautiful. Allan Cunningham, another of Scotland's sweetest poets, had\nlabored in this field, but not with the same success. But the genius of\nboth of these poets was deeply imbued with the spirit of the old ballad\nrhymes. They had conned them in their minds so frequently that they\nnaturally wrote their own effusions in the same simple and touching\nstyle. Soon after the publication of his \"Ancient Minstrelsy,\"\nMotherwell became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established\na magazine there, to which he contributed some of his finest poems. The\ntalent and spirit which he evinced in these literary labors, were the\noccasion of his being removed to the city of Glasgow, to the editorial\ncare of the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his\ndeath. He conducted this paper with great ability.\n\nMotherwell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head\nwas large and finely formed; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In\nmixed society he was rather reserved, \"but appeared internally to enjoy\nthe feast of reason and the flow of soul.\" Somewhat pensive in his mood,\nhe lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way\nto a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailings\nof a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his\nlofty aspirations after the beautiful and true.\n\nIn 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He was also\nassociated with the Ettrick Shepherd in editing the works of Burns, and\nat the time of his death was collecting materials for the life of\nTannahill, an humble weaver in Paisley, but one of the finest\nsong-writers Scotland has ever produced. \"Accompanied by a literary\nfriend, on the first of November, 1835, he had been dining in the\ncountry, about a couple of miles from Glasgow, and on his return home,\nfeeling indisposed, he went to bed. In a few hours thereafter he\nawakened, and complained of a pain in the head, which increased so much\nas to render him speechless. Medical assistance was speedily obtained;\nbut alas! it was of no avail--the blow was struck, and the curtain had\nfinally fallen over the life and fortunes of William Motherwell. One\nuniversal feeling of regret and sympathy seemed to extend over society,\nwhen the sudden and premature decease of this accomplished poet and\nelegant writer became known. His funeral was attended by a large body of\nthe citizens, by the most eminent and learned of the literary\nprofessions, and by persons of all shades of political opinions. He was\ninterred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far from the resting-place of\nhis fast friend, Mr. William Henderson.\"\n\nThough Motherwell's death was thus sudden and unexpected, he seems to\nhave had something like a premonition of it. The following touching\nlines were given to a friend, a day or two before his decease:\n\n    When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,\n                Life's fever o'er,\n    Will there for me be any bright eye weeping,\n                That I'm no more?\n    Will there be any heart still memory keeping,\n                Of heretofore?\n\n    When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,\n                Sad music make?\n    When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,\n                Like full hearts break,\n    Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing,\n                Mourn for my sake?\n\n    When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,\n                With purest ray,\n    And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining,\n                Burst through that clay,\n    Will there be one still on that spot repining,\n                Lost hopes all day?\n\n    When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,\n                On that low mound,\n    And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary,\n                Its loneness crowned;\n    Will there be then one versed in misery's story,\n                Pacing it round?\n\n    It may be so,--but this is selfish sorrow,\n                To ask such meed--\n    A weakness and a wickedness to borrow\n                From hearts that bleed,\n    The waitings of to-day for what to-morrow\n                Shall never need.\n\n    Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,\n                Thou gentle heart;\n    And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,\n                Let no tear start;\n    It were in vain--for Time hath long been knelling--\n                Sad one, depart!\n\nThese are mournful, but somewhat hopeful strains; for one who feels\nthat \"time has long been knelling, sad one, depart!\" must, if not a\nsceptic, have looked beyond the grave, and descried in better worlds,\nrest and solace for the aching heart. Here, in his \"narrow dwelling,\" he\ngently sleeps, while pilgrims from afar drop tears of sympathy upon its\n\"grassy mound.\"\n\nMotherwell was a man of pure genius. His poems are distinguished for\ntheir deep tenderness and exquisite melody. They are gemmed, moreover,\nwith beautiful conceptions, with original and striking expressions.\nThere is nothing, in the whole range of Scottish poetry, except Burns's\n\"Highland Mary,\" equal in beauty and pathos to\n\n\n              \"JEANIE MORRISON.\"\n\n    I've wandered east I've wandered west,\n      Through mony a weary way;\n    But never, never can forget,\n      The luve o' life's young day!\n    The fire that's blawn on Beltane[126] e'en,\n      May weel be black 'gin[127] Yule,[128]\n    But blacker fa' awaits the heart\n      When first fond luve grows cule.\n\n    O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,\n      The thochts of bygane years,\n    Still fling their shadows o'er my path,\n      And blind my een wi' tears:\n    They blind my een wi' saut,[129] saut tears,\n      And sair and sick I pine,\n    As memory idly summons up\n      The blithe blinks[130] o' lang syne.\n\n    'Twas then we luvit ilk[131] ither weel,\n      'Twas then we twa did part;\n    Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at school,\n      Twa bairns and but ae[132] heart!\n    'Twas then we sat on ae laigh[133] bink,\n      To lier[134] ilk ither lear;\n    And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,\n      Remembered evermair.\n\n    I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,\n      When sitting on that bink,\n    Cheek touchin' cheek, loof[135] locked in loof,\n      What our wee heads could think.\n    When baith bent down o'er ae braid page\n      Wi' ae buik on our knee,\n    Thy lips were on thy lesson, but\n      My lesson was in thee.\n\n    O mind[136] ye how we hung our heads,\n      How cheeks brent red wi' shame,\n    Whene'er the schule[137] weans laughin' said,\n      We cleeked[138] thegither hame?\n    And mind ye o' the Saturdays,\n      (The schule then skail't[139] at noon,)\n    When we ran aff to speel[140] the braes,\n      The broomy braes o' June?\n\n    My heid runs round and round about,\n      My heart flows like a sea,\n    As ane by ane the thochts rush back,\n      O' schule time and o' thee.\n    O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!\n      O lichtsome days and lang,\n    When hinnied[141] hopes around our hearts,\n      Like simmer blossoms sprang!\n\n    O mind ye, luve, how aft we left\n      The deavin'[142] dinsome[143] toun,\n    To wander by the green burnside,\n      And hear its waters croon?[144]\n    The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,\n      The flowers burst round our feet,\n    And in the gloamin' o' the wood,\n      The throssil[145] whusslit sweet.\n\n    The throssil whusslit in the wood,\n      The burn sang to the trees,\n    And we wi' Nature's heart in tune,\n      Concerted harmonies;\n    And on the knowe[146] abune the burn,\n      For hours thegither sat:\n    In the silentness o' joy, till baith\n      Wi' very, very gladness grat.[147]\n\n    Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,\n      Tears trinkled down your cheek,\n    Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane\n      Had ony power to speak!\n    That was a time, a blessed time,\n      When hearts were fresh and young,\n    When freely gushed all feelings forth,\n      Unsyllabled,--unsung!\n\n    I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,\n      Gin[148] I hae been to thee,\n    As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,\n      As ye hae been to me?\n    O! tell me gin their music fills\n      Thine ear as it does mine;\n    O! say gin e'er your heart grows[149] grit\n      Wi' dreamings o' lang syne?\n\n    I've wandered east, I've wandered west,\n      I've borne a weary lot;\n    But in my wanderings far or near,\n      Ye never were forgot.\n    The fount that first burst frae this heart,\n      Still travels on its way;\n    And channels deeper as it runs,\n      The luve o' life's young day.\n\n    O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,\n      Since we were sindered young,\n    I've never seen your face, nor heard\n      The music o' your tongue;\n    But I could hug all wretchedness,\n      And happy could I die,\n    Did I but ken your heart still dreamed,\n      O' bygane days and me!\n\n[Footnote 126: Holyrood day.]\n\n[Footnote 127: Until.]\n\n[Footnote 128: Christmas.]\n\n[Footnote 129: Salt.]\n\n[Footnote 130: Gleams, or flashes.]\n\n[Footnote 131: Each other.]\n\n[Footnote 132: One.]\n\n[Footnote 133: Low bench.]\n\n[Footnote 134: To teach.]\n\n[Footnote 135: Hand.]\n\n[Footnote 136: Remember.]\n\n[Footnote 137: School children.]\n\n[Footnote 138: Clasped.]\n\n[Footnote 139: Dismissed.]\n\n[Footnote 140: Climb.]\n\n[Footnote 141: Honied.]\n\n[Footnote 142: Deafening.]\n\n[Footnote 143: Noisy.]\n\n[Footnote 144: Murmur.]\n\n[Footnote 145: Thrush or mavis.]\n\n[Footnote 146: Knoll.]\n\n[Footnote 147: Wept.]\n\n[Footnote 148: If.]\n\n[Footnote 149: Swells.]\n\nEqually beautiful and still more pathetic, is \"_My Heid is like to rend,\nWillie_.\" Indeed, we know of nothing so affecting as the last stanzas of\nthis exquisite ballad. The poor heart-broken girl gives abundant\nevidence of her profound penitence:\n\n    O! dinna mind my words, Willie,\n      I downa seek to blame,--\n    But O! it's hard to live, Willie,\n      And dree a world's shame!\n    Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,\n      And hailin' ower your chin;\n    Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,\n      For sorrow and for sin.\n\n    I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,\n      And sick wi' a' I see,--\n    I canna live as I hae lived,\n      Or be as I should be.\n    But fauld unto your heart, Willie,\n      The heart that still is thine,--\n    And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek,\n      Ye said was red lang syne.\n\n    A stoun[150] gaes through my heid, Willie,\n      A sair stoun through my heart,--\n    O! hand me up, and let me kiss\n      Thy brow, ere we twa pairt.\n    Anither, and anither yet!--\n      How fast my life's strings break!--\n    Farewell! farewell! through yon kirk-yard\n      Step lichtly for my sake!\n\n    The lav'rock[151] in the lift,[152] Willie,\n      That lilts[153] far ower our heid,\n    Will sing the morn as merrilie\n      Abune the clay-cauld deid;\n    And this green turf we're sittin' on,\n      Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,\n    Will hap[154] the heart that luvit thee,\n      As warld has seldom seen.\n\n    But O! remember me, Willie,\n      On land where'er ye be,--\n    And O! think on the leal, leal heart,\n      That ne'er luvit ane but thee!\n    And O! think on the cauld, cauld mools,[155]\n      That file[156] my yellow hair,--\n    That kiss the cheek, that kiss the chin,\n      Ye never sail kiss mair.\n\n[Footnote 150: A darting pain.]\n\n[Footnote 151: Lark.]\n\n[Footnote 152: Sky.]\n\n[Footnote 153: Sings.]\n\n[Footnote 154: Cover.]\n\n[Footnote 155: Clods.]\n\n[Footnote 156: Soil.]\n\nAs a specimen of Motherwell's descriptive powers, the exquisite grace of\nhis diction, and the deep-toned melody of his verse, and not only so,\nbut of his high devotional feelings, we give the following:\n\n            A SABBATH SUMMER NOON.\n\n    The calmness of this noontide hour,\n      The shadow of this wood,\n    The fragrance of each wilding flower\n      Are marvelously good;\n    O! here crazed spirits breathe the balm,\n      Of nature's solitude!\n\n    It is a most delicious calm\n      That resteth everywhere,--\n    The holiness of soul-sung psalm,\n      Of felt, but voiceless prayer!\n    With hearts too full to speak their bliss,\n      God's creatures silent are.\n\n    They silent are; but not the less\n      In this most tranquil hour,\n    Of deep, unbroken dreaminess,\n      They own that Love and Power,\n    Which like the softest sunshine rests,\n      On every leaf and flower.\n\n    How silent are the song-filled nests\n      That crowd this drowsy tree,--\n    How mute is every feathered breast\n      That swelled with melody!\n    And yet bright bead-like eyes declare,\n      This hour is exstacy.\n\n    Heart forth! as uncaged bird through air,\n      And mingle in the tide\n    Of blessed things, that, lacking care,\n      How full of beauty glide,\n    Around thee, in their angel hues\n      Of joy and sinless pride.\n\n    Here on this green bank that o'er-views\n      The far retreating glen,\n    Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse,\n      On all within thy ken;\n    For lovelier scene shall never break,\n      On thy dimmed sight again.\n\n    Slow stealing from the tangled brake,\n      That skirts the distant hill,\n    With noiseless hoof two bright fawns make\n      For yonder lapsing rill;\n    Meek children of the forest gloom,\n      Drink on, and fear no ill!\n\n    And buried in the yellow broom,\n      That crowns the neighboring height,\n    Couches a loutish shepherd groom,\n      With all his flocks in sight;\n    Which dot the green braes gloriously,\n      With spots o' living light.\n\n    It is a sight that filleth me\n      With meditative joy,\n    To mark these dumb things curiously\n      Crowd round the guardian boy;\n    As if they felt this Sabbath hour\n      Of bliss lacked all alloy.\n\n    I bend me towards the tiny flower,\n      That underneath this tree,\n    Opens its little breast of sweets\n      In meekest modesty,\n    And breathes the eloquence of love,\n      In muteness, Lord! to thee.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    The silentness of night doth brood\n      O'er this bright summer noon;\n    And nature, in her holiest mood,\n      Doth all things well attune,\n    To joy in the religious dreams\n      Of green and leafy June.\n\n    Far down the glen in distance gleams,\n      The hamlet's tapering spire,\n    And glittering in meridial beams\n      Its vane is tongued with fire;\n    And hark, how sweet its silvery bell,--\n      And hark, the rustic choir!\n\n    The holy sounds float up the dell\n      To fill my ravished ear,\n    And now the glorious anthems swell,--\n      Of worshippers sincere,--\n    Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed\n      Faith's penitential tear.\n\n    Dear Lord! thy shadow is forth spread,\n      On all mine eye can see;\n    And filled at the pure fountain-head\n      Of deepest piety,\n    My heart loves all created things,\n      And travels home to thee.\n\n    Around me while the sunshine flings,\n      A flood of mocky gold,\n    My chastened spirit once more sings,\n      As it was wont of old,\n    That lay of gratitude which burst\n      From young heart uncontrolled.\n\n    When in the midst of nature nursed,\n      Sweet influences fell,\n    On childly hearts that were athirst,\n      Like soft dews in the bell\n    Of tender flowers, that bowed their heads,\n      And breathed a fresher smell.\n\n    So, even now this hour hath sped,\n      In rapturous thought o'er me,\n    Feeling myself with nature wed,--\n      A holy mystery,--\n    A part of earth, a part of heaven,\n      A part, great God! of Thee.\n\n    Fast fade the cares of life's dull even,\n      They perish as the weed,\n    While unto me the power is given,\n      A moral deep to read,\n    In every silent throe of mind,\n      Eternal beauties breed.\n\nIt would be pleasant, but we have not time, to make the acquaintance of\nsome of the Glasgow clergy, particularly of the classic Wardlaw, the\nvigorous Heugh,[157] the accomplished King, the energetic Robson, the\nintelligent Buchanan, the eloquent Willis, the strong \"in knee'd\"\nAnderson, and others of equal distinction. A fair specimen of the\nScottish clergy has been given in the ministers of Edinburgh, and that\nmust suffice for the present.\n\n[Footnote 157: Since the above was written, the Rev. Dr. Heugh has gone\nto his reward in heaven. He was a man of fine talents, deep piety, and\nmost engaging manners. We met him some years ago on the banks of Lake\nLeman, whither he had gone for his health, in company with Merle\nD'Aubigne, Joseph J. Gurney and others; on which occasion Dr. Heugh gave\nan interesting and graphic account of the Free Church movement, which\nwas translated for the benefit of those who did not understand English,\nby Professor La Harpe. Never shall we forget that interview. There were\npresent, French and English, German and Swiss, Scots and Americans. Some\nof these were Presbyterians, others Episcopalians, and others Baptists,\nLutherans and Quakers; but all were \"one in Christ Jesus.\" Joseph J.\nGurney closed our interview with a prayer in the French language, the\nmost simple, solemn, and touching we ever heard. Ah! little did we think\nthat one of the most agreeable of that happy company was so soon to pass\naway from the scenes of earth. The following sketch of Dr. Heugh as a\npreacher, is from a funeral sermon by Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh.\n\n\"As a preacher, he was judicious, faithful, discriminating; not\nexclusively doctrinal or practical, or experimental, but all by turns,\nand often all in the same discourse. The matter of his discourses was\ndrawn from the living oracles, and his constant aim was to explain and\nto apply the saving doctrines of the cross--to bring the mind and hearts\nof men into harmony with the mind and will of God, especially as those\nare revealed in the person and work of his incarnate Son. He was\neminently a scriptural preacher, both in substance and in form. The\ncommands of the Master, 'Divide rightly the word of truth,' 'Feed my\nsheep,' 'Feed my lambs,' seemed to be ever present to his mind, and to\nguide all his ministerial studies; and hence it was that his pulpit\nservices were marked by a lucid, pointed, and affectionate inculcation\nof those varied truths which the circumstances of his hearers required.\nThere was nothing trivial or extraneous in his discussions. He stated\nmassy important thoughts, wide and comprehensive views--the result of\nmuch reflection and experience--illustrative of his subject and suited\nto the occasion--in simple and appropriate words; and the hearer was\nmade to feel that he was not listening to human speculations, but that\nChrist was, by the preacher, unfolding his mind and will--'making\nmanifest the savor of his knowledge.'\n\n\"His manner in the pulpit was singularly easy, graceful and pleasing.\nAll that he said and did was natural and becoming. His fine open\ncountenance, his animated appearance, his fluency of utterance, the\npleasantly modulated tones of his voice, his graceful action, and the\nsolemn devotional feeling which obviously pervaded all these, rivetted\nattention, and threw a peculiar charm over his whole discourse. There\nwas no seeking for effect, no going out of the way for ornaments, no\nefforts to dazzle and to overwhelm. He was occupied with his subject,\nand sought to fill the minds of his hearers with it, as his own mind was\nfilled with it. There were occasionally passages of great beauty,\ntouchingly tender statements, stirring suddenly the deeper emotions of\nthe heart; but the ordinary character of his eloquence was instructive\nand pleasing, rather than affecting or overpowering.\"]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n     Dumbarton Castle--Lochlomond--Luss--Ascent of\n     Benlomond--Magnificent Views--Ride to Loch-Katrine--Rob Roy\n     Macgregor--'Gathering of Clan Gregor'--Loch-Katrine and the\n     Trosachs--The city of Perth--Martyrdom of Helen Stark and her\n     husband.\n\n\nEmbarking in a steamer at Glasgow, we glide down the Clyde as far as\nDumbarton Castle, which rises, in stern and solitary majesty, from the\nbosom of the river,--\n\n                          \"A castled steep,\n    Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower\n    So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it\n    A metaphor of peace.\"\n\nIn ancient times, however, those old battlements frequently stood the\nshock of invading war. Dumbarton was the \"Alcluith\" of the ancient\nBritons, subsequently \"Dumbriton,\" or \"the fortified hill of the\nBritons.\" The vale of the Clyde was called \"Strathclutha,\" and here was\nthe capital of the kingdom of the \"Strathclyde Britons.\" \"Alcluith\" is\nthe \"Balclutha\" of Ossian; _balla_ signifying a _wall_ or _bulwark_,\nfrom the Latin _vallum_, a _wall_. \"I have seen the walls of Balclutha,\"\nsings Ossian, in the poem of Carron, \"but they were desolate. The fire\nhad resounded in the halls; and the voice of the people is heard no\nmore. The stream of the Clutha (Clyde) was removed from its place by\nthe fall of the walls. The thistle shook here its lonely head; the moss\nwhistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows; the rank\ngrass of the walls waved round its head. Desolate is the dwelling of\nMorna; silence is in the house of her fathers.\" In the reign of Queen\nMary this stronghold was taken by an escalade. This was accomplished by\nCaptain Crawford, an officer of great energy and talent, who acted for\nthe confederated lords who opposed Queen Mary after the death of her\nhusband, Henry Darnley. Provided with scaling-ladders, and whatever else\nwas necessary, Crawford set out from Glasgow with a small but determined\nbody of men. The night was dark and misty, when they reached the\ncastle-walls. Crawford, and a soldier who acted as a guide, scrambled up\nto a ledge of rock, where they fastened a ladder to a tree, which grew\non one of its cliffs. Ascending by this means, the whole party stood\ntogether with their chief on this natural parapet. But they were far\nfrom the point which they hoped to reach. Again the ladder was planted,\nand the ascent begun. But all at once one of the foremost soldiers, when\nhalf way up the ladder, was seized with a sudden fit, and clung to the\nladder stiff and motionless. All further progress was at an end. What to\ndo they knew not. To cut him down would be cruel, and besides might\nawaken the garrison. In this emergency, Crawford had the man secured, by\nmeans of ropes to the ladder, which was turned over and all passed up in\nsafety to the foot of the wall. Day began to break, and they hastened\nto scale the wall. The first man who reached the parapet was seen by a\nsentinel, who was quickly knocked in the head. The whole party, with\nfurious shouts, rushed over the wall, and took possession of the\nmagazine, seized the cannon, and before the besieged could help\nthemselves, had entire control of the Castle.\n\nBut we cannot linger here; so, bidding adieu to Dumbarton, with its\nmartial associations, we strike off from the river at right angles, and,\nafter a pleasant ride of four or five miles, through a peaceful and\nagreeable country, we reach the south end of Lochlomond, the \"Queen of\nthe Scottish lakes,\" where we find a little steamer in waiting, which\ntakes us, and a company of sportsmen, travellers and others, over the\nplacid waves of this magnificent sheet of water. The lake is some thirty\nmiles in length, and of unequal breadth, being sometimes four or five\nmiles, and then again not more than a single mile in width, gorgeously\nbegemmed with verdant and beautifully wooded islands, of larger and\nsmaller size, to the number of thirty, and shaded here and there by\nmountains, covered with verdure and trees to their summits, or grim\ncliffs, towering, in solitary grandeur, above the dark and heaving\nwaters beneath. How finely our little steamer dashes the water from her\nprow, as if she really enjoyed the trip, among the beautiful scenery of\nthis charming lake! What variety of light and shade! What diversity of\nscene, as isle after isle, bold headland, lofty cliff, or wooded\nacclivity, meets the gaze! How earth and air and sky, yon fleecy clouds\nthat skirt the horizon, wild crags, and verdant slopes, clumps of trees\non the water's edge, islands of green mirroring their foliage in the\nbosom of the lake, mingle and intermingle in ever varying forms of\nbeauty and grandeur! Yonder, too, is Benlomond, the genius of the place,\ntowering above the lesser mountains, and looking down, as if\nprotectingly, upon the lake he loves. The shores are exceedingly\nbeautiful; on one side lying low, \"undulating with fields and groves,\nwhere many a pleasant dwelling is embowered, into lines of hills that\ngradually soften away into another land. On the other side, sloping\nback, or overhanging, mounts beautiful in their bareness, for they are\ngreen as emerald; others, scarcely more beautiful, studded with fair\ntrees, some altogether woods. They soon form into mountains, and the\nmountains become more and more majestical, yet beauty never deserts\nthem, and her spirit continues to tame that of the frowning cliffs.\"\n\"The islands,\" continues Professor Wilson, from whom we make this fine\nextract, \"are forever arranging themselves into new forms, every one\nmore and more beautiful; at least so they seem to be, perpetually\noccurring, yet always unexpected; and there is a pleasure even in such a\nseries of slight surprises that enhances the delight of admiration.\"\n\nThe southern part of the lake is the most beautiful, but the northern\nthe most sublime. The channel narrows, and the mountains rise higher and\nhigher, casting dark shadows into the water. For a moment it seems\ngloomy, but high up in the mountains you discover spots of green; and\nthe sunlight glancing down, between the masses of shadow, lights up the\nwaves of the lake with a strange beauty, as if it were something purer\nand more spirit-like than the beauty of the ordinary world.\n\nBut we will stop at the village of Luss, near the edge of the lake,\nsurrounded by mountain scenery, in some places rough and bleak, but\ncharmingly diversified by deep wooded glens, and romantic ravines.\n\nThe sun is sinking behind the western hills--the evening shadows are\nresting in the vallies, while the tops of those craggy heights around us\nare still burning with the last rays of departing day. We wander towards\nthe southern part of the parish, with feelings subdued by the\nmagnificent scenery which everywhere meets our gaze, and the solemn\nstillness which reigns among the mountains, broken only by the tinkling\nof a small stream winding its way to the lake, as if seeking a home in\nits bosom, like the soul of a true Christian, which is ever tending\nonward to the infinite and immortal. At length, while the sweet and long\ncontinued \"gloaming\" of the Scottish summer envelopes everything in its\nsoft and dubious light, we reach the remains of a large cairn, a mound\nof stones and earth, called \"Carn-na-Cheasoig,\" the cairn of St. Kessog.\nHere then, according to tradition, lies the dust of St. Kessog, who is\nsaid to have suffered martyrdom near the site of this cairn, in the\nsixth century, and who anciently was venerated as the guardian saint of\nLuss. Was St. Kessog a true martyr? We trust he was, and can easily\nimagine the cruel but triumphant death of the holy man. At such an hour,\nand in such a scene, with the shadow of these great, sky-pointing\nmountains, resting on our spirits, we might almost believe anything;\nanything, at least, lofty and heart-stirring. It is not surprising that\nthe Highlanders are superstitious: but it is surprising that they are\nnot more religious. An infidel or a fanatic among the hills seems an\nimpossibility. Nor are the inhabitants of these high regions inclined\neither to scepticism or fanatacism. But they are ignorant of\nChristianity in its purer forms; and hence are easily subjected to\nsuperstitious fears. But we are not yet among the Highlanders; for Luss\nand the regions around are naturally subjected to Lowland influences.\n\nNext morning we pass over the lake in a small boat to Rowardennan, on\nthe eastern shore, whence we commence the ascent of Benlomond, which\nrises to a height of something more than three thousand feet. The\ndistance from Rowardennan to the top is generally reckoned about six\nmiles. Wending along the sides of the mountain we gradually ascend to\nthe bare and craggy summit, but not without resting here and there, and\nstopping to gaze upon the expanding landscape, as it spreads further and\nfurther towards the distant seas. We are somewhat fatigued, but how\nrefreshing the mountain breeze, and how exhilarating the magnificent\nscenery which opens on every side, and absolutely reaches from sea to\nsea! There, beneath us, like a belt of liquid light, stretches the long\nand beautiful Lochlomond, sparkling under the rays of the sun, fringed\nwith hills, rocks, and woods, and adorned with green isles, reposing on\nits heaving bosom, like gems of emerald chased in gold. Far off are the\nislands of Bute and Arran, and nearer the fertile Strath-Clutha, through\nwhich flows the river Clyde, adorned with villages, castles and\ncountry-seats, the city of Glasgow, covered with a misty vapor, the\nwhole of Lanarkshire, the city of Edinburgh, and the vast and delightful\ntract of country beyond, the Firth of Forth, Stirling Castle, and the\nlinks of the Forth gliding in peaceful beauty through its green and\nwooded vale. To the north a scene presents itself of wild and varied\ngrandeur, long ranges of Alpine heights, mighty crags towering to the\nsky, dark lakes, and deep-cloven ravines, wild and desolate moors,\nstraggling forests, and rich secluded vales. Near us rises the hoary\nBenvoirloich; and further north, among inferior mountains, Bencruachan\nand Bennevis lift their lofty heads. Taking a wider range we get a\ndistant glimpse of the wide Atlantic, and the coast of green Erin, the\nmountains of Cumberland, and the German Ocean, washing the north-eastern\ncoasts of Scotland. But the eye rests, as if by enchantment, upon the\nmagnificent mountain scenery to the north, inferior only in grandeur and\nbeauty to the mountains of Switzerland.\n\n    \"Crags, knolls and mounds, confusedly hurled,\n    The fragments of an earlier world;\n    And mountains that like giants stand,\n    To sentinel enchanted land.\"\n\nHow elevating such a position, and such scenery. How the soul dilates\nand rejoices, as if it were a part of the mighty spectacle. Ah! this\nwere a place for angels to light upon, and hymn the praise of that\ninfinite Being \"whose are the mountains, and the vallies, and the\nresplendent rivers.\"\n\nBut it is time to descend, though it would be pleasant, doubtless, to\nlinger here till sunset, and see those mountain heights shining like\nstars in the departing radiance, while all beneath was covered with\nshadow; and if the evening were still, to listen to the mingled murmur\nwhich ever ascends through the calm air, from a region of streams and\ntorrents.\n\nCoasting along the lake we reach Inversnaid mill at its upper extremity,\nand securing some Highland ponies, little tough shaggy fellows,\nsure-footed and self-willed, we ramble through a lonely, rock-bound\nglen, the scene of the feats of Rob Roy Macgregor. In one of the smoky\nhuts of this glen we are shown a long Spanish musket, six feet and a\nhalf in length, said to have belonged to the famous outlaw, whose\noriginal residence was in this lonely region. We also pass the hut in\nwhich Helen Macgregor, his wife, was born and brought up. By forgetting\na few years, one can easily imagine the whole region filled with wild\n'kilted' Highlanders, shouting the war-cry of Macdonald, Glengarry, or\nMacgregor. The spirit of these wild clans has been admirably depicted by\nSir Walter Scott. Nothing can be more spirited than his \"Gathering of\nClan-Gregor,\" which in this rough glen, seems to gather a peculiar\nintensity of meaning.\n\n    \"The moon's on the lake, the mist's on the brae,\n    And the clan has a name that is nameless by day;\n            Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!\n\n    Our signal for fight that from monarchs we drew,\n    Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo;\n            Then haloo, Gregalich, haloo Gregalich!\n\n    Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,\n    Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;\n            We're landless, landless, Gregalich!\n\n    But doomed and devoted by vassal and lord,\n    Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword;\n            Then courage, courage, courage, Gregalich!\n\n    If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,\n    Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles;\n            Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalich!\n\n    While there's leaves in the forest, or foam on the river,\n    Macgregor despite them, shall flourish forever!\n            Come then, Gregalich! Come then, Gregalich!\n\n    Through the depths of Lochkatrine the steed shall career,\n    O'er the peak of Benlomond the galley shall steer,\n    And the rocks of Craig-Royston, like icicles melt,\n    Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!\n            Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!\"\n\nWe reach Lochkatrine, a narrow sheet of water, ten miles in length,\nwinding, in serpentine turns, among the huge mountains which guard it on\nevery side. This, and the wild glen called the Trosachs, are embalmed in\nthe poetry of Sir Walter Scott, whose ethereal genius has imparted to\nthem a charm which they would not otherwise possess. Wild and grand the\nscenery certainly is, secluded so far among the mountains, and guarded\nso wondrously by\n\n    \"Rocky summits, split and rent,\"\n\nwhich, gleaming under the rays of the morning sun, appeared to the eye\nof poetical inspiration,\n\n    \"Like turret, dome or battlement,\n    Or seemed fantastically set\n    With cupola or minaret,\n    Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd,\n    Or mosque of Eastern minaret.\"\n\nAnd not only so, but richly adorned with forest-trees and wild flowers\namong the rifted rocks and the \"smiling glades between,\" lovelier by far\nthan ever met any but a poet's eye.\n\n    \"Boon nature scattered free and wild,\n    Each plant or flower, the mountains' child.\n    Here eglantine embalmed the air,\n    Hawthorne and hazel mingled there;\n    The primrose, pale and violet flower,\n    Found in each cliff a narrow bower;\n    Foxglove and nightshade, side by side,\n    Emblems of punishment and pride,\n    Group'd their dark hues with every stain\n    The weather-beaten crags retain.\n    With boughs that quaked at every breath\n    Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;\n    Aloft the ash and warrior oak,\n    Cast anchor in the rifted rock;\n    And higher yet the pine tree hung\n    His shattered trunk, and frequent flung,\n    When seemed the cliffs to mount on high,\n    His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky.\n    Highest of all, where white peaks glanced,\n    Where glistening streamers waved and danced,\n    The wanderer's eye could barely view\n    The summer heaven's delicious blue;\n    So wondrous wild, the whole might seem\n    The scenery of a fairy dream.\"\n\nThe scenery at the east end of Lochkatrine, where the lake narrows, like\na placid river, under the eye of Benvenue, the lower parts of which are\nrichly wooded, is exceedingly beautiful. Through the whole of this glen,\nthe Highland guides point out the localities and incidents mentioned in\nthe \"Lady of the Lake,\" as if it were a historical verity. Such is the\npower of genius, which \"gives to airy nothings a local habitation and a\nname.\"\n\n    \"Oh! who would think, in cheerless solitude,\n      Who o'er these twilight waters glided slow,\n      That genius, with a time-surviving glow,\n    These wild lone scenes so proudly hath imbued!\n    Or that from 'hum of men' so far remote,\n      Where blue waves gleam, and mountains darken round,\n      And trees, with broad boughs shed a gloom profound,\n    A poet here should from his trackless thought\n    Elysian prospects conjure up, and sing\n      Of bright achievement in the olden days,\n      When chieftain valor sued for beauty's praise,\n    And magic virtues charmed St. Fillan's spring;\n      Until in worlds where Chilian mountains raise\n    Their cloud-capt heads admiring souls should wing\n      Hither their flight, to wilds whereon I gaze.\"\n\nLeaving Lochkatrine, we pass in a south-easterly direction, through\nCallendar to Auchterarder, a parish famous in the annals of the Free\nChurch of Scotland, and thence, travelling through a delightful country,\nreach \"the bonnie town o' Perth,\" which lies so charmingly on the banks\nof the Tay. Surrounded by some of the finest scenery in Scotland, with\nKinnoul House and Kinfauns Castle on the one side, and Scone, the old\npalace in which the kings of Scotland were crowned, on the other,\nclustering with memories of the olden time, and withal being a\nwell-built city, with some venerable churches and handsome public\nedifices, Perth is one of the most interesting places in Scotland.\nMoreover, it was anciently the capital of the kingdom, and contains a\ngood many relics of its former glory. Here the doctrines of the\nReformation early took root, and some of the citizens suffered martyrdom\nfor Christ's sake. Helen Stark and her husband, for refusing to pray to\nthe Virgin Mary, were condemned to die. She desired to be executed with\nher husband, but her request was refused. On the way to the scaffold,\nshe exhorted him to constancy in the cause of Christ, and as she parted\nwith him, said, \"Husband, be glad; we have lived together many joyful\ndays, and this day of our death we ought to esteem the most joyful of\nthem all, for we shall have joy forever; therefore, I will not bid you\ngood night, for we shall shortly meet in the kingdom of Heaven.\" After\nthe men were executed, Helen was taken to a pool of water yard by, when,\nhaving recommended her dear children to the charity of her neighbors,\nher infant having been taken from her breast, \"she was drowned, and\ndied,\" says the historian of the town, \"with great courage and comfort.\"\n\nPerth rejoices in the possession of two beautiful \"Commons,\" or\n\"Inches,\" as they are called, green as emerald, and bordered by long\navenues of magnificent trees. The Tay gleams through the verdant\nfoliage, and is seen winding, in serene beauty, far down among the rich\nmeadows and smooth lawns which adorn its banks. Behind it are the Sidlaw\nhills, and looming up, in the distance, the blue ridges of the\nGrampians. The lands around it are highly cultivated, and support a\nnumerous race of farmers, many of whom have grown rich from the produce\nof the soil.\n\nBut the shadows of evening are beginning to fall upon the landscape;\nto-morrow is \"the rest of the holy Sabbath,\" and a comfortable \"'tween\nand supper-time\" awaits us at the house of a friend at some distance\nfrom Perth, which we must immediately leave.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n     Sabbath Morning-- 'The Sabbath,' by James Grahame--Sketch of his\n     Life--Extracts from his Poetry--The Cameronians--'Dream of the\n     Martyrs,' by James Hislop--Sabbath Morning Walk--Country\n     Church--The old Preacher--The Interval of Worship--Conversation in\n     the Church-yard--Going Home from Church--Sabbath Evening.\n\n\nSabbath morning dawns upon us, bright and clear, and all around a hushed\nstillness pervades the air.\n\n    \"With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,\n    That scarcely wakes while all the fields are still;\n    A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,\n    A graver murmur echoes from the hill,\n    And softer sings the linnet from the thorn;\n    The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill.\n    Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!\n    The sky a placid yellow lustre throws;\n    The gales that lately sighed along the grove\n    Have hushed their drowsy wings in dead repose;\n    The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move,\n    So soft the day when the first morn arose.\"\n\nThus sang Leyden, the celebrated scholar, poet, and traveller, who, like\nall true sons of Scotland, revered the holy Sabbath, regarding it as the\nbest of days, the sweetest, purest, calmest of the seven! The same\nimages, borrowed not from Leyden, but from nature and his own heart, are\nused by Grahame, in his delightful poem of 'The Sabbath,' a production\nnot without defects, but one of the most popular in Scotland.\n\n    \"How still the morning of the hallowed day!\n    Mute is the voice of rural labor, hush'd\n    The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.\n    The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath\n    Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,\n    That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze.\n    Sounds the most faint attract the ear--the hum\n    Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,\n    The distant bleating, midway up the hill.\n    Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud.\n    To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,\n    The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;\n    And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark\n    Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook\n    Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen;\n    While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke\n    O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals\n    The voice of psalm, the simple song of praise.\"\n\nThe Rev. James Grahame, the author of 'The Sabbath,' 'The Birds of\nScotland,' 'Biblical Pictures,' and so forth, was born in 1765, in the\ncity of Glasgow. He studied law, but afterwards took orders in the\nChurch of England, and officiated as curate in the counties of\nGloucester and Durham. He is said to have been a popular and useful\npreacher. Possessed of great simplicity of character, purity of morals,\nand kindness of heart, he won the affections of all his parishioners.\nSuffering from ill health, he gave up his curacy, and returned to\nScotland, where he acted, we believe, as a school-teacher. His poems,\nparticularly that of 'The Sabbath,' attracted much attention in his\nnative land, which he dearly loved. A deep religious vein pervades the\nwhole. Attached to the ritual of his own church, he could yet appreciate\nthe solemn 'hill worship' of the Covenanters. His descriptions of\nScottish scenery are accurate and beautiful. His Sabbath is the Sabbath\nof Scotland. All its pictures are drawn from real life. His verse may\nseem prosaic at times, but it is melodious as a whole. Nothing can be\nmore natural or agreeable, in its easy gentle flow. Moreover, it often\nsparkles with original turns of thought, and felicitous expressions.\n\nAn interesting anecdote is told of Grahame in connection with the\npublication of 'The Sabbath.' He had finished the poem, and sent it to\nthe press unknown to his wife. When it was issued he brought her a copy,\nand requested her to read it. As his name was not prefixed to the work,\nshe did not dream that he had anything to do with it. As she went on\nreading, the sensitive author walked up and down the room. At length she\nbroke out in praise of the poem, and turning to him said: \"Ah! James, if\nyou could but produce a poem like this.\" Judge then of her delighted\nsurprise when told that he was its author. The effect upon her is said\nto have been almost overwhelming.\n\nAfter describing the solemn and delightful worship of God's house,\nparticularly the music, ascending in 'a thousand notes symphonious,' he\ntouchingly adds:\n\n                              \"Afar they float,\n    Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:\n    Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,\n    Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheered;\n    He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise--\n    Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!\n    No lukewarm accents from my lips would flow;\n    My heart would sing: and many a Sabbath day\n    My steps should thither turn; or wandering far\n    In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,\n    Then would I bless his name who led me forth\n    From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets--\n    Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow\n    Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye.\"\n\nHis description of the shepherd boy's Sabbath worship among the hills is\na passage of great beauty.\n\n    \"It is not only in the sacred fane\n    That homage should be paid to the Most High;\n    There is a temple, one not made with hands,\n    The vaulted firmament. Far in the woods,\n    Almost beyond the sound of city chime,\n    At intervals heard through the breezeless air;\n    When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,\n    Save when the linnet lights upon the spray\n    When not a flow'ret bends its little stalk,\n    Save when a bee alights upon the bloom--\n    Then rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love\n    The man of God will pass his Sabbath noon;\n    Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts\n    Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend\n    Beyond the empyrean.\n    Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,\n    The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy!\n    In some lone glen, when every sound is lulled\n    To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,\n    Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,\n    Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's Son;\n    Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,\n    And wonders why he weeps: the volume closed,\n    With thyme sprig laid between the leaves, he sings\n    The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned\n    With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,\n    Where humble love is learnt, where humble worth\n    Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.\n    Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,\n    The shepherd boy the Sabbath holy keeps,\n    Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands\n    Returning homeward from the house of prayer.\"\n\nThe hill worship of the Covenanters is also described with much beauty\nand pathos.\n\n    \"With them each day was holy, every hour\n    They stood prepared to die, a people doomed\n    To death--old men, and youths, and simple maids.\n    With them each day was holy; but that morn\n    On which the angel said, 'See where the Lord\n    Was laid,' joyous arose--to die that day\n    Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,\n    O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought\n    The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks\n    Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks\n    A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat\n    With greensward gay, and flowers that strangers seem\n    Amid the heathery wild, that all around\n    Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these\n    Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled\n    A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws;\n    There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array\n    That in the times of old had scathed the rose\n    On England's banner, and had powerless struck\n    The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,\n    Yet ranged itself to aid his son dethroned,)\n    The lyart veteran heard the Word of God\n    By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured\n    In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud\n    Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased\n    Her plaint; the solitary place was glad.\n    And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear\n    Caught doubtfully at times, the breeze-borne note.\n    But years more gloomy followed, and no more\n    The assembled people dared, in face of day,\n    To worship God, or even at the dead\n    Of night, save when the wint'ry storm raved fierce,\n    And thunder peals compelled the men of blood\n    To crouch within their dens, then dauntlessly\n    The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell\n    By rocks o'ercanopied, to hear the voice,\n    Their faithful pastor's voice: he, by the gleam\n    Of sheeted lightning, oped the sacred Book,\n    And words of comfort spoke: over their souls\n    His accents soothing came--as to her young\n    The heathfowl's plumes, when at the close of eve\n    She gathers in her mournful brood, dispersed\n    By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads\n    Fondly her wings, close nestling 'neath her breast\n    They cherished, cower amid the purple blooms.\"\n\nThis is finely pictured; and, coming from a member of the Episcopal\nChurch, does honor to his heart and head. Sir Walter Scott has somewhat\ninjured the memory of the Scottish Covenanters, by presenting the darker\nfeatures of their character, and forgetting utterly their earnest piety,\ntheir generous fervor, their heroic endurance. Many of them, doubtless,\nwere deficient in high-bred courtesy and learned refinement. Others were\nnarrow-minded and superstitious. But the great mass of them were men of\nlofty faith, of generous self-sacrifice. They feared God, and perilled\ntheir lives for freedom, in the high places of the field. \"Lately,\" says\na vigorous writer in Blackwood's Magazine, \"the Mighty Warlock of\nCaledonia has shed a natural and a supernatural light round the founders\nof the Cameronian dynasty; and as his business was to grapple with the\nruder and fiercer portion of their character, the gentle graces of\ntheir nature were not called into action, and the storm and tempest and\nthick darkness of John Balfour of Burley, have darkened the whole\nbreathing congregation of the Cameronians, and turned their sunny\nhillside into a dreary desert.\" It requires men of no ordinary character\nto become martyrs for principle, especially when that principle is one\nof the highest order, and has been chosen calmly, deliberately, and in\nthe fear of God. When such men go forth to defend the right, and shed\ntheir life's blood for its enthronement, their's is no vulgar\nenthusiasm, no unnatural and infuriate fanaticism. Read the following\nfrom James Hislop, once a poor shepherd boy, and afterwards a\nschool-teacher, written near the grave of the pious and redoubtable\nCameron, and several of his followers, slain by tyrants in the moor of\nAird's-moss, and say whether such martyrs for truth are worthy of our\nreverence!\n\n    \"In a dream of the night I was wafted away\n    To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay,\n    Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,\n    Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.\n\n    'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,\n    When the minister's home was the mountain and wood;\n    When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,\n    All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying.\n\n    'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east\n    Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;\n    On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew,\n    Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and mountain flowers blue.\n\n    And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,\n    The song of the lark was melodious and loud,\n    And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,\n    Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.\n\n    And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,\n    The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;\n    Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,\n    And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.\n\n    But oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,\n    Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,\n    Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,\n    For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.\n\n    'Twas the few faithful ones, who with Cameron were lying\n    Concealed 'mong the mist where the heathfowl was flying,\n    For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,\n    And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering.\n\n    Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed,\n    But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed;\n    With eyes turned to heaven, in calm resignation,\n    They sung their last song to the God of salvation.\n\n    The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,\n    The curlew and plover in concert were singing:\n    But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,\n    As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.\n\n    Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,\n    Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded,\n    Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as firm and unbending,\n    They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.\n\n    The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,\n    The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,\n    The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,\n    When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.\n\n    When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,\n    A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended,\n    Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,\n    And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.\n\n    A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,\n    All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,\n    And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation\n    Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.\n\n    On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,\n    Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;\n    Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,\n    A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!\"\n\nBut we are forgetting ourselves; and as we propose spending the Sabbath\nin a small country hamlet, at some distance, we must be off immediately.\nIt would be gratifying to return to Perth and hear some of the clergymen\nthere, Dr. Young especially, who is a preacher of great depth and\nenergy; but the Sabbath will be sweeter amidst the woods and hills.\n\nWe enter a quiet unfrequented road, skirting around those fine clumps of\ntrees, and that green hill to the west, and after wandering a few miles,\nwe pass into a narrow vale, through which a small wooded stream makes\nits noiseless way, and adorned on either side with rich green slopes,\nclumps of birches, and tufts of flowering broom. As you ascend the vale,\nit gradually widens, the acclivities on either side recede to a\nconsiderable distance, and the road, taking a sudden turn, runs over the\nhill to the left, and dives into a sort of natural amphitheatre, formed\nby the woods and braes around it. On the further side you descry a small\nantique-looking church, with two or three huge ash trees, and one or two\nsilver larches shading it, at one end, a pretty mansion built of\nfreestone, and handsomely slated, at a little distance at the other.\nApproaching, we find a few stragglers, as if in haste, entering the\nchurch door; the bell has ceased tolling, and the service probably is\nabout to commence. We enter, and find seats near the door. How tenderly\nand solemnly that old minister, with his bland look, and silver locks,\nreads the eighty-fourth psalm, and how reverently the whole\ncongregation, with book in hand, follow him to the close. A precentor,\nas he is called, sitting in a sort of desk under the pulpit, strikes the\ntune, and all, young and old, rich and poor, immediately accompany him.\nThe minister then offers a prayer, in simple Scripture language,\nsomewhat long, but solemn and affecting. He then reads another psalm,\nwhich is sung, as the first was, by the whole congregation, and with\nsuch earnest and visible delight, that you feel at once that their\nhearts are in the service. The preacher then rises in the pulpit and\nreads the twenty-third psalm, as the subject of his exposition, or\nlecture, as the Scottish preachers uniformly style their morning's\ndiscourse. His exposition is plain and practical, occasionally rising to\nthe pathetic and beautiful. Ah, how sweetly he dwells upon the good\nShepherd of the sheep, and how tenderly he depicts the security and\nrepose of the good man passing through the dark valley and the shadow of\ndeath. His reverend look, the tremulous tones of his voice, his Scottish\naccent, and occasionally Scottish phrases, his abundant use of\nScriptural quotations, and a certain Oriental cast of mind, derived, no\ndoubt, from intimate communion with prophets and apostles, invest his\ndiscourse with a peculiar charm. It is not learned; neither is it\noriginal and profound; but it is _good_, good for the heart--good for\nthe conscience and the life. Old preachers, like old wine, in our humble\nopinion, are by far the best. Their freedom from earthly ambition, their\ndeep experience of men and things, their profound acquaintance with\ntheir own heart, their evident nearness to heaven, their natural\nsimplicity and authority, their reverend looks and tremulous tones, all\nunite to invest their preaching with a peculiar spiritual interest, such\nas seldom attaches to that of young divines. Everything, of course,\ndepends upon personal character, and a young preacher may be truly\npious, and thus speak with much simplicity and power. But, other things\nbeing equal, old preachers and old physicians, old friends and old\nplaces possess qualities peculiar to themselves.\n\nAfter the sermon, prayer is offered, and the whole congregation unite in\na psalm of praise. The interval of worship, it is announced, will be one\nhour. A portion of the congregation return to their homes, but most of\nthem remain. Some repair to a house of refreshment in the neighborhood,\nwhere they regale themselves on the simplest fare, such as bread and\nmilk, or bread and beer. Others wander off, in parties, to the green\nwoods or sunny knolls around, and seated on the greensward, eat their\nbread and cheese, converse about the sermon, or such topics as happen to\ninterest them most. The younger people and children are inclined to\nramble, but are not permitted to do so. Yet the little fellows will\nromp, '_a very little_,' and occasionally run off, but not so far as to\nbe beyond call. A large number of the people have gone into the\ngrave-yard connected with the church. Some are seated on the old flat\ntombstones, others on the greensward, dotted all around with the graves\nof their fathers. See that group there. The old man, with \"lyart\nhaffets\" and broad bonnet, looks like one of the old Covenanters. The\nold lady, evidently his wife, wears a sort of hooded cloak, from which\npeeps forth a nicely plaited cap of lace, which wonderfully sets off her\ndemure but agreeable features. These young people around them are\nevidently their children and grandchildren. How contented they look, and\nhow reverently they listen to the old man. Let us draw near, and hear\nthe conversation.\n\n\"Why, grandfaither,\" says one of the younger lads, \"don't you think the\nauld Covenanters were rather sour kind o' bodies?\"\n\n\"Sour!\" replies the old man, \"they had eneuch to mak' them sour. Hunted\nfrom mountain to mountain, like wild beasts, it's nae wonder if they\nfelt waefu' at times, or that they let human passion gain a moment's\nascendancy. But they were guid men for a' that. They were the chosen o'\nGod, and wrastled hard against principalities and powers, against the\nrulers o' the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in\nhigh places. Reading their lives, I've aften thocht they must ha'e been\nkind o' inspired. Like the auld prophets and martyrs, they were very\nzealous for the Lord God, and endured, cheerfully, mair distress and\ntribulation than we can well imagine.\"\n\n\"Weel, weel!\" says one of the girls, \"I wish they had been a wee bit\ngentler in their ways, and mair charitable to their enemies.\"\n\n\"Ah, Nancy,\" is the quick reply of the old man, \"ye ken but little about\nit. A fine thing it is for us, sitting here in this peacefu' kirk-yard,\nwi' nane to molest us or mak' us afraid, to talk about gentleness and\ncharity. But the auld Covenanters had to encounter fire and steel. They\nwandered over muir and fell, in poverty and sorrow, being destitute,\nafflicted, tormented. But oh, my bairns! they loved and served the Lord!\nThey endured as seeing him who is invisible; and when they cam' to dee,\nthey rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer for his name. Nae\ndoot, some of them were carnal men, and ithers o' them had great\nimperfections. But the maist o' them were unco holy men, men o' prayer,\nmen o' faith, aye, and men of charity of whom the world was not worthy.\"\n\nThis answer silences all objections.\n\nBut the bell, from the old church tower, begins to toll.\n\n    \"Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground,\n    The aged man, the bowed down, the blind\n    Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes\n    With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased,\n    These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach\n    The house of God--these, spite of all their ills,\n    A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise\n    They enter in; a placid stillness reigns,\n    Until the man of God, worthy the name,\n    Opens the book, and reverentially\n    The stated portion reads.\"\n\nThe services of the afternoon are much the same as those of the morning,\nexcept that the preacher comments briefly on the portion of Scripture\nread at the opening of the service, and delivers a regular discourse,\nfrom a single text. The congregation follow the preacher with evident\nattention, and look up in their Bibles, which all have in their hands,\nthe passages of Scripture cited as proofs and illustrations. This, with\nan occasional cough, and a little rustling from the children, are the\nonly sounds which break the solemn stillness of the scene.\n\nDismissed, with a solemn benediction, all take their several ways\nhomeward. The sun is going down; but its mellow light yet lingers upon\nthe uplands, and tinges the foliage of the trees with supernal tints. A\nsabbath stillness reigns over hill and dale. The very trees appear to\nslumber; the birds are silent, except a single thrush, which, in the\ndeep recesses of that shadowy copsewood, appears to be singing \"her hymn\nto the evening.\" A little later, you might hear the voice of psalms from\nthe low thatched cottage, on the hillside or in the glen. For, in\nScotland, family worship is generally maintained, and singing, in which\nthe whole family join, always forms a part of the exercises.\n\n    \"They chant their artless notes in simple guise;\n      They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;\n    Perhaps _Dundee's_ wild warbling measures rise,\n      Or plaintive _Martyrs_, worthy of the name,\n    Or noble _Elgin_ beets the heavenward flame,\n      The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.\"\n\nWandering thus, through the fields, with Sabbath influences all around\nus, it is impossible not to be grateful and devout. A holy calm steals\nupon the mind--a heavenly beatitude, akin to that of angels and the\nspirits of just men made perfect.\n\n    \"Oh Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales;\n    But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun\n    Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,\n    Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song\n    Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;\n    Or when the simple service ends, to hear\n    The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man,\n    The father and the priest, walk forth alone\n    Into his garden plat and little field,\n    To commune with his God in secret prayer--\n    To bless the Lord that in his downward years\n    His children are about him: sweet, meantime\n    The thrush that sings upon the aged thorn,\n    Brings to his view the days of youthful years,\n    When that same aged thorn was but a bush!\n    Nor is the contrast between youth and age\n    To him a painful thought; he joys to think\n    His journey near a close; heaven is his home.\"\n\nThus, in his own simple and charming style, Grahame describes the\nSabbath evening. So beautiful it is, so Sabbath-like, in its spirit and\ntone, that we venture one extract more.\n\n    \"Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,\n    Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced\n    Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic\n    The shepherd's shadow, thrown athwart the chasm,\n    As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.\n    How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry,\n    Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt.\n    But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!\n    'Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling; now it dies\n    Away, now rises full; it is the song\n    Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs\n    Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear;\n    It is the music of the heart, the voice\n    Of venerable age, of guileless youth,\n    In kindly circle seated on the ground\n    Before their wicker door. Behold the man,\n    The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks\n    Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,\n    Upon the smooth-cropt sward the open book,\n    His comfort, stay, and ever new delight;\n    While heedless at his side, the lisping boy\n    Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n     Lochleven--Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle--Michael\n     Bruce--Sketch of his Life--Boyhood--College\n     Life--Poetry--\"Lochleven\"--Sickness--\"Ode to Spring\"--Death--\"Ode\n     to the Cuckoo.\"\n\n\nPursuing our journey southward, next day finds us on the banks of\nLochleven, distinguished not so much from the beauty of its situation,\nas from its poetic and historical associations. It is adorned with four\nsmall islands, the principal of which are St. Serf's Isle near the east\nend, so called from its having been the site of a priory dedicated to\nSt. Serf, and another near the shore on the west side, which immediately\nattracts the eye, from its containing the picturesque ruins of Lochleven\nCastle, in which Mary, Queen of Scots, was confined, and from which she\nmade her wonderful escape. Here, also, Patrick Graham, Archbishop of St.\nAndrews, and grandson of Robert the Third, was imprisoned, in\nconsequence of a generous attempt to reform the profligate lives of the\nCatholic clergy. In this place he died, and was buried in the monastery\nof St. Serf. The keys of the castle, thrown into the lake at the time of\nQueen Mary's flight, have recently been found by a young man belonging\nto Kinross, and are now in the possession of the Earl of Morton.\n\nThe castle, with its massive tower yet standing, looks dismal enough,\nbut how much it is beautified by the fine old trees and shrubbery which\nencircle it, and the mellow light which mantles its hoary sides!\n\n    \"Gothic the pile, and high the solid walls,\n    With warlike ramparts, and the strong defence\n    Of jutting battlements: an age's toil!\n    No more its arches echo to the noise\n    Of joy and festive mirth. No more the glance\n    Of blazing taper through its window beams,\n    And quivers on the undulating wave;\n    But naked stand the melancholy walls,\n    Lash'd by the wint'ry tempest, cold and bleak\n    That whistles mournful through the empty halls\n    And piecemeal crumble down the towers to dust.\"\n\nThis description is by Michael Bruce, whose early promise and premature\ndeath have awakened so much sympathy among all classes in Scotland. He\nwas born in the vicinity of Lochleven, and has written a poem of\nconsiderable merit descriptive of the lake and surrounding scenery. His\n\"Ode to Spring,\" and especially his \"Ode to the Cuckoo,\" now universally\nacknowledged to be his, are among the most beautiful poems in the\nEnglish language. He was born at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, on the\n27th of March, 1746. By going round to the north-east bank of the lake,\nwe shall find this village, insignificant in itself, but sweetly\nsituated on the south-west declivity of the Lomond hills. Ascending a\nnarrow lane, we reach, near its centre, the house in which Bruce was\nborn. It consists of two stories, with a thatched roof. Michael's\nparents were very poor, and occupied only the upper part of the house,\nwhich served them at once for a workshop and dwelling. \"A true nestling\nplace of genius,\" exclaims his biographer, quoting the words of\nWashington Irving respecting the birth-place of Shakspeare, \"which\ndelights to hatch its offspring in bye corners.\" Mean as it is, an\nangelic soul has been here, and a charm lingers upon its homely walls.\nDr. Huie of Edinburgh has given the following touching account of a\nvisit which he paid to this place, in company with one of Bruce's old\nfriends. \"On returning,\" says he, \"from Portmoak church-yard, where\nBruce is buried, I attended my venerable guide to the lowly dwelling\nwhere the parents of the poet resided. We first entered the garden:\n'This,' said Mr. B. 'was a spot of much interest to Michael. Here he\nused alternately to work and to meditate. There stood a row of trees\nwhich he particularly cherished, but they are now cut down,' added the\ngood old man, and as he said this, he sighed. 'Here again,' said he,\n'was a bank of soft grass on which Michael was accustomed to recline\nafter he became too weak to walk; and here his father would sit beside\nhim in the evening, and read to amuse him.' We next entered the house. I\nexperienced an involuntary feeling of awe when I found myself in the\nhumble abode, where neglected worth and talents had pined away and died.\nThe little square windows cast but a feeble light over the apartment,\nand the sombre shades of evening, for the sun had now set, were\nstrikingly in unison with the scene. 'There,' said my conductor, 'auld\nSaunders used to sit at his loom. In that corner stood the bed where the\nauld couple slept, in this the bed which was occupied by Michael, and in\nwhich he died,' The good old man's eyes filled as he spoke. I found it\nnecessary to wipe my own. I was not ashamed of my tears. They were a\ntribute to departed genius, and there was nothing unmanly in their\nflow.\"\n\nSaunders Bruce, as he was called, the father of Michael, had eight\nchildren, and as the business of weaving has always been a poor one in\nScotland, it was with extreme difficulty that he was enabled to give\nMichael a suitable education, though early perceiving in him the seeds\nof genius. Saunders was a pious thoughtful man, universally respected,\nand a sort of village chronicle. He is supposed to be referred to in the\npoem of Lochleven, in the lines commencing,--\n\n    \"I knew an aged swain whose hoary head\n    Was bent with years, the village chronicle,\" etc.\n\nOf his mother we have no means of forming a judgment, and suspect that\nher character was not particularly marked. It is his father to whom\nMichael himself, and the friends that knew him, chiefly refer in\nconnection with his early studies and pursuits. Some indeed have\nintimated that the stern orthodoxy of the old man was called into\nrequisition to repress the youthful aspirings of his son, particularly\nin the matter of books, but of this not the slightest evidence can be\nadduced.\n\nHe succeeded in procuring copies of Shakspeare, Pope, Milton, Fontenelle\nand Young, all of which he devoured with avidity and delight. The\nScriptures he read at home and at school, and thus became familiar with\nthe magnificent images and thrilling conceptions of oriental\ninspiration.\n\nMichael was a great favorite at school, and made rapid progress in his\nstudies. But he was frequently called away from school, partly by\nsickness, to which he was subject at an early age, and partly by his\nfathers straitened circumstances. On this latter account he was employed\nfor a time as a shepherd, on the Lomond hills, which rise in verdant\nbeauty behind his native village. This, however, was rather a benefit\nthan an injury to his mind as well as body. His poem of \"Lochleven\" is\nmade up of reminiscences of the romantic scenes with which at that time\nhe became familiar:--\n\n    \"Where he could trace the cowslip-covered bank\n    Of Leven, and the landscape measure round.\"\n\n\"The late proprietor of the upper Kinneston, a small estate upon the\nsouth-west declivity of the Lomond hills, used to relate with much\nfeeling, the amusing stories told him, and the strange questions put to\nhim by Michael when herding his father's cattle, and how he would offer\nhis services to carry the boys' meals to the hill, for the sake of\nhaving half an hour's conversation with this interesting youth.\"[158]\nWhile his progress in learning was much interrupted in this way, his\nmind was advancing, nevertheless, by communion with nature and his own\nindividual heart. Besides, his frequent absence from school was\ncompensated by the prosecution of his studies on the hillside, or by his\nfather's ingle, so that when he returned to school, it took him but a\nfew days to reach the top of his class. Though modest, and even shy, he\nhad great influence with his school-fellows. Somehow they regarded him\nas a sort of superior being, and his word among them was law. This,\ndoubtless, arose from the originality of his character, which developed\nitself at a very early age.\n\n[Footnote 158: Memoir of Bruce, by Dr. Mackelvie, to which I am chiefly\nindebted for the facts of which the accompanying sketch is composed.]\n\n        \"Silent when glad, affectionate though shy,\n      And now his look was most demurely sad,\n      And now he laughed aloud, and none knew why,\n      And neighbors stared and sighed, and bless'd the lad;\n    Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad.\"\n\n    BEATTIE'S MINSTREL.\n\nThe same deference, it is said, was paid him at home. Indeed, he was the\npet of the family, and all vied to make Michael comfortable and happy, a\nhomage to genius and worth infinitely more precious than the plaudits of\nthe world.\n\nWhile attending school, he formed some interesting friendships,\nparticularly with William Arnot, a peculiarly amiable young man, who\ndied in early life, and to whom Bruce makes a touching reference in\n\"Lochleven.\" Through the son he became acquainted with the father, a\nwise and liberal man, who greatly assisted Michael in his studies, and\ngave him the free use of his library. It is to him the following\ndescription refers.\n\n    \"How blest the man, who, in these peaceful plains,\n    Ploughs his paternal field; far from the noise,\n    The care and bustle of a busy world!\n    All in the sacred, sweet, sequestered vale\n    Of solitude, the secret primrose path\n    Of rural life he dwells; and with him dwells\n    Peace and content, twins of the sylvan shade,\n    And all the graces of the golden age.\n    Such is Agricola, the wise, the good;\n    By nature formed for the calm retreat,\n    The silent path of life. Learned, but not fraught\n    With self-importance, as the starched fool\n    Who challenges respect by solemn face,\n    By studied accent, and high-sounding phrase,\n    Enamored of the shade, but not morose,\n    Politeness, raised in courts by frigid rules\n    With him spontaneous grows. Not books alone,\n    But man his study, and the better part;\n    To tread the ways of virtue, and to act\n    The various scenes of life with God's applause.\n    Deep in the bottom of the flowery vale,\n    With blooming sallows, and the leafy twine\n    Of verdant alders fenced, his dwelling stands\n    Complete in rural elegance. The door\n    By which the poor or pilgrim never passed\n    Still open, speaks the master's bounteous heart.\n    Then, O how sweet! amid the fragrant shrubs,\n    At evening cool to sit; while, on their boughs\n    The nested songsters twitter o'er their young;\n    And the hoarse low of folded cattle breaks\n    The silence, wafted o'er the sleeping lakes,\n    Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge\n    Of western cloud; while converse sweet deceives\n    The stealing foot of time!\"\n\nHe found an opportunity of acquiring the Latin language and preparing\nfor college, with a Mr. Dun, who, for the sake of his son, formed a\nclass of boys, of which Michael was decidedly the best scholar, as all\nacknowledged.\n\nBut he was of a slender make, and gave early indications of pulmonary\nconsumption. In his personal appearance he is said to have resembled\nShelley; having yellowish curling hair, a long neck and narrow chest,\nskin white and shining, and his cheeks \"tinged with red rather than\nruddy.\" He was \"early smitten with the love of song,\" and began\noccasionally to write verses. Possessed of a fine musical ear, he was\nimpatient to get hold of all sorts of old ballads and songs; and while\nthe other children of the village or school were amusing themselves with\nplay, or spending their money on trash, he was poring with delighted\neyes over \"Chevy Chase,\" or \"The Flowers of the Forest.\" When he had\nmade himself familiar with the music and sentiments of these ballads, he\nwould endeavor \"to supply his lack of novelty with verses of his own.\"\nIt is in this way, probably, that his fine ballad of \"Sir James the\nRoss,\" and some of his pastorals originated.\n\nAfter he had left school, and saw no way of pursuing his studies, a\nrelative left him the sum of two hundred merks Scots, about sixty\ndollars, when it was resolved forthwith that Michael should repair to\nEdinburgh University. Mr. Arnot encouraged him in this enterprise, and\npromised some assistance, in the shape of provisions and so forth.\nAccordingly he set out for the metropolis, and entered college. But he\nwas often subjected to severe privations. Some of his fellow students\nwho suspected his poverty were willing to share their meals with him,\nbut he could not bear the thought of being fed out of pity, and whenever\nhe imagined the invitation to proceed from this feeling he uniformly\ndeclined it. He was high-spirited; and yet he was truly pious. Indeed,\nhe had devoted himself to Heaven in his boyhood, and never swerved from\nthe high principles of Christian integrity.\n\nAt college Bruce became acquainted with several young men who\nsubsequently acquired distinction. Dr. Lawson and the Rev. John Logan\nwere his fellow students and warmly attached friends. His relations with\nLogan subsequently became involved, much to the discredit of the latter,\nwho is suspected of having dealt ungenerously with his friend's poems,\nwhich, after the death of Bruce, were committed to his care. He is\ncharged particularly with purloining the \"Ode to the Cuckoo,\" and\npublishing it as his own. Logan was a singular man--an orator of a high\norder, an accomplished scholar, and an elegant poet. Some of his poems,\nparticularly his \"Visit to the Country in Autumn,\" \"The Braes of\nYarrow,\" \"The Lament of Nature,\" and other odes and hymns, are beautiful\nand finished productions. Some of his discourses, preached at Leith,\nthough not profound, are eloquent and effective. But he was imperfectly\nimbued with the high principles which he endeavored to recommend to\nothers, and he has greatly tarnished his fair fame by the use which he\nis supposed to have made of the labors of Bruce. It is probable,\nhowever, that the \"Ode to the Cuckoo\" was only drafted by Bruce, and\nsubsequently polished into its present state of perfection by the\nclassic pen of Logan.\n\nThe companion to whom, of all others, Bruce became the most attached at\ncollege, was Mr. William Dryburgh, from Dysart. Like Bruce, he was\npossessed of piety and genius, and like him, too, suffered from\npulmonary disease, and died in early life. Both had a presentiment that\nthey were destined to a premature grave. And this, with their bright\nhope of a blessed immortality, was the frequent subject of their\nconversations. Dryburgh died in his eighteenth year, and Bruce followed\nhim in less than a year after. How keenly he felt this separation may be\ngathered from the following letter to a friend, written on receiving the\nintelligence of Dryburgh's death:--\n\n\"I have not many friends, but I love them well. Death has been among the\nfew I have. Poor Dryburgh!--but he is happy. I expected to have been his\ncompanion through life, and that we should have stepped into the grave\ntogether; but Heaven has seen meet to dispose of him otherwise. What\nthink you of this world? I think it very little worth. You and I have\nnot a great deal to make us fond of it; and yet I would not exchange my\ncondition with any unfeeling fool in the universe, if I were to have his\ndull hard heart into the bargain. Farewell, my rival in immortal hope!\nMy companion, I trust, for eternity! Though far distant, I take thee to\nmy heart; souls suffer no separation from the obstruction of matter, or\ndistance of place. Oceans may roll between us, and climates interpose in\nvain--the whole material creation is no bar to the winged mind.\nFarewell! through boundless ages, fare thee well! May'st thou shine when\nthe sun is darkened. May'st thou live and triumph when time expires! It\nis at least possible that we meet no more in this foreign land, in this\ngloomy apartment of the universe of God. But there is a better world in\nwhich we may meet to part no more. Adieu.\"\n\nBut the grief of a true poet embodies itself in verse. The following\nlines, on the death of Dryburgh, were found among Bruce's papers.\n\n    Alas! we fondly thought that heaven designed\n      His bright example mankind to improve;\n    All they should be was pictured in his mind,\n      His thoughts were virtue, and his heart was love.\n\n    Calm as the summer sun's unruffled face,\n      He looked unmoved on life's precarious game,\n    And smiled at mortals toiling in the chase\n      Of empty phantoms, opulence and fame.\n\n    Steady he followed virtue's onward path,\n      Inflexible to error's devious way,\n    And firm at last, in hope and fixed faith\n      Through death's dark vale he trod without dismay.\n\n    Whence then these sighs? And whence this falling tear\n      In sad remembrance of his merit just?\n    Still must I mourn! for he to me was dear\n      And still is dear, though buried in the dust.\n\nBruce's father made great efforts, by means of saving and borrowing, to\nassist his son during his college course, and Mr. Arnot continued to\nsend him occasional supplies from his farm and dairy. But he was sadly\nstraitened in the matter of books. The following letter upon this\nsubject is characteristic and striking.\n\n\"Edinburgh, Nov. 27, 1764.--I daily meet with proofs that money is a\nnecessary evil. When in an auction, I often say to myself, how happy\nshould I be if I had money to purchase such a book! How well should my\nlibrary be furnished, 'nisi obstat res angusta domi,'\n\n    'My lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone\n    My growing virtues, but my crimes confines.'\n\nWhether any virtues would have accompanied me in a more elevated station\nis uncertain, but that a number of vices of which my sphere is\nincapable, would have been its attendants, is unquestionable. The\nSupreme Wisdom has seen this meet, and the Supreme Wisdom cannot err.\"\n\nThe annual session in the colleges of Scotland lasts only from six to\neight months, and thus leaves considerable time for relaxation and\nprivate study, or for other occupations necessary to recruit the\nstudents' exhausted finances. At the end of each of these terms, Michael\nreturned home, much exhausted by his application to study. His system,\nhowever, soon recovered its wonted energy in the congenial scenes of his\nboyhood, and the kind attentions of the proprietor of Portmoak. Still he\nwas seldom in perfect health, and often complained of headache and\ndepression of spirits. Most of his time during the summer months, the\nseason of vacation, was spent either in reading or in writing poetry.\n\nDuring his last session at College, Michael accepted a proposal to teach\na small school at Gairney Bridge, which lies on a small stream running\ninto Lochleven. He finished his collegiate studies honorably, having\ndistinguished himself chiefly in _rhetoric_ and _belles lettres_. At\nGairney Bridge he had some thirty or forty pupils under his care, whom\nhe governed entirely without the rod, then pretty thoroughly used in\nScotland. But the compensation was a mere trifle, not exceeding more\nthan sixty or seventy dollars a year.\n\nIt was in this place that he wrote several of his poems, and became\ndeeply attached to a beautiful young woman in the neighborhood, to whom,\nhowever, he never declared his passion.\n\nAbout this time he joined the church in Kinross, under the pastoral care\nof the Rev. Mr. Swanston, recently appointed professor of Theology in\nthe United Secession Church. This learned and amiable man conceived a\nstrong attachment for Michael, and ever treated him with the greatest\nconsideration and kindness. Subsequently he engaged to teach a school at\nForest Mill, a dreary sort of place, with miserable school\naccommodations. His health too, was declining. While fording the Devon\non horseback, the horse stumbled and immersed him in the stream, a\ncircumstance which greatly aggravated his consumptive tendency. Moreover\nhe was disappointed in his school, and his health and spirits rapidly\ndeclined. In a letter to Mr. Arnot, he says, \"I expected to be happy\nhere, but I am not. The easiest part of my life is past. I sometimes\ncompare my condition with that of others, and imagine if I was in theirs\nit would be well. But is not everybody thus! Perhaps he whom I envy\nthinks he would be glad to change with me, and yet neither would be\nbetter for the change. Since it is so, let us, my friend, moderate our\nhopes and fears, resign ourselves to the will of Him who doeth all\nthings well, and who hath assured us that he careth for us.\n\n    'Si res sola potest facere et servare beatum\n    Hoc primus repetas opus, hoc postremus omittas.'\n\n\"Things are not very well in the world, but they are pretty well. They\nmight have been worse, and such as they are may please us who have but a\nfew short days to use them. This scene of affairs, though a very\nperplexed, is a very short one, and in a little while all will be\ncleared up. Let us endeavor to please God, our fellow creatures and\nourselves. In such a course of life we shall be as happy as we can\nexpect in such a world as this. Thus you, who cultivate your farm with\nyour own hands, and I who teach a dozen blockheads for bread, may be\nhappier than he, who having more than he can use, tortures his brain to\ninvent some new methods of killing himself with the superfluity.\" In\nthis letter, worthy of Cowper or of Foster, we see a brave spirit\nstruggling with the direst misfortunes, poverty and disease, and\novercoming both by the silent might of a believing spirit.\n\nAnother thing which greatly afflicted Bruce at Forest Mill, was the\ntotal want of agreeable scenery, and it was only by an effort of memory\nand imagination that he could, in some measure make up this deficiency,\nby recalling the delightful scenery of his early home. To this\ncombination of unfavorable circumstances he touchingly refers in the\npoem of Lochleven, which was actually produced under their influence, as\na means of relaxation and enjoyment.\n\n    \"Thus sang the youth amid unfertile wilds,\n    And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground!\n    Far from his friends he strayed, recording thus\n    The dear remembrance of his native fields,\n    To cheer the tedious night, while slow disease\n    Preyed on his pining vitals, and the blasts\n    Of dark December shook his humble cot.\"\n\n\"Lochleven\" is his longest, and in most respects, his most beautiful\npoem. It has defects, obvious enough to a critical eye, but its general\nexcellence strikes every reader. Its descriptions and delineations are\nnatural and striking, its imagery is simple and poetical, and its\nmeasure sweet and melodious. Nearly the whole of it has been \"used up,\"\nin beautiful extracts by different writers of distinction.\n\nBut the composition of this poem seems to have been too much for Bruce's\nshattered frame; for he was compelled almost immediately to relinquish\nhis school. He had just strength to walk home to Kinnesswood, a\ndistance of nearly twenty miles, resting only a short time at Turf-hills\non the way. Though nowhere on earth could he be happier than in the\nhumble cottage of his parents, it was yet the worst place in the world\nfor his disease. \"The vapors rising from the lake,\" says his biographer,\n\"particularly in spring, keep the atmosphere constantly in a state of\nmoisture, whilst in the mornings and evenings the eastern haars, as the\nfogs which come up from the sea are called by the inhabitants, come\nrolling down the hills, and hang suspended over Kinnesswood like a\ndripping curtain.\"\n\nHe had expected, in the quiet of his father's home and in the vicinity\nof his dear Lochleven, a restoration of health; but in this hope he was\ndisappointed. The mark of death was upon him. The heart of the beauteous\ntree was poisoned by disease, and all its leaves faded and fell to the\nground. It was under the consciousness of this fact, that he wrote his\nbeautiful and affecting \"Ode to Spring,\" which he sent to a dear friend\nto apprise him of his approaching dissolution. The following are its\nconcluding stanzas.\n\n    Now spring returns: but not to me returns\n      The vernal joy my better years have known;\n    Dim in my breast, life's dying taper burns,\n      And all the joys of life with health are flown.\n\n    Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind,\n      Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,\n    Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,\n      And count the silent moments as they pass:\n\n    The winged moments, whose unstaying speed\n      No art can stop, or in their course arrest;\n    Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,\n      And lay me down in peace with them at rest.\n\n    Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;\n      And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true;\n    Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate,\n      And bid the realms of light and life adieu.\n\n    I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo;\n      I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore,\n    The sluggish streams that slowly sleep below,\n      Which mortals visit, and return no more.\n\n    Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!\n      Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound,\n    Where melancholy with still silence reigns,\n      And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.\n\n    There let me wander at the shut of eve,\n      When sleep sits dewy on the laborer's eyes;\n    The world and all its busy follies leave,\n      And talk with Wisdom where my Daphne lies.\n\n    There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay,\n      When death shall shut these weary, aching eyes;\n    Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,\n      Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise.\n\nHe intimated his approaching death to another friend, in prose, as\naffecting as his poetry, and if possible, more instructive.\n\n\"A few mornings ago, as I was taking a walk on an eminence which\ncommands a view of the Forth, with the vessels sailing along, I sat\ndown, and taking out my Latin Bible, opened by accident, at a place in\nthe Book of Job, chap, ix: 23, 'Now my days are passed away as the swift\nships.' Shutting the book, I fell a musing on this affecting\ncomparison. Whether the following happened to me in a dream or waking\nreverie I cannot tell, but I fancied myself on the bank of a river or\nsea, the opposite side of which was hid from view, being involved in\nclouds of mist. On the shore stood a multitude, which no man could\nnumber, waiting for passage. I saw a great many ships taking in\npassengers, and several persons going about in the garb of pilots,\noffering their service. Being ignorant, and curious to know what all\nthese things meant, I applied to a grave old man who stood by giving\ninstructions to the departing passengers. His name, I remember, was the\nGENIUS OF HUMAN LIFE. 'My son,' said he, 'you stand on the banks of the\nstream of TIME. All these people are bound for ETERNITY, that\nundiscovered country whence no traveller ever returns. The country is\nvery large, and divided into two parts, the one is called the _Land of\nGlory_, the other the _Kingdom of Darkness_. The names of those in the\ngarb of pilots, are _Religion_, _Virtue_, _Pleasure_. They who are so\nwise as to choose Religion for their guide, have a safe, though\nfrequently a rough passage; they are at last landed in the happy climes\nwhere sorrow and sighing forever flee away. They have likewise a\nsecondary director, _Virtue_; but there is a spurious Virtue, who\npretends to govern by himself; but the wretches who trust to him, as\nwell as those who have Pleasure for their pilot, are either shipwrecked\nor are cast away on the Kingdom of Darkness. _But the vessel in which\nyou must embark, approaches, and you must be gone._ Remember what\ndepends upon your conduct.' No sooner had he left me, than I found\nmyself surrounded by those pilots I mentioned before. Immediately I\nforgot all that the old man said to me, and seduced by the fair promises\nof Pleasure, chose him for my director. We weighed anchor with a fair\ngale, the sky serene, the sea calm. Innumerable little isles lifted\ntheir green heads around us, covered with trees in full blossom;\ndissolved in stupid mirth, we were carried on regardless of the past, of\nthe future unmindful. On a sudden the sky was darkened, the winds\nroared, the seas raged; red rose the sand from the bottom of the deep.\nThe angel of the waters lifted up his voice. At that instant, a strong\nship passed by; I saw Religion at the helm. 'Come out from among these,'\nhe cried. I and a few others threw ourselves out into his ship. The\nwretches we left were now tossed on the swelling deep. The waters on\nevery side poured, through the riven vessel. They cursed the Lord; when\nlo! a fiend rose from the deep, and in a voice like distant thunder,\nthus spoke:--'I am Abaddon, the first-born of death;--ye are my prey.\nOpen thou abyss to receive them!' As he thus spoke they sunk, and the\nwaves closed over their heads. The storm was turned into a calm, and we\nheard a voice saying, 'Fear not, I am with you. When you pass through\nthe waters they shall not overflow you.' Our hearts were filled with\njoy. I was engaged in discourse with one of my new companions, when one\nfrom the top of the mast cried out, 'Courage, my friends, I see the\nfair haven, the land that is yet afar off.' Looking up, I found it was a\ncertain friend, who had mounted up for the benefit of contemplating the\ncountry before him. Upon seeing _you_, (the friend to whom he was\nwriting,) I was so affected that I started and awaked. Farewell, my\nfriend,--Farewell!\"\n\nSee that fragile form, then, with the glowing spirit within, panting for\nfreedom and its \"native skies,\" borne along in the vessel of Religion,\nupon a calm and sunny sea. He looks aloft, and anticipates with serene\nand joyful trust, his entrance into the port of everlasting peace. The\nvessel glides, with increasing velocity, her sails all set, and gleaming\nin the reflected radiance of the spirit-world. Now she enters the port,\nand nears that blessed shore,\n\n    \"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar.\"\n\nThe few days which remained to Michael on earth, he spent in correcting\nhis poem of the \"Last Judgment,\" and in pluming his spirit for its\nupward flight. His bodily strength was exhausted, and he was obliged to\nkeep his bed. His mind was meditative and hopeful, dwelling almost\nwholly upon various passages of Holy Writ, which he would repeat and\ncomment upon to his friends.\n\nMr. George Lawson, afterwards Dr. Lawson, professor of theology in the\n\"Secession Church,\" being called to preach for a settlement in the\nneighborhood of Kinnesswood, hastened upon his arrival there, to see his\nfriend Bruce. He found him in bed, with his countenance pale as death,\nwhile his eyes shone like lamps in a sepulchre. The poet was delighted\nto see him, and spoke with as much ease and freedom as if he had been in\nperfect health. Mr. Lawson remarked to him that he was glad to see him\nso cheerful. \"And why,\" said he, \"should not a man be cheerful on the\nverge of heaven?\" \"But,\" said Mr. L., \"you look so emaciated. I am\nafraid you cannot last long.\" \"You remind me,\" he replied, \"of the story\nof the Irishman, who was told that his hovel was about to fall, and I\nanswer with him, _Let it fall, it is not mine!_\"\n\nThis cheerfulness continued during his illness, till his mother, one\nmorning, announced to him, just as he was awaking out of sleep, that Mr.\nSwanston was dead. He looked at her with a fixed stare, as if stunned by\nthe intelligence. Upon recovering he satisfied himself as to the\ncorrectness of the statement, and was never afterwards seen to smile!\nStill we do not attach much importance to this circumstance; for it\noften happens that when the countenance is cold and ghastly, the heart\nwithin is warm and serene. He lingered for a month, manifesting little\ninterest in what was said or done around him, and on the 5th of July,\ncalmly and imperceptibly fell asleep, aged twenty-one years and three\nmonths.\n\n    So fades a summer cloud away,\n      So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,\n    So gently shuts the eye of day,\n      So fades a wave along the shore.\n\n    Life's labor done, as sinks the clay,\n      Light from its load the spirit flies,\n    While heaven and earth combine to say,\n      How bless'd the Christian when he dies!\n\nHis Bible was found upon his pillow, marked down at Jer. xxii: 10, \"Weep\nye not for the dead, neither bemoan him;\" and on the blank leaf this\nhomely but expressive verse was written:--\n\n    \"'Tis very vain for me to boast,\n    How small a price my Bible cost;\n    The day of judgment will make clear,\n    'Twas very cheap or very dear.\"\n\nHe was buried in the church-yard of Portmoak, in the very centre of the\nscenes hallowed and beautified by his muse. A monument has been erected\nto Bruce through the subscription of his friends, of which the following\nis the simple but appropriate inscription:\n\n                     MICHAEL BRUCE,\n              Born in 1747 at Kinnesswood,\n               In the County of Kinross,\n             Died at the age of twenty-one.\n                  In this brief space,\n       Under the pressure of indigence and sickness,\n               He displayed talents truly\n                       Poetical.\n        For his aged mother's and his own support\n                He taught a school here.\n    The village was then skirted with old ash trees,\n              The cottage in which he dwelt\n            Was distinguished by a honeysuckle\n              Which he had trained round its\n                      Lashed window.\n         Certain inhabitants of his native county,\n                      His admirers,\n                 Have erected this stone\n                    To mark the abode\n                           Of\n                    Genius and Virtue.\n\nBruce was designed for the service of the church. In this view, as well\nas with reference to the cultivation of his fine poetical talents, his\ndeath may be deemed a calamity. And yet, such a view of the case may\nfairly be questioned. For himself, is he not happier, in the bosom of\nhis God; and for us, does he not, by means of his Christian life, his\nheroic death, his ethereal strains, embalmed in blessed memories of the\npast, preach more effectually than he could have done, even had he lived\nto occupy a material pulpit. \"Being dead he yet speaketh,\" and speaketh\nwith a power and pathos which can be reached only by the dead.\n\nHad we room we might give many pleasant extracts from his poetry; but we\nmust content ourselves with his \"Ode to the Cuckoo,\" in our judgment one\nof the most beautiful and perfect little poems in any language.\n\n              TO THE CUCKOO.\n\n    Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!\n      Thou messenger of Spring!\n    Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,\n      And woods thy welcome sing.\n\n    What time the daisy decks the green,\n      Thy certain voice we hear;\n    Hast thou a star to guide thy path,\n      Or mark the rolling year?\n\n    Delightful visitant! with thee,\n      I hail the time of flowers,\n    And hear the sound of music sweet,\n      From birds among the bowers.\n\n    The schoolboy wandering through the wood,\n      To pull the primrose gay,\n    Starts the new voice of spring to hear,[159]\n      And imitates thy lay.\n\n    What time the pea puts on the bloom,\n      Thou fliest thy local vale,\n    Another guest in other lands,\n      Another spring to hail.\n\n    Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,\n      Thy sky is ever clear;\n    Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,\n      No winter in thy year!\n\n    O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!\n      We'd make, with joyful wing,\n    Our annual visit o'er the globe,\n      Companions of the spring.\n\n[Footnote 159: In his own copy Bruce had written, \"Starts thy curious\nvoice to hear;\" _curious_ is a Scotticism, being equivalent to\n_strange_. This Logan probably altered to save the quantity. But the\noriginal expression is preferred by good judges, as more natural and\npoetical. \"It marks the unusual resemblance of the note of the cuckoo to\nthe human _voice_ the cause of the _start_ and _imitation_ which\nfollow.\"]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n     Dunfermline--Ruins of the Abbey--Grave of Robert Bruce--Malcolm\n     Canmore's Palace--William Henryson, the poet--William\n     Dunbar--Stirling Castle--Views from its Summit--City of\n     Stirling--George Buchanan and Dr. Arthur\n     Johnston--Falkirk--Linlithgow--Story of the Capture of Linlithgow\n     Castle--Spirit of War--Arrival in Edinburgh.\n\n\nBidding adieu to Lochleven, we journey slowly through a pleasant and\nhighly cultivated region, till we reach the ancient town of Dunfermline,\nin which some of the old Scottish kings formerly held court, and which\nis yet adorned with the remains of a magnificent abbey. Robert Bruce was\ninterred here, in complete armor, and much interest was excited, a few\nyears ago, by the discovery of his skeleton. In the vicinity are the\nruins of Malcolm Canmore's palace and stronghold, standing on the edge\nof a deep romantic glen, in which, more than three hundred years ago,\nthe poet Henryson, a schoolmaster in Dunfermline, was wont to wander,\nsinging his beautiful lays, in the quaint and difficult dialect of\nformer times.\n\n    \"In myddis of June, that jolly sweet sessoun,\n      Quhen that fair Phoebus, with his beamis brycht,\n    Had dryit up the clew fra daill and doun,\n      And all the land made with his lemys lycht;\n      In a morning betwene mid-day and nycht,\n    I raiss and put all sluith and sleep on syde;\n    Ontill a wod I went allone, but gyd. (glad?)\n\n    Sueit was the smell of flowris quhyt and reid,\n      The noyis of birdis rycht delitious;\n    The bewis brod blumyt abune my heid;\n      The grund gowand with grassis gratious\n      Of all pleasans that place was plenteous,\n    With sueit odours and birdis armonie;\n    The mornyng mild my mirth was mair forthy.\n\nHenryson was contemporary with William Dunbar, a poet, says Sir Walter\nScott, unrivalled by any that Scotland has ever produced. He flourished\nat the court of James IV. His poems are of all sorts, allegorical, moral\nand comic. The following lines on the brevity of human existence are a\nfair specimen of his style.\n\n    This wavering warld's wretchedness,\n    The failing and fruitless business,\n    The misspent time, the service vain,\n          For to consider is ane pain.\n\n    The sliding joy, the gladness short,\n    The perjured love, the false comfort,\n    The seveir abade (delay), the slightful train (snare),\n          For to consider is ane pain.\n\n    The sugared mouths, with minds therefra,\n    The figured speech, with faces tway;\n    The pleasing tongues, with hearts unplain,\n          For to consider is ane pain.\n\nIn another poem he takes a more cheerful view of life.\n\n    Be merry, man, and tak' not sair in mind\n      The wavering of this wretched world of sorrow;\n    To God be humble, to thy friend be kind,\n      And with thy neighbors gladly lend and borrow,\n      His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow, &c.\n\nFrom Dunfermline, we cross the country in the direction of Stirling,\nand of course linger to view the famous battle-ground of Bannockburn,\nimmortalized by the prowess of Scotland, and the poetry of Burns.\n\nBut we approach Stirling Castle, one of the oldest and most imposing\nstrongholds in the country. How often have these old rocks rung again,\n\"with blast of bugle free;\" and how frequently has the ground at its\nbase been soaked with human blood! The castle stands on a huge ledge of\nbasaltic rock, rising rapidly from the plain, and overlooking the\ncountry far and near, and backed by the rising ground on which the city\nis built. Ascending to the summit we pass round it, by a narrow pathway\ncut in the sides of the mountain, and thence enjoy the most extensive\nand delightful views. How charmingly the Links of the Forth, as the\nserpentine windings of the river are called, adorn the rich vale, in\nwhich they love to linger, as if loth to depart. To the north and east\nare the Ochil hills, \"vestured\" in blue, and looking down upon fertile\nfields, umbrageous woods, and stately mansions. On the west lies the\nvale of Menteith, and far off the Highland mountains, lost in the mist.\nOn another side are the pastoral hills of Campsie, and underneath our\neye the town of Stirling, the Abbey Craig, and the ruins of\nCambuskenneth Abbey. The Forth, with \"isles of emerald,\" and white sails\nskimming its glassy surface, expands into the German Ocean; and\nEdinburgh Castle, just descried amid the haze, crowns the distant\nlandscape. Stirling was a favorite residence of the Stuarts; but the\ncastle is now employed only as a barracks for soldiery.\n\nLeaving the castle we pass into the city, by High Street, adorned with\nseveral palaces of the old nobility, antique-looking edifices, of a\nsolid structure. Here was the palace of the Regent, Earl of Mar, whose\ndescendants were the keepers of Stirling Castle. Here too was the palace\nof Sir William Alexander, \"the philosophical poet\" of the court of James\nthe Sixth, and tutor to Charles the First, who created him Earl of\nStirling. But an object of still greater interest is the tower where\nGeorge Buchanan, the historian of Scotland, and one of the first\nscholars of his age, lived and wrote. He was tutor to James the Sixth of\nScotland, and First of England. He wrote a paraphrase of the Psalms in\nelegant Latin verse, of which he was a perfect master. Most of this work\nwas composed in a monastery in Portugal, to which he had been confined\nby the Inquisition about the year 1550. It was continued in France, and\nfinished in Scotland. His prose works, particularly his history of\nScotland, are characterized by clearness and research. His celebrated\ncontemporary, Dr. Arthur Johnston, was equally distinguished for the\nvariety of his attainments, and his perfect command of the Latin tongue;\nso that the one has been called the Scottish Virgil, and the other the\nScottish Ovid. The Latin version of the Psalms by Buchanan is still used\nin some of the Scottish schools. It is elegant and faithful, but\nsomewhat formal and paraphrastic.\n\nThere are many objects of interest in Stirling, and the scenery around\nis rich and beautiful, and, moreover, associated in every part, with\nrecollections of the olden time; but we cannot linger here. The\nstage-coach is waiting to take us to Falkirk, a town of great antiquity,\nhaving been the site of one of those military stations on the wall made\nby the Romans at their invasion of the country, known by the name of the\nForts of Agricola. It was also the scene of one or two famous battles in\nthe days of Wallace and Bruce. Being the principal town in the midst of\na rich agricultural country, it is now the scene of immense fairs or\n_trysts_, as they are called, to which large droves of Highland cattle\nare brought annually for sale, and where an immense amount of business\nis transacted. But there is nothing here of sufficient interest to\ndetain us; so we proceed in the rail-cars to Edinburgh. In passing, we\nget a glimpse of the castle and palace of Linlithgow; in the twefth\ncentury one of the most important burghs in Scotland, the residence of\nseveral of the kings of Scotland, and the birth-place of Queen Mary.\n\n    \"Of all the palaces so fair\n      Built for the royal dwelling\n    In Scotland, far beyond compare\n      Linlithgow is excelling.\n    And in its park, in genial June,\n    How sweet the merry linnet's tune,\n      How blythe the blackbird's lay,\n    The wild buck bells from thorny brake\n    The coot dives merry on the lake,\n    The saddest heart might pleasure take\n      To see a scene so gay.\"--_Marmion._\n\nWhen Robert Bruce was lying in Torwood Castle, not far from Falkirk, a\nman by the name of Binnoch, a farmer in the neighborhood, who supplied\nthe garrison at Linlithgow, then in possession of the English king,\nproposed to Bruce to take possession of the garrison by a stratagem,\nwhich he accomplished. This incident has been wrought into a lively form\nby Wilson, not Professor Wilson, but John Mackie Wilson, author of the\nBorder Tales, of whom I shall have something to say by and by. The\nfollowing is his account of the matter, somewhat condensed.\n\nHaving been introduced to Bruce at Torwood, Binnoch intimated that he\nhad something of great importance to communicate, and inquired whether\nhe might speak with confidence. Being assured that he might, he\nproceeded thus:\n\n\"Aweel sir, the business I cam' upon is just this. I supply the\ngarrison, ye see sir, o' Lithgow wi' hay; now I've observed that they're\na' wheen idle, careless fellows, mair ta'en up wi' their play than their\nduty.\"\n\nBruce's eye here kindled with a sudden fire, and his whole countenance\nbecame animated with an expression of fierce eagerness that strongly\ncontrasted with its former placidity. He was now all attention to the\ncommunication of his humble visitor.\n\n\"What! the castle of Linlithgow, friend!\" exclaimed Bruce, with a slight\nsmile of mingled surprise and incredulity. \"_You_ take the castle of\nLinlithgow! Pray, my good fellow, how would you propose to do that?\"\n\n\"Why sir, by a very simple process,\" replied Binnoch, undauntedly, \"I\nwad put a dizen or fifteen stout weel armed, resolute fellows, in my\ncart, cover them owre wi' hay, and introduce them into the garrison as a\nload o' provender. If they were ance in, an' the cheils were themselves\nof the richt stuff, I'll wad my head to a pease bannock that the\ncastle's ours in fifteen minutes.\"\n\n\"And would you undertake to do this, my good friend?\" said Bruce,\ngravely, struck with the idea, and impressed with its practicability.\n\n\"Readily, and wi' a richt guid will, sir,\" replied Binnoch, \"provided ye\nfin' me the men; but they maun be the very wale o' your flock; its no a\njob for faint hearts or nerveless arms.\"\n\n\"The men ye shall have, my brave fellow; and if ye succeed your country\nwill be indebted to you. But it is a perilous undertaking; there will be\nhard fighting, and ye may lose your head by it. Have you thought of\nthat?\"\n\n\"I have, sir,\" replied Binnoch, firmly. \"As to the fechtin', we are like\nto gie them as guid as we get. And for the hangin', the Scotsman is no\ndeservin' o' the name that's no ready to brave death, in any form, for\nhis country.\"\n\nBruce caught the enthusiasm of the speaker; a tear started into his eye,\nand seizing the hand of the humble patriot--\n\n\"My noble fellow,\" he said, \"would to God all Scotsmen were like thee.\nBeneath that homely plaid of thine there beats a heart of which any\nknight in Christendom might be proud. Lose or win, this shall not be\nforgotten.\"\n\nHaving made the necessary arrangements, and agreed upon a sign, for\ncommunicating with each other, Binnoch took his departure from the\ncastle of Torwood.\n\nThe next day the men selected by Bruce were at Binnoch's house, having\nbeen admitted through the preconcerted signal. They repaired to the\nbarn, and were snugly packed away in the hay cart, armed with steel caps\nand short swords. Everything being in readiness, Binnoch hid a sword\namongst the hay, for his own use, and in such a situation that he could\neasily seize it when wanted. He also provided himself with a poniard,\nwhich he concealed beneath his waistcoat. Thus prepared at all points,\nthe intrepid peasant set forward with his load of daring hearts, and\nhaving arrived at the castle, he and his cart were immediately admitted.\nThey proceeded onwards till they came to the centre of the court-yard,\nwhen Binnoch gave the preconcerted signal to his associates, which was\nconveyed in the words, spoken in a loud voice--\"Forward, Greystail,\nforward!\" as if addressing his horse, which he at the same time struck\nwith his whip to complete the deception.\n\nThese words were no sooner uttered than the hay, with which the daring\nadventurers were covered, was seen to move, and the next instant it was\nthrown over upon the pavement, to the inexpressible amazement of the\nidlers who were looking on; and, to their still greater surprise,\nfifteen armed men leapt, with fearful shouts, into the court-yard, when,\nbeing instantly headed by Binnoch, the work of death began. Every man\nwithin their reach at the moment was cut down. The guard-room was\nassailed, and all in it put to death, and passing from apartment to\napartment, they swept the garrison, and took possession of it. The\nattack had been so sudden, so unexpected, and so vigorous, that its\nunfortunate occupants, six times their number, had no time to rally or\ndefend themselves, and thus fell an easy prey to the bold adventurers.\n\nWe have only to add that Binnoch was rewarded by Bruce, for this\nimportant service, with some valuable lands in the parish of Linlithgow;\nand that his descendants had for their arms a _hay-wain_, with the\nmotto, _virtute doloque_.[160]\n\n[Footnote 160: The following is a different, and probably a more correct\nversion of Binnoch's adventure, from Sir W. Scott's Tales of a\nGrandfather. \"Binnoch had been ordered by the English governor to\nfurnish some cart-loads of hay, of which they were in want. He promised\nto bring it accordingly; but the night before he drove the hay to the\ncastle, he stationed a party of his friends, as well armed as possible,\nnear the entrance, where they could not be seen by the garrison, and\ngave them directions that they should come to his assistance as soon as\nthey should hear him cry a signal, which was to be, 'Call all, call\nall!' Then he loaded a great waggon with hay. But in the waggon he\nplaced eight strong men, well armed, lying flat on their breasts, and\ncovered over with hay, so that they could not be seen. He himself walked\ncarelessly beside the waggon; and he chose the stoutest and bravest of\nhis servants to be the driver, who carried at his belt a strong axe or\nhatchet. In this way Binnoch approached the castle, early in the\nmorning; and the watchmen, who only saw two men, Binnoch being one of\nthem, with a cart of hay, which they expected, opened the gates, and\nraised up the portcullis, to permit them to enter the castle. But as\nsoon as the cart had gotten under the gateway, Binnoch made a sign to\nhis servant, who, with his axe, suddenly cut asunder the _soam_, that\nis, the yoke which fastens the horses to the cart, and the horses\nfinding themselves free, naturally started forward, the cart remaining\nbehind under the arch of the gate. At the same time Binnoch cried, as\nloud as he could, 'Call all, call all!' and drawing his sword, which he\nhad under his country habit, he killed the porter. The armed men then\njumped up from under the hay where they lay concealed, and rushed on the\nEnglish guard. The Englishmen tried to shut the gates, but they could\nnot, because the cart of hay remained in the gateway, and prevented the\nfolding doors from being closed. The portcullis was also let fall, but\nthe grating was caught in the cart, and so could not drop to the ground.\nThe men who were in ambush near the gate hearing the cry, 'Call all,\ncall all!' ran to assist those who had leaped out from among the hay;\nthe castle was taken, and all the Englishmen killed or made prisoners.\nKing Robert rewarded Binnoch by bestowing on him an estate, which his\nposterity long afterward enjoyed. The Binnings of Wallyford, descended\nfrom that person, still bear in their coat armorial a wain loaded with\nhay, with the motto, 'virtute doloque.'\"]\n\nBy the way, these two words, _courage_ and _stratagem_, express the very\nspirit and essence of ancient war, and indeed of all war, a relic of\nbarbarism, the most foul and horrible the world has ever seen.\nDefensible, perhaps, in cases of extremity, when it is the last and only\nmeans of protecting our homes and altars, but in all other cases a\nfearful atrocity, fit only for cannibals and demons!\n\nBut yonder are the peaceful towers of Edinburgh, bathed in the sombre\nlight of evening. The very castle looks like an image of repose, as it\nsilently looms up amid the smoke and hum of the busy city. Signs of\npeace and prosperity are every where around us, indicating, if we have\nnot yet reached, that at least we are approaching that happy time when\n\"men shall beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into\npruning hooks.\"\n\n    \"O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,\n    Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,\n    Though but in distant prospect, and not feel\n    His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n     Journey to Peebles--Characters--Conversation on Politics--Scottish\n     Peasantry--Peebles--\"Christ's Kirk on the Green\"--A Legend--An old\n     Church--The Banks of the Tweed--Its ancient Castles--The Alarm\n     Fire--Excursion to the Vales of Ettrick and Yarrow--Stream of\n     Yarrow--St. Mary's Lake and Dryhope Tower--\"The Dowie Dens of\n     Yarrow\"--Growth of Poetry--Ballads and Poems on Yarrow by Hamilton,\n     Logan and Wordsworth.\n\n\nOn a cold, drizzly morning we start, in a substantial stage-coach, well\nlined with cushions inside, for the ancient town of Peebles, which lies\nto the south of Edinburgh, some twenty-five miles or more. The\n'outsides' are wrapped in cloaks and overcoats, and literally covered in\nwith umbrellas; and from their earnest talking seem to be tolerably\ncomfortable. The \"Scottish mist,\" cold and penetrating, would soon reach\nthe skin of an unsheltered back; all hands, therefore, and especially\nthe driver in front, and the guard behind, are muffled to the neck with\ncravats and other appliances. Eyes and mouth only are visible, not\nindeed to the passers by, but to the denizens of the stage-coach, who\ncling together for warmth and sociability. Our travelling companions\ninside are a Dominie from Auchingray, fat as a capon, with face round,\nsleek and shiny, little gray eyes glancing beneath a placid forehead,\nand indicating intelligence and good nature; and a south-country laird,\na large, brawny man, with a huge face and huger hat, corduroy breeches\nand top boots, a coat that nearly covers the whole of his body, and a\nvest of corresponding dimensions. A mighty cravat is tied neatly around\nhis capacious throat, and a couple of large gold seals dangle from\nbeneath his vest. In addition to these two, a little man, thin and\nwrinkled, but with a clear, quick, restless eye, is sitting in the\ncorner, squeezed into a rather straight place by the laird and the\ndominie. From his appearance and conversation, we should take him to be\na lawyer. With some little difficulty we get into conversation, but once\nset agoing, it jogs on at a pretty fair pace. Insensibly it glides into\npolitics, and becomes rather lively. The lawyer is evidently a whig, the\nlaird a tory of the old stamp, and the dominie neither the one nor the\nother, but rather more of a tory than anything else, as he is dependent,\nin some sense, upon 'the powers that be.'\n\n\"For my part,\" says the laird, taking hold of his watch-seals, and\ntwirling them energetically, \"I do not believe in your two-faced\nradicals, who have more impudence in their noddles than money in their\npockets, and who go routing about the country, crying up democracy and\nall that sort of stuff, to the great injury of her majesty's subjects.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sir,\" replies the lawyer, \"you forget that money is not\nthe _summum bonum_ of human life, and that the gentlemen to whom you\nrefer are not impudent radicals, but clear-headed and patriotic whigs.\"\n\n\"All gammon, sir! all gammon!\" is the rejoinder of the laird, \"I\nwouldn't give a fig for the whole pack. One or two of them, I admit, are\ntolerably respectable men. Lord John Russel belongs to the old nobility,\nand is a man of some sense, but sadly deceived, full of nonsensical\nplans and dangerous reforms. As to Dan. O'Connel, he is an old fox, a\nregular Irish blackguard, who has not heart enough to make a living by\nhonest means, but fleeces it out of the starving Irish, in the shape of\nrepeal rent! Hang the rascal, I should be glad to see him gibbeted! Hume\nis a mean, beggarly adventurer. And even Sir Robert Peel, with all his\nexcellences, has made sad mistakes on the subject of reform and the corn\nlaws. He's not the thing, after all! Sadly out of joint, sir, sadly out\nof joint!\"\n\nAll this is said with such terrible energy, and such a menacing frown,\nthat even the lawyer cowers a little, and the dominie is almost\nfrightened. We think it best, upon the whole, to say little. But,\nplucking up courage, the lawyer replies:\n\n\"Sir, you come to conclusions that are too sweeping. That Lord John\nRussel is a man of clear intellect and admirable forethought no one will\nthink of denying. His plans are well matured, and, moreover, aim at the\ngood of his country. Hume is a great political economist: Sir R. Peel is\na man of the highest order of mind; and Daniel O'Connel, with all his\nfaults, possesses uncommon powers of eloquence, and, doubtless, seeks\nthe good of his country.\"\n\n\"The good of his country! All humbug, sir! If you had said his own good,\nyou would have come nearer the mark. He's a rascal, sir, rely on it, a\nmean cowardly rascal, who, pretending to benefit the poor Irish, fills\nhis own pockets with their hard earnings. I appeal to Mr. Cooper here,\nmy respected friend, the parish schoolmaster of Auchingray.\"\n\nTo which the dominie replies demurely:\n\n\"As to my opinion, gentlemen, it is not of much consequence, but such as\nit is I give with all candor. In the first place I opine that we are\nliable somewhat to yield to our prejudices in estimating the characters\nof public men; for, as my old friend, the Rev. Mr. Twist, used to say,\nthey have 'twa maisters to serve, the government and the public, and\nit's unco difficult sometimes to sail between Scylla and Charybdis.'\nMoreover, these are trying times, and much of primitive integrity and\npatriotism are lost. For myself, I do not approve altogether of the\ncourse of the whigs, and especially of the radicals. Daniel O'Connel is\na devoted Catholic, with no generous aspirations, or enlarged\nconceptions of the public weal. A great man, certainly, a wonderful\norator, no doubt, but much tinctured with selfishness, and carried away\nby wild and prurient schemes. Lord John Russel is a man of decided\ntalent and fine character, but I have not much confidence, after all, in\nhis practical wisdom, and good common sense. Sir Robert Peel, however\nis, with some slight exceptions, a model statesman, a man of a\nwonderfully clear, well balanced mind, and a deep insight into men and\nthings. Still, as my friend on the left says, he's somewhat out of joint\njust now, and, for my own part, I could never altogether approve his\nschemes.\"\n\n\"There sir,\" quickly interposed the laird, \"There sir! didn't I tell\nyou, sir? All humbug, sir! Nothing safe--nothing useful about the whigs!\nGive me the good old days of my grandfather, when the rascals dared not\npeep or mutter!\"\n\n\"But you forget, sir,\" is the answer of the lawyer, \"that your friend,\nthe schoolmaster here, has admitted nearly all for which I contend.\"\n\n\"Admitted nothing, sir! Comes to nothing, sir! And to tell you the plain\nhonest truth, I believe the whole pack of them are a set of humbugs! All\nsham, sir! nothing but hypocrisy and humbug!\"\n\n\"But a modification of the corn laws is certainly desirable for the sake\nof the poorer classes, many of whom are living upon the merest\ntrifle:\"--we venture to remark.\n\n\"All a mistake, sir! all a mistake! An honest, sensible man can always\nmake his way, and secure bread for his family!\"\n\n\"Well, but surely you consider a shilling or eighteen pence a day rather\nmiserable support!\"\n\n\"Not at all, sir! not at all! They're used to it, and thousands of them\nare happier than you or I!\"\n\n\"Upon this point we beg leave to doubt, and hope the time is not far\ndistant when the common people will have cheap bread:\"--we quietly\nrejoin.\n\n\"Amen!\" responds the dominie. \"That I am confident would be an\nimprovement; but how it is to be brought about is a question of great\ndifficulty. The common people of Scotland are not so poorly off as\nforeigners represent them. Their habits are primitive and simple, and I\ncertainly have known many families, particularly in the country, make\nthemselves very comfortable on eighteen pence or a couple of shillings a\nday.\"\n\n\"Give us an example, if you please!\"\n\n\"Why, there is James Thomson, a working man, who makes, upon an average,\nsay eighteen pence or a couple of shillings sterling (fifty cents)\ndaily, through the year. He has a wife and four children. He built\nhimself a kind of stone and turf cottage on the edge of one of Lord B.'s\nplantations, with a but and a ben,[161] and a little out-house. One day\nI called in to see him about one of his children, and, in the course of\nconversation, asked him how he got along.\"\n\n[Footnote 161: Two apartments.]\n\n\"Brawly;\"[162] was the reply.\n\n[Footnote 162: Finely.]\n\n\"Can you make 'the twa ends meet' at the close of the year?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, \"and something mair than that. Last Candlemas I laid up\nnae less than ten and saxpence.\"\n\n\"But how can you do it. Have you any land to cultivate?\"\n\n\"A wee bittock,\" was the answer, \"but it's graund for taties and\nturnips.\"\n\n\"Have you a cow?\"\n\n\"O aye, we have a coo, and a gude coo she is.\"\n\n\"Well, what have you for victuals?\"\n\n\"The best o' parritch and milk in the morning, and at nicht. And as for\ndenner, we ha' nae great variety, but what's wholesome eneuch. And ye\nken, Dominie C., that hunger's the best sauce.\"\n\n\"True enough, but excuse me, I should like to know what you generally\nhave for dinner.\"\n\n\"Ou,\" said he, laughing, \"the graundest kail i' the world, made o'\nbarley, butter and vegetables, wi' a bit o' beef, or a marrow bane in't\nonce in a while, and mealy tatties, scones and cakes, the very best in\nthe kintra!\"\n\n\"Well, you're content!\"\n\n\"To be sure we are! and gratefu', besides, to the Giver o' a' gude.\"\n\n\"But you have a little pinch occasionally--in the cold and stormy winter\nweather?\"\n\n\"Why ye-s--but it's nae mair than a body may expeck, and it's a great\ndeal less than we deserve. For mysel' I ha' nae great reason to\ncomplain, but Sandy Wilson, ower the way, has had a sair time on't.\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Why, ye see, Sandy is no very able-bodied, and maybe a little\nshiftless, and he fell sick about the middle o' winter. His wife is a\nproud kind o' body, and she said naething to the neebors, and I jalouse\nthey had a sair pinching time on't. The wee bit lassie seemed to be\ndwining awa', and Sandy, puir fellow, was just at death's door. But the\nminister o' the parish found it out, and Sandy was soon provided for.\nHech sir! we ought to be thankfu' that we hae our health. It's a great\nblessing. For if a man only has health and a clear conscience he needna\nfear famine or the deevil.\"\n\n\"Sandy then got over his troubles, did he?\"\n\n\"In a measure,\" was the cautious reply, \"but the puir wee lassie grew\npaler and paler; and noo her bonny brown hair is covered wi' the yird.\nShe was a sweet bit lassie, but she was frail in the constitootion, ye\nsee, and the hard famishing winter was ower muckle for her feeble frame.\nBut she was weel cared for on her sick bed. And when she died, the hail\nkintra side turned out to attend the funeral, and mony tears were shed\nupon her wee bit grave. My Mary, who gaed to school wi' her, canna get\nower it to this day. She was an unco bonny thing--sweet as the mornin'\nwat wi' dew, and gentle as a pet lamb. But her grave is green by this\ntime, and Sandy is better off than he used to be.\"\n\nThe burly laird listened attentively to this narrative, and at the close\nof it, a tear dimmed his eye. He gave a slight cough, as if to repress\nand to hide his rising emotion, and looking out the coach window,\nexclaimed, \"There's Peebles, at last, and yonder's the sign of the Black\nBull,\" as if he were prodigiously relieved.\n\nThe day is brightening, and this ancient city on the Tweed, looks quite\nagreeable, reminding us of the days of old, when the kings and nobles of\nScotland used to witness, on its beautiful green, games of archery,\ngolf, and so forth. It is supposed to be the scene referred to in the\nopening stanza of \"Christ's Kirk on the Green,\" by James the First, the\nroyal poet of Scotland.\n\n    \"Was never in Scotland hard nor sene,\n      Sic dansing nor deray,\n    Nouther at Falkland on the green,\n      Nor Pebllis in the play;\n    As wes of wowarris as I wene,\n      At Christ's Kirk on ane day;\n    Thair came our kittles washen clene,\n      In thair new kirtillis of gray\n                      Full gay,\n    At Christ's Kirk o' the Grene that day.\"\n\nThis old town was burnt and laid waste more than once during the\ninvasions of the English. Still, from its sequestered situation, it\nnever figured largely in any great event. An antique bridge, consisting\nof five arches, connects the old and new towns, which lie on either bank\nof the river. Rambling through the place, we come to a large massive\nbuilding, in a castellated form, known to have belonged to the\nQueensberry family, and believed to be the scene of a romantic incident,\nthus related by Sir Walter Scott:--\"There is a tradition in Tweedale,\nthat when Nidpath castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of\nMarch, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble\nfamily and the son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest. As the\nalliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went\nabroad. During his absence, the young lady fell into a consumption, and\nat length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented\nthat her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to\npass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though\nmuch exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house\nin Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him when he rode\npast. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs that she\nis said to have distinguished his horses' footsteps at an incredible\ndistance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance,\nand not expecting to see her in that place, rode on, without recognizing\nher, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the\nshock, and after a short struggle died in the arms of her attendants.\"\n\nHere are the ruins of some very old churches, one in particular, at the\nwestern extremity of the old town. This was the original parish church\nof Peebles, and was built upon the site of one still more ancient,\noccupied by the Culdees, (probably from Cultores Dei, worshipers of\nGod,) an ancient class of monks, whose forms of worship and doctrinal\nbelief were extremely simple, and, as some suppose, evangelical. They\nhad monasteries at Jona, and in various parts of Scotland, before the\nAnglo-Saxon period, and preserved for many years, the pure worship of\nGod. An altar in St. Andrew's church, was dedicated to St. Michael, with\na special endowment for the services of \"a chapellane, there perpetually\nto say mes, efter the valow of the rents and possessions gevin thereto,\nin honor of Almighty God, Mary his Modyr, and Saint Michael, for the\nhele of the body and the sawl of Jamys, King of Scotts, for the\nbalyheis, ye burges, and ye communite of the burgh of Peebles, and for\nthe hele of their awn sawlis, thair fadyris sawlis, thair modyris\nsawlis, thair kinnis sawlis, and al Chrystyn sawlis.\" Part of the tithes\nof this church are now used to support a Grammar school, and while the\npeople still worship Almighty God, they have but little reverence for\n\"Mary his modyr, and St. Michael.\"\n\nLet us wander along the banks of this far-famed and beautiful river,\ngliding sweetly through one of the most beautiful vales in Scotland, and\nonce adorned with numerous castles and monasteries, whose mouldering\nremains yet diversify the landscape. The whole vale of the Tweed, both\nabove and below Peebles, was studded with a chain of castles, built in\nthe shape of square towers, and ordinarily consisting of three stories,\nto serve as a defence against the invasion of the English freebooters.\nThey were built alternately on each side of the river, and at such\ndistances that one could be seen from the other. A fire kindled on the\ntop of one of these, to give warning of a hostile incursion, could thus\nbe perpetuated through the whole, till a tract of country seventy miles\nlong, \"from Berwick to the Bield,\" and fifty broad, was alarmed in a few\nhours. What objects of terror and sublimity these blazing summits,\nlighting, in a dark night, the whole valley of the Tweed, and flashing\ntheir ruddy gleam upon copsewood and river, hill-top and castle turret!\n\n                  \"A score of fires, I ween,\n    From height, and hill, and cliff were seen,\n    Each with warlike tidings fraught,\n    Each from each the signal caught;\n    Each after each they glanced in sight,\n    As stars arise upon the night:\n    They gleamed on many a dusky tarn\n    Haunted by the lonely earn,[163]\n    On many a cairn's grey pyramid,\n    Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid.\"\n\n    _Lay of the Last Minstrel._\n\n[Footnote 163: The Scottish eagle.]\n\nBut the grey mist of evening is beginning to settle upon the vale of the\nTweed, and the quaint old town of Peebles, \"with its three old bridges,\nand three old steeples, by three old churches borne.\"\n\nWith fair weather, and in admirable spirits, we set off next morning,\nafter breakfast, and travel at an easy pace down the fair banks of the\n\"silver Tweed,\" till we reach the pretty village of Innerleithen, at the\nbottom of a sequestered dell, encircled on one side by high and\npartially wooded hills, and enlivened by the clear waters of the Tweed,\nrolling in front. Passing a handsome wooden bridge which crosses the\nriver, we reach the hamlet of Traquair and Traquair house, and naturally\nenquire for the far-famed \"Bush aboon Traquair.\" It is pointed out at\nthe bottom of the hill which overlooks the lawn, where a few birch trees\nmay be seen, the only remains of that dear old spot, made sacred by\nmelody and song. Continuing our journey across the country, we get among\nthe hills, and after travelling some time through a deep glen, we see\nbefore us the \"haunted stream of Yarrow,\" the very name of which has\nbecome a synonym for all that is tender in sentiment and beautiful in\npoetry.\n\n    \"And is this Yarrow? This the stream,\n      Of which my fancy cherished\n    So faithfully a waking dream,\n      An image that hath perished?\"\n\nFollowing in somewhat pensive mood, \"its beautiful meanderings\" through\nthis hill-guarded valley, we come to St. Mary's Lake, lying in solemn\nbut beautiful serenity among the mountains, whose heathy sides and bare\ncliffs are mirrored in her pellucid depths.\n\n                      \"Nor fen nor sedge\n    Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge;\n    Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink\n    At once upon the level brink;\n    And just a trace of silver sand\n    Marks where the water meets the land.\n    Far, in the mirror bright and blue,\n    Each hill's huge outline you may view;\n    Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare,\n    Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there,\n    Save where of land, yon slender line\n    Bears thwart the lake the scattered pine.\n    Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy,\n    Where living thing concealed might lie;\n    Nor point retiring hides a dell\n    Where swain or woodman lone might dwell;\n    There's nothing left to fancy's guess,\n    You see that all is loneliness;\n    And silence adds,--though the steep hills\n    Send to the lake a thousand rills,\n    In summer tide so soft they weep,\n    The sound but lulls the ear asleep;\n    Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,\n    So stilly is the solitude.\"\n\n    _Marmion._\n\nPassing to the eastern extremity of the Lake, we come to Dryhope Tower,\nthe birth-place of Mary Scott, the famous \"Flower of Yarrow.\" Her lover,\nor husband, was slain by Scott of Tushielaw, from jealousy, or from a\ndesire to secure her fortune, her father having promised to endow her\nwith half his property. Seized by the imagination of the ancient\nMinnesingers, this incident became the subject of a ballad, or ballads\nof great beauty and pathos, well known through Scotland, and frequently\nsung \"amang her green braes.\" This has invested Yarrow with a deep\npoetical charm, and given rise to a great variety of sweet and pathetic\nstrains, affording a fine exemplification of the manner in which poetry\ngrows, as by a natural law of progress. A single incident gathers around\nitself all beautiful images, all tender thoughts, feelings and passions,\ntill the region in which it occurred becomes instinct with fantasy, and\nabsolutely glows with a sort of conscious beauty. The very air is\nburdened with a melancholy charm. The stream meandering through the\nvale, and the winds whispering through the mountain glens or rippling\nthe surface of St. Mary's lake, \"murmur a music not their own.\" In a\nword, we have come from the real, everyday world, into one that is\nideal, where, in the deep stillness of nature, the voices of the past\nreveal themselves to the listening soul. In this view we know not a more\ninteresting or instructive series of poems than those relating to\nYarrow. The first is the ballad of the \"Dowie Dens,\" or rather, \"Downs\nof Yarrow.\" This is variously printed, but we give the version of\nMotherwell.\n\n    There were three lords birling at the wine,\n      On the Dowie Dens of Yarrow;\n    They made a compact them between,\n      They would go fecht to-morrow.\n\n    \"Thou took our sister to be thy wife,\n      And thou ne'er thocht her thy marrow,\n    Thou stealed her frae her daddy's back,\n      When she was the Rose of Yarrow.\"\n\n    \"Yes, I took your sister to be my wife,\n      And I made her my marrow;\n    I stealed her frae her daddy's back,\n      And she's still the Rose of Yarrow.\"\n\n    He is hame to his lady gane,\n      As he had done before, O;\n    Says, \"Madam I must go and fecht,\n      On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow.\"\n\n    \"Stay at hame, my Lord,\" she said,\n      \"For that will breed much sorrow;\n    For my three brethren will slay thee,\n      On the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow.\"\n\n    \"Hold your tongue, my lady fair;\n      For what needs a' this sorrow?\n    For I'll be hame gin' the clock strikes nine,\n      From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow.\"\n\n    He wush his face, and she combed his hair,\n      As she had done before, O;\n    She dressed him up in his armour clear,\n      Sent him forth to fecht on Yarrow.\n\n    \"Come ye here to hawk or hound,\n      Or drink the wine that's sae clear, O;\n    Or come ye here to eat in your words,\n      That you're not the Rose o' Yarrow?\"\n\n    \"I came not here to hawk or hound,\n      Nor to drink the wine that's sae clear, O;\n    Nor came I here to eat in my words,\n      For I'm still the Rose o' Yarrow.\"\n\n    Then they all begud to fecht,\n      I wad they focht richt sore, O;\n    Till a cowardly man cam' behind his back,\n      And pierced his body thorough.\n\n    \"Gae hame, gae hame, its my man John,\n      As ye have done before, O:\n    An tell it to my gaye ladye\n      That I soundly sleep on Yarrow.\"\n\n    His man John he has gane hame,\n      As he had done before, O;\n    And told it to his gay ladye.\n      That he soundly slept on Yarrow.\n\n    \"I dreamed a dream, now since the 'streen,[164]\n      God keep us a' frae sorrow!\n    That my lord and I was pu'ing the heather green,\n      From the Dowie Downs o' Yarrow.\"\n\n    Sometimes she rode, sometimes she gade,[165]\n      As she had done before, O;\n    And aye between she fell in a swoon,\n      Lang or she cam' to Yarrow.\n\n    Her hair it was five quarters lang,\n      'Twas like the gold for yellow;\n    She twisted it round his milk white hand,\n      And she's drawn him hame frae Yarrow.\n\n    Out and spak her father dear,\n      Says, \"What needs a' this sorrow?\n    For I'll get you a far better lord\n      Than ever died on Yarrow.\"\n\n    \"O hold your tongue, father,\" she said,\n      \"For you've bred a' my sorrow;\n    For that rose'll ne'er spring so sweet in May,\n      As that Rose I lost on Yarrow!\"\n\n[Footnote 164: Yesternight.]\n\n[Footnote 165: Walked.]\n\nMore than a century ago, William Hamilton, of Bangor, a gentleman of\nrank, education, and poetical talents, wrote the following exquisite\nballad:[166]\n\n[Footnote 166: We quote only a portion of Hamilton's ballad.]\n\n               THE BRAES OF YARROW.\n\n    Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,\n      Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!\n    Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,\n      And think nae mair o' the Braes o' Yarrow.\n\n    Whare gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?\n      Whare gat ye that winsome marrow?\n    I gat her where I darena weil be seen\n      Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.\n\n    Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride,\n      Weep not, my winsome marrow!\n    Nor let thy heart lament to leave\n      Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.\n\n    Lang maun she weep, lang maun she weep,\n      Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,\n    And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen,\n      Pouing the birks on the Braes o' Yarrow.\n\n    Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?\n      Why on thy braes heard the voice o' sorrow?\n    And why yon melancholious weeds,\n      Hung on the bonny birks o' Yarrow?\n\n    What's yonder floats on the rueful flude?\n      What's yonder floats, O dule and sorrow!\n    'Tis he, the comely swain I slew,\n      Upon the duleful braes o' Yarrow.\n\n    Wash, O wash his wounds in tears,\n      His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,\n    And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,\n      And lay him on the Braes o' Yarrow.\n\n    Sweet smells the birk, green grows the grass,\n      Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan,\n    Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,\n      Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.\n\n    Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,\n      As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,\n    As sweet smells on its braes the birk,\n      The apple frae the rock as mellow.\n\n    Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride,\n      Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,\n    Busk ye and lue me on the banks o' Tweed,\n      And think nae mair on the Braes o' Yarrow.\n\n    How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride,\n      How can I busk a winsome marrow,\n    How lue him on the banks o' Tweed\n      That slew my love on the braes o' Yarrow?\n\n    O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain,\n      Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,\n    For there was basely slain my love,\n      My love, as he had not been a lover.\n\n    The boy put on his robes o' green,\n      His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing\n    Ah! wretched me! I little kenned\n      He was in these to meet his ruin.\n\n    The boy took out his milk-white steed,\n      Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,\n    But ere the to-fall of the night\n      He lay a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.\n\n    Much I rejoiced that waeful day;\n      I sang, my voice the woods returning,\n    But lang ere night the spear was flown,\n      That slew my love, and left me mourning.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Yes, yes, prepare the bed of love,\n      With bridal sheets my body cover,\n    Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,\n      Let in the expected husband lover\n\n    But who the expected husband is?\n      His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.\n    Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,\n      Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?\n\n    Pale as he is, here lay him down,\n      O lay his cold head on my pillow;\n    Take off, take off these bridal weeds,\n      And crown my careful head with willow.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Return, return, O mournful bride,\n      Return and dry thy useless sorrow;\n    Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs,\n      He lies a corpse on the Braes o' Yarrow.\n\nSomewhat more than half a century later, Logan wrote a song with the\nsame title, of which the following are the concluding stanzas.\n\n    \"Sweet were his words when last we met;\n      My passion I as freely told him;\n    Clasped in his arms I little thought\n      That I should never more behold him!\n    Scarce was I gone, I saw his ghost;\n      It vanished with a shriek of sorrow;\n    Thrice did the water wraith ascend\n      And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.\n\n    \"His mother from the window look'd\n      With all the longing of a mother;\n    His little sister weeping walk'd\n      The green wood path to meet her brother.\n    They sought him East, they sought him West,\n      They sought him all the forest thorough;\n    They only saw the cloud of night,\n      They only heard the roar of Yarrow!\n\n    \"No longer from thy window look,\n      Thou hast no son, O tender mother!\n    No longer walk, thou lovely maid!\n      Alas! thou hast no more a brother!\n    No longer seek him East or West,\n      And search no more the forest thoro';\n    For wandering in the night so dark,\n      He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.\n\n    \"The tear shall never leave my cheek,\n      No other youth shall be my marrow;\n    I'll seek thy body in the stream,\n      And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.\"\n    The tear did never leave her cheek,\n      No other youth became her marrow;\n    She found his body in the stream,\n      And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.\n\nWe are now prepared to read Wordsworths' two exquisite poems, \"Yarrow\nUnvisited,\" and \"Yarrow Visited,\" the splendid flowering, so to speak,\nof this poetical growth.\n\n    From Stirling Castle we had seen\n      The mazy Forth unravelled;\n    Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,\n      And with the Tweed had travelled;\n    And when we came to Clovenford,\n      Then said 'my _winsome Marrow_,'\n    \"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,\n      And see the braes o' Yarrow.\"\n\n    \"Let Yarrow folk _frae_ Selkirk Town,\n      Who have been buying, selling,\n    Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;\n      Each maiden to her dwelling!\n    On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,\n      Hares couch and rabbits burrow!\n    But we will downward with the Tweed,\n      Nor turn aside to Yarrow.\n\n    \"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,\n      Both lying right before us;\n    And Dryborough where with chiming Tweed\n      The Lintwhites sing in chorus;\n    There's pleasant Tivoitdale, a land\n      Made blithe with plough and harrow,\n    Why throw away a needful day\n      To go in search of Yarrow?\n\n    \"What's Yarrow but a river bare,\n      That glides the dark hills under?\n    There are a thousand such elsewhere\n      As worthy of your wonder.\"\n    --Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;\n      My true love sigh'd for sorrow;\n    And looked me in the face to think\n      I thus could speak of Yarrow!\n\n    \"Oh green, said I, are Yarrow Holms\n      And sweet is 'Yarrow flowing!'\n    Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,\n      But we will leave it growing.\n    O'er hilly path and open Strath,\n      We'll wander Scotland thorough;\n    But though so near we will not turn\n      Into the Dale of Yarrow.\n\n    \"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake\n      The sweets of Burnmill meadow;\n    The swan, on still St. Mary's Lake,\n      Float double, swan and shadow!\n    We will not see them; will not go,\n      To-day, nor yet to-morrow;\n    Enough if in our hearts we know\n      There's such a place as Yarrow.\n\n    \"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!\n      It must, or we shall rue it;\n    We have a vision of our own;\n      Ah! why should we undo it?\n    The treasured dreams of times long past,\n      We'll keep them 'winsome Marrow!'\n    For when we're there, although tis fair,\n      'Twill be another Yarrow!\n\n    \"If care with freezing years should come,\n      And wandering seem but folly,--\n    Should we be loth to stir from home,\n      And yet be melancholy;\n    Should life be dull, and spirits low,\n      'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,\n    That earth has something yet to show,\n      The bonny Holms of Yarrow.\"\n\nThis is beautiful, but the following is more so. Indeed it is the very\nperfection of descriptive poetry.\n\n               YARROW VISITED.\n\n    And is this--Yarrow?--This the stream\n      Of which my fancy cherished\n    So faithfully a waking dream?\n      An image that has perished!\n    O that some minstrel's harp were near,\n      To utter notes of gladness,\n    And chase this silence from the air,\n      That fills my heart with sadness!\n\n    Yet why?--a silvery current flows\n      With uncontrolled meanderings;\n    Nor have these eyes by greener hills\n      Been soothed in all my wanderings.\n    And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake\n      Is visibly delighted;\n    For not a feature of those hills\n      Is in the mirror slighted.\n\n    A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,\n      Save where that pearly whiteness\n    Is round the rising sun diffused,\n      A tender hazy brightness;\n    Mild dawn of promise! that excludes\n      All profitless dejection;\n    Though not unwilling here to admit\n      A pensive recollection.\n\n    Where was it that the famous Flower\n      Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?\n    His bed perchance was yon smooth mound\n      On which the herd is feeding:\n    And haply from this crystal pool,\n      Now peaceful as the morning,\n    The Water Wraith ascended thrice,\n      And gave his doleful warning.\n\n    Delicious is the lay that sings\n      The haunts of happy lovers,\n    The path that leads them to the grove,\n      The leafy grove that covers;\n    And Pity sanctifies the verse\n      That points, by strength of sorrow,\n    The unconquerable strength of love;\n      Bear witness rueful Yarrow!\n\n    But thou, that didst appear so fair\n      To fond imagination,\n    Dost rival in the light of day\n      Her delicate creation:\n    Meek loveliness is round thee spread,\n      A softness still and holy;\n    The grace of forest charms decayed\n      And pastoral melancholy.\n\n    That region left, the Vale unfolds\n      Rich groves of lofty stature,\n    With Yarrow winding through the pomp\n      Of cultivated nature;\n    And rising from those lofty groves,\n      Behold a ruin hoary!\n    The shattered front of Newark's towers\n      Renowned in Border story.\n\n    Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,\n      For sportive youth to stray in,\n    For manhood to enjoy his strength;\n      And age to wear away in!\n    Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,\n      A covert for protection\n    Of tender thoughts that nestle there,\n      The brood of chaste affection.\n\n    How sweet on this autumnal day,\n      The wild wood fruits to gather,\n    And on my True-love's forehead plant\n      A crest of blooming heather!\n    And what if I enwreathed my own!\n      'Twere no offence to reason;\n    The sober hills thus deck their brows\n      To meet the wintry season.\n\n    I see, but not by sight alone,\n      Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;\n    A ray of Fancy still survives--\n      Her sunshine plays upon thee!\n    Thy ever youthful waters keep\n      A course of lively pleasure;\n    And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,\n      Accordant to the measure.\n\n    The vapors linger round the Heights,\n      They melt,--and soon must vanish;\n    One hour is their's, nor more is mine--\n      Sad thought, which I would banish,\n    But that I know, where'er I go,\n      Thy genuine image, Yarrow!\n    Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,\n      And cheer my mind in sorrow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n     Hamlet and Church-yard of Ettrick--Monument to Thomas\n     Boston--Birth-place of the Ettrick Shepherd--Altrieve\n     Cottage--Biographical Sketch of the Ettrick Shepherd--The Town of\n     Selkirk--Monument to Sir Walter Scott--Battle-field of Philiphaugh.\n\n\nProceeding westward from St. Mary's Lake about half a mile, we come to\nthe hill of Merecleughhead, where King James the Fifth entered the\ndistrict to inflict summary vengeance upon the outlaws who frequented\nthe Ettrick Forest in the days of old, a circumstance which gave rise to\nmany of the old Scottish ballads. At the centre of the parish lie the\nhamlet and church-yard of Ettrick, on the stream of that name. Entering\nthe burying-ground we behold the recently erected tomb of Thomas Boston,\nauthor of the well known work called \"The Fourfold State,\" one of the\nbest and holiest men that ever \"hallowed\" the \"bushy dells\" of Ettrick.\nWith apostolic fervor did he preach the Gospel among these hills and\nvales, and his work, for more than three generations, has instructed the\nScottish peasantry in the high doctrines of the Christian faith. His\nmemory will ever be fragrant among the churches of Scotland. Not far\nfrom the burying-ground a house is pointed out in which the celebrated\n\"Ettrick Shepherd\" was born. Passing to the east end of the lake we see\nbefore us Altrieve Cottage, \"bosomed low mid tufted trees,\" and nearly\nencircled by the \"sweet burnie,\" in whose limpid waters the green\nfoliage is mirrored. Here the poet lived, in the latter period of his\nlife, and here also he died. The scenes around, moor, mountain and glen,\nlake, river and ruin, are hallowed by the genius of the \"shepherd bard,\"\nwho, to quote his own words,\n\n    \"Found in youth a harp among the hills,\n    Dropt by the Elfin people; and whilst the moon\n    Entranced, hung o'er still Saint Mary's loch,\n    Harped by that charmed water, so that the swan\n    Came floating onwards through the water blue,--\n    A dream-like creature, listening to a dream;\n    And the queen of the fairies rising silently\n    Through the pure mist, stood at the shepherd's feet,\n    And half forgot her own green paradise,\n    Far in the bosom of the hill--so wild!\n    So sweet! so sad! flowed forth that shepherd's lay.\"\n\nJames Hogg, born in 1772, was descended from a family of shepherds, and\nspent his boyhood and youth herding his flocks among the hills. Far from\nthe bustle of the world, in the deep solitudes of nature, his young and\nvigorous imagination became familiar with all wild and beautiful sights,\nall sweet and solemn sounds. Alone with nature during the day, he spent\nhis evening hours in listening to ancient ballads and legends, of which\nhis mother was a great reciter. This fed his imagination, and supplied\nit with an infinite variety of strange and beautiful imagery. To this\nfact he has himself thus strikingly referred.\n\n    \"O list the mystic lore sublime,\n    Of fairy tales of ancient time!\n    I learned them in the lonely glen,\n    The last abodes of living men;\n    Where never stranger came our way,\n    By summer night or winter day;\n    Where neighboring hind or cot was none--\n    Our converse was with heaven alone--\n    With voices through the cloud that sung\n    And brooding storms that round us hung.\n    O lady judge, if judge ye may,\n    How stern and ample was the sway\n    Of themes like these, when darkness fell\n    And gray-haired sires the tales would tell!\n    When doors were barred and elder dame\n    Plied at her task beside the flame,\n    That through the smoke and gloom alone\n    On dim and cumbered faces shone--\n    The bleat of mountain goat on high,\n    That from the cliff came quavering by;\n    The echoing rock, the rushing flood,\n    The cataract's swell, the moaning wood;\n    The undefined and mingled hum--\n    Voice of the desert never dumb!\n    All these have left within this heart\n    A feeling tongue can ne'er impart\n    A wildered and unearthly flame,\n    A something that's without a name.\"\n\nAnother circumstance in the early life of Hogg tended to nurse his\nfancy. He had, in all, something like six months' schooling, and having\nentered the service of Mr. Laidlaw, another great lover of legends,\nsongs and stories of the olden time, he subscribed to a circulating\nlibrary at Peebles, whose diversified contents he devoured within a\nshort time. He read poetry, romances and tales with avidity, and stored\nhis mind with traditionary ballads, songs and stories. This\ncircumstance will account for his wayward, changeable life, as well as\nfor the wildness and strength of his imagination. In the field of\nreality he was nothing, in that of fancy everything.\n\nHe is said to have been a remarkably fine-looking young man, having a\nflorid complexion, and a profusion of light brown hair, which he wore,\ncoiled up, beneath his \"blithe blue bonnet.\" An attack of illness\ninduced by over-exertion, on a hot summer's day, so completely altered\nhis appearance, that his friends scarcely recognized him as the same\nperson. Of a jovial and merry disposition, he was a great favorite in\nall companies, and at times partook too freely of \"the mountain dew.\"\n\nBeing introduced by the son of his employer to Sir Walter Scott, the\nEttrick Shepherd assisted him in the collection of old ballads for the\n\"Border Minstrelsy.\" He soon began to try his own hand in imitation of\nthese traditionary poems, and published a volume of ballads, which\nattracted some attention, but never became very popular. Having embarked\nin sheep farming, and attempted one or two speculations in which he\nfailed utterly, he resolved to repair to the city of Edinburgh, and\nsupport himself by his pen. \"The Forest Minstrel,\" a collection of\nsongs, was his first publication here; his second, \"The Spy,\" a light\nperiodical, which enjoyed a brief and precarious existence. It was not\ntill the publication, in 1813, of his principal poetical production,\n\"The Queen's Wake,\" that his reputation as a poet was firmly\nestablished. The plan was so simple and striking, and the execution so\nvigorous and delightful, that it \"took\" at once, and became universally\npopular. The old \"Wake\" or festival in Scotland was ordinarily\ncelebrated with various kinds of diversions, among which music and song\nheld the principal place. The \"Queen's Wake\" consists of a collection of\ntales and ballads supposed to be sung by different bards to the young\nQueen of Scotland,--\n\n    \"When royal Mary, blithe of mood,\n    Kept holyday at Holyrood.\"\n\nThe various productions of the minstrels are strung together by a thread\nof light and graceful narrative. The \"Wake\" lasts three successive\nnights, and a richly ornamented harp is the victor's reward. Rizzio is\namong the number of the competitors; but Gardyne, a native bard, obtains\nthe prize. The plan supplies the Ettrick Shepherd with an opportunity of\ndisplaying the extreme facility with which he could adapt himself to all\nkinds of style, a facility so great that he subsequently published,\nunder the title of \"The Mirror of the Poets,\" a collection of poems\nascribed by him to Byron, Campbell, Scott, Southey, Crabbe, Wordsworth\nand others, in which the deception is so admirable, that multitudes\nactually supposed them genuine productions. Conscious of his strength,\nhe breaks forth in the \"Queen's Wake,\" in the following exulting\nstrains.\n\n    \"The land was charmed to list his lays;\n    It knew the harp of ancient days.\n    The border chiefs that long had been\n    In sepulchres unhearsed and green,\n    Passed from their mouldy vaults away\n    In armor red, and stern array,\n    And by their moonlight halls were seen\n    In visor, helm, and habergeon.\n    Even fairies sought our land again,\n    So powerful was the magic strain.\"\n\nScott had advised him to abandon poetry, as \"a bootless task,\" a\ncircumstance to which he thus refers:\n\n    \"Blest be his generous heart for aye!\n    He told me where the relic lay;\n    Pointed my way with ready will,\n    Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill;\n    Watched my first notes with curious eye;\n    And wondered at my minstrelsy:\n    He little weened a parent's tongue\n    Such strains had o'er my cradle sung.\n\n    \"But when to native feelings true\n    I struck upon a chord was new;\n    When by myself I 'gan to play,\n    He tried to wile my harp away.\n    Just when her notes began with skill\n    To sound beneath the southern hill,\n    And twine around my bosom's core,\n    How could we part forevermore?\n    'Twas kindness all--I cannot blame--\n    For bootless is the minstrel's flame:\n    But sure a bard might well have known\n    Another's feelings by his own!\"\n\nScott, it is said, was grieved at this reference to his friendly\ncounsel, given at a time when he knew not the powers of Hogg. This,\nhowever, illustrates a fact often occurring in the history of genius,\nwhich often struggles hard to develop itself, alone conscious of its\nnative powers. When Sheridan first spoke in the house of commons he made\nan utter failure. But instead of being discouraged, he remarked with\nenergy, \"I know that it is in me, and I _must_ have it out!\" Campbell\noffered his \"Pleasures of Hope\" to nearly all the book publishers in\nScotland, who refused it. Not one of them could be prevailed upon even\nto risk paper and ink upon the chance of its success; and at last, it\nwas only with considerable reluctance that Mundell & Son, printers to\nthe University, undertook its publication, with the _liberal_ condition\nthat the author should be allowed fifty copies at the _trade price_, and\nin the event of its reaching a second edition, a thing hardly\nanticipated, that he should receive the _immense_ sum of fifty dollars!\n\nThe Ettrick Shepherd continued for a number of years to publish\nsketches, stories, and so forth, in prose and verse. He describes well,\nand in his prose compositions often breaks out into flashes of keen\nbroad humor, but he is not particularly successful in the construction\nof plots, or in the arrangement of incidents. He is most at home in the\nregions of pure fancy. The moment he sets foot in fairyland he becomes\ninspired, and pours out \"in delightful profusion\" his beautiful\nimaginings. Inferior to Burns in depth of passion, in keen perception of\nthe beautiful, and in the description of actual scenes, he is perhaps\nsuperior to him in the wild delicacy of his inventions and in the rich\ncoloring of his imaginative pictures. Burns was the poet of nature, and\nwent far beyond his Scottish contemporaries and successors, in strength\nof conception, beauty of imagery, intensity of feeling, and melody of\nverse. But Hogg excelled in imaginative musing, and became, by natural\nright, the acknowledged \"bard of fairyland.\" His legend of \"Bonny\nKilmeny\" has been universally admired.\n\n    Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen,\n    But it was na to meet Duneira's men;\n    Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,\n    For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.\n    It was only to hear the yorlin sing,\n    And pu' the cress flower round the spring;\n    The scarlet hypp and the hind berrye,\n    And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree;\n    But Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.\n    But lang may her minny[167] look o'er the wa',\n    And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw;\n    Lang the laird of Duneira blame,\n    And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!\n\n    When many a day had come and fled,\n    When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,\n    When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,\n    When the beads-man had prayed, and the dead-bell rung,\n    Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still,\n    When the fringe was red on the western hill,\n    The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,\n    The reek o' the cot hung over the plain,\n    Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;[168]\n    When the ingle lowed[169] with an eiry[170] leme,\n    Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame!\n\n    Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?\n    Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean,[171]\n    By linn, by ford and greenwood tree,\n    Yet you are halesome and fair to see.\n    Where gat you that joup[172] o' the lily scheen?\n    That bonny snook[173] o' the birk sae green?\n    And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?\n    Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?\n\n    Kilmeny looked up wi' a lovely grace,\n    But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;\n    As still was her look, and as still was her ee,\n    As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,\n    Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.\n\n    For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,\n    And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;\n    Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,\n    Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew,\n    But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,\n    And the airs of heaven played round her tongue,\n    When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,\n    And a land where sin had never been,\n    A land of love and a land of light,\n    Withouten sun, or moon, or night;\n    Where the river swa'd[174] a living stream,\n    And the light a pure celestial beam:\n    The land of vision it would seem,\n    A still, an everlasting dream.\n\n    In yon greenwood there is a waik,\n    And in that waik there is a wene,\n    And in that wene there is a maike,[175]\n    That neither hath flesh, blood nor bane,\n    And down in yon greenwood he walks his lane!\n    In that grene wene Kilmeny lay\n    Her bosom happed wi' the flowrets gay;\n    And the air was soft, and the silence deep,\n    And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep;\n    She kenn'd nae mair, nor opened her ee,\n    Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye,\n    She wakened on couch of the silk sae slim,\n    All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim;\n    And lovely beings around her were rife,\n    Who erst had travelled mortal life.\n    They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair,\n    They kissed her cheek, and they kamed her hair,\n    And round came many a blooming fere,\n    Saying, \"Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here.\"\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,\n    And she walked in the light of a sunless day,\n    The sky was a dome of crystal bright,\n    The fountain of vision, and fountain of light;\n    The emerant fields were of dazzling glow,\n    And the flowers of everlasting blow.\n    Then deep in the stream her body they laid,\n    That her youth and beauty might never fade;\n    And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie\n    In the stream of life that wandered by;\n    And she heard a song, she heard it sung,\n    She kenn'd not where, but so sweetly it rung,\n    It fell on her ears like a dream of the morn:\n    \"O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born!\n    Now shall the land of spirits see,\n    Now shall it ken what a woman may be!\n    The sun that shines on the world so bright,\n    A borrowed gleam from the fountain of light:\n    And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun,\n    Like a gowden bow, or a beamless sun,\n    Shall skulk away, and be seen nae mair,\n    And the angels shall miss them travelling the air.\n    But lang, lang after both night and day,\n    When the sun and the world have 'eelged[176] away,\n    When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom,\n    Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!\"\n\n    They sooft[177] her away to a mountain green,\n    To see what mortal had never seen;\n    And they seated her high on a purple sward,\n    And bade her heed what she saw and heard;\n    And note the changes the spirits wrought,\n    For now she lived in the land of thought.\n    She looked and she saw no sun nor skies,\n    But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes.\n    She looked and she saw no lang aright,\n    But an endless whirl of glory and light.\n    And radiant beings went and came,\n    Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame;\n    She hid her een from the dazzling view,\n    She looked again, and the scene was new.\n    She saw a sun on a simmer sky,\n    And clouds of amber sailing by;\n    A lovely land aneath her lay,\n    And that land had lakes and mountains gray;\n    And that land had valleys and hoary piles,\n    And merlit seas, and a thousand isles;\n    She saw the corn wave on the vale;\n    She saw the deer run down the dale;\n    And many a mortal toiling sore,\n    And she thought she had seen the land afore.\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    To sing of the sights Kilmeny saw,\n    So far surpassing nature's law,\n    The singer's voice would sink away,\n    And the string of his harp would cease to play,\n    But she saw while the sorrows of man were by,\n    And all was love and harmony;\n    While the sterns of heaven fell lonely away,\n    Like the flakes of snow on a winter's day.\n\n    Then Kilmeny begged again to see\n    The friends she had left in her ain countrye,\n    To tell of the place where she had been,\n    And the glories that lay in the land unseen.\n    With distant music soft and deep,\n    They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep;\n    And when she awakened, she lay her lane,\n    All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene\n    When seven lang years had come and fled,\n    When grief was calm and hope was dead,\n    When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name.\n    Late, late in the gloamin Kilmeny came hame!\n    And oh! her beauty was fair to see,\n    But still and steadfast was her ee;\n    Such beauty bard may never declare,\n    For there was no pride nor passion there;\n    And the soft desire of maiden's een,\n    In that mild face could never be seen.\n    Her seyman was the lily flower,\n    And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;\n    And her voice like the distant melodye,\n    That floats along the twilight sea.\n    But she loved to range the lanely glen,\n    And keeped afar frae the haunts of men,\n    Her holy hymns unheard to sing,\n    To suck the flowers and drink the spring;\n    But wherever her peaceful form appeared,\n    The wild beasts of the hill were cheered;\n    The wolf played blithely round the field,\n    The lordly bison lowed and kneeled,\n    The dun deer wooed with manner bland,\n    And cowered aneath her lily hand.\n    And when at eve the woodlands rung,\n    When hymns of other worlds she sung,\n    In ecstacy of sweet devotion,\n    Oh, then the glen was all in motion;\n    The wild beasts of the forest came,\n    Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,\n    And gooed around, charmed and amazed;\n    Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed,\n    And murmured and looked with anxious pain\n    For something the mystery to explain.\n    The buzzard came with the throstle cock;\n    The corby left her houf in the rock;\n    The blackbird along with the eagle flew;\n    The hind came tripping o'er the dew;\n    The wolf and the kid their raike began,\n    And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;\n    The hawk and the hern attour them hung,\n    And the merl and the mavis forhooyed[178] their young;\n    And all in a peaceful ring were hurled:\n    It was like an eve in a sinless world!\n    When a month and a day had come and gane,\n    Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene,\n    There laid her down on the leaves so green,\n    And Kilmeny, on earth was never mair seen!\n\n[Footnote 167: Mother]\n\n[Footnote 168: Alone.]\n\n[Footnote 169: Blazed.]\n\n[Footnote 170: Lonesome flame.]\n\n[Footnote 171: Hollow and den.]\n\n[Footnote 172: Ornament.]\n\n[Footnote 173: Snood or headband.]\n\n[Footnote 174: Swelled or swept.]\n\n[Footnote 175: Briefly the meaning is, that in the greenwood there is a\nsweet lonely place where a spiritual being wanders alone.]\n\n[Footnote 176: Vanished.]\n\n[Footnote 177: Swept or spirited away, with a rapid motion.]\n\n[Footnote 178: Forsook.]\n\nThe close of \"The Queen's Wake\" is graceful and touching.\n\n    Now my loved harp a while farewell;\n      I leave thee on the old gray thorn;\n    The evening dews will mar thy swell\n      That waked to joy the cheerful morn.\n\n    Farewell, sweet soother of my woe,\n      Chill blows the blast around my head;\n    And louder yet that blast may blow,\n      When down this weary vale I've sped.\n\n    The wreath lies on St. Mary's shore;\n      The mountain sounds are harsh and loud;\n    The lofty brows of stern Clokmore\n      Are visored with the moving cloud.\n\n    But winter's deadly hues shall fade\n      On moorland bald and mountain shaw,\n    And soon the rainbow's lovely shade\n      Sleep on the breast of Bowerhope Law;\n\n    Then will the glowing suns of spring,\n      The genial shower and stealing dew,\n    Wake every forest bird to sing,\n      And every mountain flower renew.\n\n    But not the rainbow's ample ring,\n      That spans the glen and mountain gray\n    Though fanned by western breeze's wing,\n      And sunned by summer's glowing ray,\n\n    To man decayed can ever more\n      Renew the age of love and glee!\n    Can ever second spring restore\n      To my old mountain harp and me.\n\n    But when the hue of softened spring\n      Spreads over hill and lonely lea,\n    And lowly primrose opes unseen,\n      Her virgin bosom to the bee;\n\n    When hawthorns breathe their odors far,\n      And carols hail the year's return,\n    And daisy spreads her silver star\n      Unheeded, by the mountain burn,\n\n    Then will I seek the aged thorn,\n      The haunted wild and fairy ring,\n    Where oft thy erring numbers borne,\n      Have taught the wandering winds to sing.\n\nHogg was unfortunate in all business transactions. But the Duchess of\nBuccleugh made him a present of some seventy acres of moorland, on which\nhe built a pretty cottage. Here he lived during the latter years of his\nlife, engaged in literary labors, which he relieved by angling and field\nsports, for which he had quite a passion. When he could no longer fish\nand hunt, he avowed his belief that his death was near. He was seized\nwith a dropsical complaint in the autumn of 1835, and died, after some\ndays of insensibility, \"with as little pain as he ever fell asleep in\nhis gray plaid upon the hillside.\" With many imperfections, he possessed\na leal Scottish heart, and has left behind him memorials of genius,\nwhich posterity will not \"let die.\"\n\nBut we have arrived at the ancient town of Selkirk, on the Ettrick,\nfamous for its 'sutors' or shoemakers, from time immemorial burgesses\nof the town, and distinguished for their loyalty. In the market-square\nare a public well, ornamented with the arms of the city, and a handsome\nmonument erected by the county, in 1839, in memory of Sir Walter Scott,\nwho was sheriff of the county from 1800 to 1832. On one of its sides are\nthe following lines from one of his poems:\n\n    \"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,\n    Though none should guide my feeble way,\n    Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,\n    Although it chill my withered cheek.\"\n\nIn the immediate neighborhood of Selkirk is Philiphaugh, the celebrated\nbattle-field, where General Leslie, fighting for freedom and the\nCovenant, routed the fierce Montrose, who cut his way through the enemy\nand fled for his life. This defeat destroyed the fruit of Montrose's six\nsplendid victories, and ruined the royal cause in Scotland.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n     Return to the banks of the Tweed--Abbotsford--The\n     Study--Biographical Sketch of Sir Walter Scott--His Early\n     life--Residence in the Country--Spirit of Romance--Education--First\n     Efforts as an Author--Success of 'Marmion'--Character of his\n     Poetry--Literary Change--His Novels--Pecuniary\n     Difficulties--Astonishing Efforts--Last Sickness--Death and\n     Funeral.\n\n\nLeaving the Ettrick, we proceed once more in the direction of the Tweed,\nwhich we soon reach. How sweetly the river winds through this wooded\nregion--quick and even impetuous in its flow, but so translucent that\nthe white pebbles at the bottom are distinctly visible. What a picture\nof peaceful enjoyment is presented by that shepherd boy, leaning against\nthe rock, and basking himself in the sun, while his sheep are nibbling\nthe short grass on the edge of the water. But yonder is Abbotsford, with\nits castellated walls and pointed gables, shooting up from a sylvan\ndeclivity on the banks of the river, which almost encircles the place\nwith a graceful sweep, and contrasts beautifully with the deep-green\nfoliage of the straggling clumps of trees. But every traveller in\nScotland visits Abbotsford, and therefore we say nothing about its\nsingular construction, its curious ornaments, its ancient relics, its\nbroad-swords and battle-axes, its coats armorial, oak carvings and\nblazoned windows, its old portraits and fine library. We will not\ndescribe the door taken from the old Tolbooth in Edinburgh, nor the\npulpit from which Ralph Erskine preached; nay more, we shall not even\nmoralize on \"the broad-skirted blue coat, with metal buttons, the plaid\ntrowsers, heavy shoes, broad-brimmed hat and stout walking stick,\" the\nlast worn by \"the Great Magician of the north,\" when he took to his bed\nin his last illness. We will pass, however, into his study, a room about\ntwenty-five feet square, containing a small writing table in the centre,\non which Sir Walter was accustomed to write, and a plain arm-chair,\ncovered with black leather, on which he sat. A subdued light enters from\na single window, and a few books lie on the shelves, used chiefly for\nreference. By the permission of the good lady who has charge of the\nhouse, we are permitted to seat ourselves, and linger here for an hour,\ncalling up the memory of the most wonderful genius that Scotland has\never produced.\n\nThe father of Sir Walter Scott was a writer to the Signet in Edinburgh,\nan excellent and highly respectable man. His mother, Anne Rutherford, a\nnoble and gentle-hearted woman, was the daughter of a physician, in\nextensive practice, and Professor of Medicine in the University of\nEdinburgh. By both parents he was remotely connected with some ancient\nand respectable Scottish families, a circumstance to which he frequently\nreferred with satisfaction. He was born on the 15th of August, in the\nyear 1771. In consequence of lameness and a delicate state of health,\nproduced by a fall, he was sent, in early life to Sandyknowe, a\nromantic situation near Kelso, and placed under the care of his\ngrandfather. Here he fortified his constitution by long rambles on foot\nand on horseback among the picturesque scenery and old ruins of the\nneighborhood. Smallholm, a ruined tower, and the scene of Scott's\nballad, \"The Eve of St. John's,\" was close to the farm, and beside it\nwere the Eildon Hills, the ruins of Ercildoune, the residence, in\nancient times, of Thomas the Rhymer, Dryburgh Abbey, the \"silver Tweed,\"\nwith its storied banks, and other localities renowned in song and story.\nIt was here also that he delighted in supplying his memory with the\ntales of his nurse, and some old grandames, deeply versed in the\ntraditions of the country. All these left indelible impressions on his\nyoung imagination, and nursed the latent germ of poetry and romance, so\nlate, but so beautiful in its flowering. Subsequently he resided with\nanother relation at Kelso. Here, under the shadow of a great platanus or\noriental palm tree, in an old garden, he devoured \"Percy's Reliques of\nAncient Poetry,\" and permitted his fancy to wander at will amid the\nscenes of Border romance. This explains, in some degree, the peculiar\ncharacteristics of his first poems, and that fine strain of romantic\nfeeling which runs through his tales. Speaking of this matter, he says\nhimself: \"In early youth I had been an eager student of ballad poetry,\nand the tree is still in my recollection beneath which I lay and first\nentered upon the enchanting perusal of 'Percy's Reliques of Ancient\nPoetry,' although it has long perished in the general blight which\naffected the whole race of oriental platanus, to which it belonged. The\ntaste of another person had strongly encouraged my own researches into\nthis species of legendary lore. But I had never dreamed of an attempt to\nimitate what gave me so much pleasure. Excepting the usual tribute to a\nmistress's eyebrow, which is the language of passion rather than poetry,\nI had not for ten years indulged the wish to couple so much as _love_\nand _dove_, when finding Lewis in possession of so much reputation, and\nconceiving that, if I fell behind him in poetical powers, I considerably\nexceeded him in general information, I suddenly took it into my head to\nattempt the style by which he had raised himself to fame.\" He refers to\nthe same thing in the following lines:\n\n    \"Thus, while I ape the measure wild,\n    Of tales that charmed me--yet a child,\n    Rude though they be, still with the chime\n    Return the thoughts of early time;\n    And feelings roused in life's first day,\n    Glow in the line, and prompt the lay;\n    Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,\n    Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour.\n    Though no broad river swept along,\n    To claim perchance heroic song;\n    Though sigh no groves in summer gale,\n    To prompt of love a softer tale,\n    Yet was poetic impulse given\n    By the green hill and clear blue heaven.\n    It was a barren scene, and wild,\n    Where naked cliffs were rudely piled,\n    But ever and anon between\n    Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;\n    And well the lovely infant knew\n    Recesses where the wall-flower grew.\n    And honeysuckle loved to crawl\n    Up the low crag and ruined wall.\n    I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade\n    The sun in all its round surveyed;\n    And still I thought that shattered tower\n    The mightiest work of human power;\n    And marvelled as the aged hind,\n    With some strange tale bewitched my mind,\n    Of foragers who, with headlong force\n    Down from that strength had spurred their horse,\n    Their southern rapine to renew\n    Far in the distant Cheviot's blue,\n    And home returning filled the hall,\n    With revel, wassail-route and brawl.--\n    Methought that still with tramp and clang\n    The gateway's broken arches rang;\n    Methought grim features seamed with scars,\n    Glared through the window's rusty bars.\n    And even by the winter hearth;\n    Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,\n    Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,\n    Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;\n    Of patriot battles won of old\n    By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;\n    Of later fields of feud and fight,\n    When pouring from their Highland height,\n    The Scottish clans in headlong sway,\n    Had swept the scarlet ranks away.\n    While stretched at length upon the floor,\n    Again I fought each combat e'er,\n    Pebbles and shells in order laid\n    The mimic ranks of war displayed;\n    And onward still the Scottish lion bore,\n    And still the scattered Southron fled before.\"\n\nIn addition to this, young Scott was a perfect _helluo librorum_. He had\naccess to a large library filled with romances, histories, biographies,\nand so forth, which he indiscriminately devoured. His memory was quick\nand tenacious, and his mind became stored with all sorts of facts,\nfables and fancies. Still, even in youth, he possessed a sound judgment,\na clear, well balanced mind, and separated the chaff from the wheat with\ntolerable discrimination. His father was a good Presbyterian, and did\nwhat he could to imbue his mind with religious principles, which never\ndeserted him. Among the first lines he is known to have written are the\nfollowing. They were found wrapped up in a paper inscribed by Dr. Adam\nof the Edinburgh High School, 'Walter Scott, July, 1783.'\n\n              ON THE SETTING SUN.\n\n    Those evening clouds, that setting ray,\n    And beauteous tints, serve to display\n      Their great Creator's praise;\n    Then let the short-lived thing called man\n    Whose life's comprised within a span,\n      To Him his homage raise.\n\n    We often praise the evening clouds,\n      And tints so gay and bold,\n    But seldom think upon our God,\n      Who tinged these clouds with gold.\n\nScott was educated at the Edinburgh High School, and University. He had\nan aversion to Greek, a singular fact, but made some proficiency in\nLatin, moral philosophy and history. He also made himself tolerably\nfamiliar with the French, German and Italian tongues. Being much at\nhome, he indulged in reading romances and poetry. From early life, he\nwas an industrious collector of old ballads, many of which he committed\nto memory. Apprenticed to his father, as \"a writer,\" he commenced the\nstudy of law, and began to practice in his twenty-first year. As his\nhealth was now vigorous, he made long excursions into the country, which\nhe facetiously denominated _raids_, rambling over scenes of external\nbeauty or of historic interest, making acquaintance with the country\npeople, and picking up information about men and things. By this means\nhe amassed an immense store of everyday facts, and an intimate knowledge\nof character, which were of immense service to him in the construction\nof his novels.\n\nScott's first appearance as an author was in the translation from the\nGerman of Burger's Leonore, and \"Der Wilde Jaeger,\" or the \"Wild\nHuntsman,\" ballads of singular wildness and power. These, however, made\nlittle impression on the public mind. Of this he says, \"The failure of\nmy first publication did not operate, in any unpleasant degree, either\non my feelings or spirits. To speak candidly, I found pleasure in the\nliterary labor in which I had, almost by accident, become engaged, and\nlabored less in the hope of pleasing others, though certainly without\ndespair of doing so, than in the pursuit of a new and agreeable\namusement to myself.\" He continued to read the German, and to make\ntranslations from it, and became more and more interested in the ballad\npoetry. He was delighted to find the affinity of the old English, and\nespecially of the Scottish language to the German, not in sound merely,\nbut in the turn of phrase, so that they were capable of being rendered\nline for line, with very little variation.\n\nBy degrees he acquired sufficient confidence to attempt the imitation of\nwhat he so much admired. His first original poem was \"Glenfinlas.\" Next\nfollowed \"The Eve of St. John.\" Owing to unfortunate circumstances these\nhad no great success. Nothing daunted, however, he again appeared before\nthe public with his \"Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,\" which\nimmediately became popular. The success of this last work, not only\nestablished his reputation as an author, but encouraged him to devote\nhimself to literary pursuits. Under appointment as Sheriff of\nSelkirkshire, he enjoyed the kind of associations and employments\nfavorable to the cultivation of his poetical powers. Among other things,\nhe edited the metrical romance of \"Sir Tristrem,\" supposed to be written\nby \"Thomas the Rhymer,\" or Thomas of Ercildoune, laird, poet and\nprophet, who flourished about the year 1280. The dissertations which\naccompanied this work, and the imitation of the original to complete the\nromance, evinced his antiquarian attainments and fine poetical taste. At\nlength appeared \"The Lay of the Last Minstrel,\" a higher, purer strain,\nwhich was received with universal enthusiasm, and stamped him a great\nand original poet. His fine conception of the minstrel, his easy\nversification, his admirable narrative, his glowing pictures, his wild\nballad enthusiasm, his legendary lore, and his exquisite touches of the\nmarvellous and supernatural, combined to render the poem popular beyond\nall precedent. Thirty thousand copies were speedily sold by the trade.\nThen, in quick succession, followed that splendid series of poems, so\npopular in their day, and still so interesting and delightful.\nIntrinsically, they are inferior to some of the higher strains of\nEnglish poetry, but they possess certain qualities which gained the\npublic ear, and found a place in the national heart. These doubtless\nwere the novelty of their style, their natural and simple versification,\ntheir easy, dramatic narrative, and their lively descriptions of\nnational scenes and manners, in contrast with the formal hexameters,\nwith \"all their buckram and binding,\" of which the public had become\ntired.\n\nBeing in easy, and almost in affluent circumstances, Scott became\nambitious of founding a family. For this purpose he bought land on the\nbanks of the Tweed, and built Abbotsford, at a very considerable\nexpense. He received the order of knighthood, and looked forward to days\nof ease and prosperity. Devoting himself almost entirely to literary\npursuits, he formed connections in business with James Ballantyne, then\nrising into extensive business in the city of Edinburgh. This involved\nthe necessity of large advances, and Scott became involved in large\npecuniary responsibilities. He received an appointment as one of the\nprincipal Clerks of the Court of Session, with perhaps six thousand\ndollars per annum. This, with the gains of the printing establishment,\nand other sources of revenue, would have secured to him and his family\nan ample provision.\n\nWith his customary sagacity, Sir Walter perceived that his peculiar\nstyle of poetry would not continue popular, and therefore he betook\nhimself to a new field of literary enterprise, which proved still\nricher, and, by far, more congenial. Then appeared his historical\nnovels, which became so popular, that his fame as a poet was almost\nforgotten. Volume after volume came from the press, and spread like\nwildfire over the land. Translated into French, German, and Italian,\nthey reached every part of Europe, and completely superseded the old run\nof novels, with their unnatural plots and extravagant nonsense. It was\nScott's ambition to elevate this species of literature, and whatever\nobjections may be made against it, on the score of moral influence, this\nmuch must be conceded to him. In his hands novel writing became\ncomparatively pure and dignified, nay, as some, with considerable show\nof reason, contend, beneficial. The moral tone of all Sir Walter's\nproductions is pre-eminently pure. They are characterized by shrewd\nsense, a profound insight into men and things, a keen perception of the\nbeautiful and brave, the generous and leal, a fine sense of honor,\nreverence for God, and a deep sympathy with all the wants and woes, the\nhopes and joys of our common humanity. Sir Walter is the Shakspeare of\nnovel writing, and if he falls below the great dramatic poet, in the\nquickness and universality of his genius, he approaches him in the\nsoundness of his intellect, the breadth of his imagination, and the\nversatility of his powers. From his Tory and High Church predilections\nhe has done some injustice to the old Covenanters and Puritans of\nScotland; but he possessed a noble and generous heart, a spirit of faith\nand reverence, a love for God and all his creatures. His soul was\nnaturally blithe and joyous, hopeful and strong. He loved Scotland with\nintense affection, and has spread the light of his genius over all her\nhills and vales. Under the magic influence of his pen the hoary\nmountains, the dark tarns and trosachs of the Highlands gleam with\nsupernal beauty. Tweed murmurs his name, while the Firth and Tay repeat\nit through all their windings. His \"own romantic town\" glories in his\nmemory; every city, village and hamlet of the Lowlands, with strath,\nmeadow and moorland, echo his praise. The Genius of his country has\ncrowned him with the same wild wreath which erst she hung upon the head\nof Burns, and the world has acknowledged the consecration.\n\nIt was in the year 1826 that Ballantyne and Company became insolvent,\nand Sir Walter Scott, in the very midst of his splendid career, found\nhimself involved to the amount of $600,000. But he nobly refused to\nbecome a bankrupt, considering, says Allan Cunningham, \"like the elder\nOsbaldistone of his own immortal pages, commercial honor as dear as any\nother honor.\" All he asked for was time; and in seven years he paid off\nmore than the half of this sum by the labors of his pen. His efforts to\naccomplish this sublime purpose were gigantic, but they broke down his\nconstitution. \"Sometime in the beginning of the year 1831,\" says his\nfriend Cunningham, \"a sore illness came upon him; his astonishing\nefforts to satisfy his creditors, began to exhaust a mind apparently\nexhaustless; and the world heard with concern that a paralytic stroke\nhad affected his speech and his right hand, so much as to render writing\na matter of difficulty. One of his letters to me at this period, is not\nwritten with his own hand: the signature is his, and looks cramped and\nweak. I visited him at Abbotsford, about the end of July, 1831: he was a\ndegree more feeble than I had ever seen him, and his voice seemed\naffected; not so his activity of fancy, and surprising resources of\nconversation. He told anecdotes and recited scraps of verse, old and\nnew, always tending to illustrate something passing. He showed me his\narmory, in which he took visible pleasure; and was glad to hear me\ncommend the design of his house, as well as the skill with which it was\nbuilt. * * * In a small room, half library and half armory, he usually\nsat and wrote: here he had some remarkable weapons, curious pieces of\nold Scottish furniture, such as chairs and cabinets, and an antique sort\nof a table, on which lay his writing materials. A crooked headed staff\nof Abbotsford oak or hazel usually lay beside him to support his steps\nas he went and came.\"\n\n\"When it was known,\" continues Cunningham, \"that Sir Walter Scott's\nhealth declined, the deep solicitude of all ranks became manifest;\nstrangers came from far lands to look on the house which contained the\ngreat genius of our times; inquirers flocked around, of humble and of\nhigh degree, and the amount of letters of inquiry or condolence was, I\nhave heard, enormous. Amongst the visitors, not the least welcome was\nWordsworth, the poet, who arrived when the air of the northern hills was\ngrowing too sharp for the enfeebled frame of Scott, and he had resolved\nto try if the fine air and climate of Italy would restore him to health\nand strength.\n\n\"When Government heard of Sir Walter's wishes, they offered him a ship;\nhe left Abbotsford as many thought forever, and arrived in London, where\nhe was welcomed as never mortal was welcomed before. He visited several\nfriends, nor did he refuse to mingle in company, and having written\nsomething almost approaching to a farewell to the world, which was\npublished with 'Castle Dangerous,' the last of his works, he set sail\nfor Italy, with the purpose of touching at Malta. He seemed revived, but\nit was only for a while: he visited Naples, but could not enjoy the high\nhonors paid to him: he visited Rome, and sighed amid its splendid\ntemples and glorious works of art, for gray Melrose and the pleasant\nbanks of Tweed, and passing out of Italy, proceeded homewards down the\nRhine. Word came to London, that a dreadful attack of paralysis had\nnearly deprived him of life, and that but for the presence of mind of a\nfaithful servant he must have perished. This alarming news was followed\nby his arrival in London: a strong desire of home had come upon him; he\ntravelled with rapidity, night and day, and was all but worn out, when\ncarried into St. James's Hotel, Jermyn street, by his servants.\"\n\nAs soon as he recovered a little, he resumed his journey to Scotland,\nreached Abbotsford, and seemed revived, smiled when he was borne into\nhis library, and enjoyed the society of his children. When he was\nleaving London the people, wherever he was recognized, took off their\nhats, saying, \"God bless you, Sir Walter!\" His arrival in Scotland was\nhailed with equal enthusiasm and sympathy; and so much was he revived\nthat hopes were entertained of his recovery. But he gradually declined,\nlistening occasionally to passages from the Bible, and from the poems of\nCrabbe and Wordsworth. Once he tried to write, but failed in the\nattempt. \"He never spoke of his literary labors or success.\"\nOccasionally his mind wandered, and then he was preparing for the\nreception of the Duke of Wellington at Abbotsford, or exercising the\nfunctions of a judge, as if presiding at the trial of members of his own\nfamily. It may be regarded as a singular fact, that in his delirium, his\nmind never wandered toward those works which had filled the world with\nhis fame. But the flame of life now flickered feebly in its socket, and\ngave unerring indications of its speedy extinction. \"About half past\none, P. M.,\" says Mr. Lockhart, his son-in-law and biographer, \"on the\n21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence\nof all his children. It was a beautiful day--so warm that every window\nwas open--and so perfectly still that the sound, of all others most\ndelicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles,\nwas distinctly audible, as we knelt around his bed, and his eldest son\nkissed and closed his eyes.\"\n\nThe remains of Sir Walter were buried in Dryburgh Abbey. \"As we\nadvanced,\" says one who was present at the funeral, which was conducted\nwith the greatest simplicity and solemnity, \"the ruined abbey disclosed\nitself through the trees; and we approached its western extremity, where\na considerable portion of vaulted roof still remains to protect the\npoet's family place of interment, which opens to the sides in lofty\nGothic arches, and is defended by a low rail of enclosure. At one\nextremity of it, a tall thriving young cypress rears its spiral form.\nCreeping plants of different kinds, 'with ivy never sere,' have spread\nthemselves very luxuriantly over every part of the Abbey. These perhaps\nwere in many instances the children of art; but however this may have\nbeen, nature had herself undertaken their education. In this spot\nespecially, she seems to have been most industriously busy in twining\nher richest wreaths around those walls which more immediately form her\npoet's tomb. Amongst her other decorations, we observed a plum tree,\nwhich was perhaps at one period a prisoner, chained to the solid\nmasonry, but which having long since been emancipated, now threw out its\nwild pendent branches, laden with purple fruit, ready to drop, as if\nemblematical of the ripening and decay of human life.\n\n\"In such a scene as this, then, it was that the coffin of Sir Walter\nScott was set down on trestles placed outside the iron railing; and here\nthat solemn service, beginning with those words, so cheering to the\nsouls of Christians, 'I am the resurrection and the life,' was solemnly\nread. The manly soldier-like features of the chief mourner, on whom the\neyes of sympathy were most naturally turned, betrayed at intervals the\npowerful efforts which he had made to master his emotions, as well as\nthe inefficiency of his exertions to do so. The other relatives who\nsurrounded the bier were deeply moved; and amid the crowd of weeping\nfriends, no eye, and no heart could be discovered that was not\naltogether occupied in that sad and impressive ceremonial, which was so\nsoon to shut from them forever, him who had been so long the common idol\nof their admiration, and of their best affections. Here and there,\nindeed, we might have fancied that we detected some early and long tried\nfriends of him who lay cold before us, who, whilst tears dimmed their\neyes, and whilst their lips quivered, were yet partly engaged in mixing\nup and contrasting the happier scenes of days long gone by, with that\nwhich they were now witnessing, until they became lost in dreamy\nreverie, so that even the movement made when the coffin was carried\nunder the lofty arches of the ruin, and when _dust was committed to\ndust_, did not entirely snap the thread of their visions. It was not\nuntil the harsh sound of the hammers of the workmen who were employed to\nrivet those iron bars covering the grave, to secure it from violation,\nhad begun to echo from the vaulted roof, that some of us were called to\nthe full conviction of the fact, that the earth had forever closed over\nthat form which we were wont to love and reverence; that eye which we\nhad so often seen beaming with benevolence, sparkling with wit, or\nlighted up with a poet's frenzy; those lips which we had so often seen\nmonopolizing the attention of all listeners, or heard rolling out, with\nnervous accentuation, those powerful verses with which his head was\ncontinually teeming; and that brow, the perpetual throne of generous\nexpression, and liberal intelligence. Overwhelmed by the conviction of\nthis afflicting truth, men moved away without parting salutation,\nsingly, slowly, and silently. The day began to stoop down into twilight;\nand we, too, after giving a last parting survey to the spot where now\nrepose the remains of our Scottish Shakspeare, a spot lovely enough to\ninduce his sainted spirit to haunt and sanctify its shades, hastily tore\nourselves away.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n     Melrose Abbey--The Eildon Hills--Thomas the\n     Rhymer--Dryburgh--Monuments to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir\n     William Wallace--Kelso--Beautiful scenery--A Pleasant\n     Evening--Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet, Antiquary, Scholar\n     and Traveller--The Duncan Family--Journey Resumed--Twisel\n     Bridge--Battle of Flodden--Norham Castle--Berwick upon\n     Tweed--Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The\n     Border Tales'--Conclusion--'Auld Lang Syne.'\n\n\nAfter visiting \"fair Melrose,\" whose rains, rising in the centre of a\nrich landscape, and rendered immortal by the exquisite descriptions of\nSir Walter Scott, are the most interesting and beautiful of any in\nScotland;--wandering over the Eildon Hills, the Trimontium of the\nRomans, from the summits of which some thirty miles of wild and varied\nscenery can be surveyed; gazing on the ruins of Ercildoune, the\nmanor-house of Thomas the Rhymer, whose real name was Thomas Learmont,\nauthor of \"The Romance of Tristan,\" a poem of the thirteenth century, in\nthe language of antique Chaucer; lingering in Dryburgh Abbey, embosomed\nin a richly wooded haugh on the banks of the Tweed; and especially\ngazing, in reverent homage, on the grave of \"the Great Magician of the\nNorth,\" in St. Mary's Aisle, so sad and yet so fair; crossing the Tweed,\nand pausing a few moments, to examine a circular temple on the banks of\nthe river, dedicated to the Muses, and surmounted by a bust of Thomson,\nauthor of \"The Seasons,\" and a little further on the colossal statue of\nSir William Wallace, the hero of Scotland, which stands upon a rocky\neminence and overlooks the river, and a fine prospect of \"wood and\nwater, mountain and rock scenery,\" we pass along the banks of the Tweed,\ntill we come to the handsome town of Kelso, on the margin of the river,\nwith its ancient Abbey and delightful environs.\n\nAs the day is far spent, we will stay here for the night. But, before\nthe sun goes down, let us wander over the neighborhood, which is\nsingularly beautiful, and redolent with the genius of Scott and of\nLeyden, who has described it in his \"Scenes of Infancy.\"\n\n    \"Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,\n    Kelso's fair vale expands before the sun;\n    Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,\n    And fringed with hazel, winds each flowery dell,\n    Green spangled plains to dimpled lawns succeed,\n    And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed:\n    Blue o'er the river Kelso's shadow lies,\n    And copse-clad isles amid the water rise.\"\n\nAs the view from the bridge which spans the river is said to be one of\nthe richest in Scotland, we linger there till the sun goes down. 'Tis a\nsoft, still, summer afternoon, beginning to glide into the long and\nbeautiful twilight. The rays of the sun are yet upon the mountains, and\ntinge the summits of the woods, the rocks, and the castellated edifices,\nwhich adorn the landscape. The Tweed is gliding, in shadow, through the\nwooded vale, and the songs of the mavis and blackbird are echoing among\nthe trees. A little above the bridge the clear waters of the Teviot and\nthe Tweed flow together, as if attracted by each other's beauty. Beyond\nare the picturesque ruins of Roxburgh Castle, and somewhat nearer the\nducal palace of Fleurs, rising amid a rich expanse of wooded\ndecorations, sloping down to the very margin of the river; in front are\ngleaming two green islets of the Tweed, and between that river and the\nTeviot reposes the beautiful peninsula of Friar's Green, with the soft\nmeadow in its foreground. On the south bank of the river are the mansion\nand woods of Springwood Park, and the bridge across the Teviot, on which\nare reposing the mellow rays of the setting sun. On the right the town\nlies along the bank of the river, with its elegant mansions and\nvenerable abbey. There too is Ednam House, near which the poet Thomson\nhad his birth. Far beyond these, the eye rests pleasantly on \"the triple\nsummits\" of the Eildon Hills, looking down protectingly upon the vale of\nTweed, the hills of Stitchell and Mellerstain, and the striking ruin of\nHome Castle, still arrayed in the purple and gold of departing day.\nIntermingled with all these are the windings and rippling currents of\nthe river, clumps of rich green foliage, orchards laden with fruit,\ntufted rocks, verdant slopes, single trees of lofty stature, standing\nout from the rest, in the pride and pomp of their \"leafy umbrage,\"\ncattle browsing peacefully on the banks of the stream, here and there a\nsylvan cottage, and an infinite variety of light and shade, of blending\ncolors and changing forms, hallowed, moreover, by the hoary memories and\npoetical associations of by-gone days. No wonder that Leyden loved to\nwander in such scenes, or that Scott, a more transcendent genius, should\nhave ascribed to this influence the awakening in his soul \"of that\ninsatiable love of natural scenery, more especially when combined with\nancient ruins, or remains of our fathers' piety and splendor,\" which\ngave a charm to his life, and imparted to the productions of his genius\na warmth and richness of coloring unequalled in the history of\nliterature.\n\nBut it is time to return to our comfortable hotel in Kelso, where mine\nhost, who is an honest, round-faced, rosy-cheeked, good-natured Scot,\nwill give us good cheer for supper, and a bed soft as down upon which to\nrepose our weary limbs.\n\nWell now, this is pleasant! Here in this snug room, with a cheerful cup\nof tea, and such toast, broiled chicken, and other edibles, as mine host\nonly can produce, we feel as easy and independent as kings, aye, and a\ngreat deal more so; for who so satisfied and happy as the man, whatever\nhis estate, who has a clear conscience, a mind brimful of sweet\nmemories, a heart grateful to God and attached to those he loves? Let\nany person only do what is right, trust in God, enjoy nature, cultivate\nhis mind, exercise his body, and he may secure as much happiness as\nfalls to the lot of mortals. Trials may come, but joys will come also.\nAll things shall \"work together for good.\"\n\nBut it is easy moralizing over a good cup of tea, with a cheerful fire\nblazing in the grate, and a soft bed in prospect for weary limbs.\nMoreover, I promised to give you some account of Leyden, poet and\nantiquary, scholar and traveler.\n\nJohn Leyden was born in 1775, in Denholm, Roxburghshire, not far from\nKelso, of poor but honest parents. He displayed in early life the most\neager desire for learning, but possessed few opportunities for\ngratifying it, as he had to spend much of his time in manual toil. His\nparents, however, seeing his thirst for knowledge, resolved to send him\nto Edinburgh University. He entered this institution in his fifteenth\nyear, and made unusual progress in his studies. He distinguished himself\nin the Latin and Greek languages, acquired the French, Spanish, Italian\nand German, besides forming some acquaintance with the Hebrew, Arabic\nand Persian. During his college vacations he returned to the humble roof\nof his parents, and as the accommodations of the house were scanty, he\nlooked for a place of study elsewhere. \"In a wild recess,\" says Sir\nWalter Scott, who has furnished an animated biography of Leyden, \"in the\nden or glen which gives name to the village of Denholm, he contrived a\nsort of furnace for the purpose of such chemical experiments as he was\nadequate to performing. But his chief place of retirement was the small\nparish church, a gloomy and ancient building, generally believed in the\nneighborhood to be haunted. To this chosen place of study, usually\nlocked during week days, Leyden made entrance by means of a window,\nread there for many hours in the day, and deposited his books and\nspecimens in a retired pew. It was a well chosen spot for seclusion, for\nthe kirk, (excepting during divine service,) is rather a place of terror\nto the Scottish rustic, and that of Cavers was rendered more so by many\na tale of ghosts and witchcraft, of which it was the supposed scene, and\nto which Leyden, partly to indulge his humor, and partly to secure his\nretirement, contrived to make some modern additions. The nature of his\nabstruse studies, some specimens of natural history, as toads and\nadders, left exposed in their spirit vials, and one or two practical\njests played off upon the more curious of the peasantry, rendered his\ngloomy haunt, not only venerated by the wise, but feared by the simple\nof the parish.\"\n\nLeyden was originally intended for the clerical profession, but\nabandoned it for more secular employments. His spirit was intense,\nrestless and ambitious, and he longed for foreign travel and literary\ndistinction. After spending five years at college, he became tutor to a\nhighly respectable family, with whose sons he repaired to the University\nof St. Andrews, where he pursued his Oriental studies, and in 1799\npublished a History of African Discoveries. He was the author, also, of\nvarious translations and poems, which attracted considerable attention\nand introduced him to the best society. In 1800 he was ordained as a\nminister, and his discourses were highly popular; but he was\ndissatisfied with them, and felt that he was called to a different\nsphere. He continued to write and compose, contributed to Lewis's \"Tales\nof Wonder,\" and Scott's \"Border Minstrelsy.\" He was an enthusiastic\nadmirer of the old ballads, and on one occasion actually walked between\nforty and fifty miles for the sole purpose of visiting an old person who\npossessed an ancient historical ballad. He edited the \"Scot's Magazine,\"\nfor a year, and published \"The Complaynt of Scotland,\" an old work\nwritten about 1548, which he accompanied with a learned dissertation,\nnotes and a glossary. His strong desire to visit foreign lands induced\nhis friends to procure for him an appointment in India, where he might\nstudy the oriental languages and literature. The only situation which\nthey found available was that of assistant surgeon, for which it was\nnecessary to have a medical diploma. But such was the energy, decision\nand perseverance of Leyden's character, that he qualified himself in six\nmonths; and not long after set out for Madras. Before taking his\ndeparture he finished his \"Scenes of Infancy,\" as it were, the last\ntoken of his love for Scotland, which he never again beheld. He was\nresolved to distinguish himself or die in the attempt. Indeed a\npremonition of such an issue seems to have haunted his mind, and was\nexpressed, with touching beauty, in his \"Scenes of Infancy.\"\n\n    \"The silver moon at midnight cold and still,\n    Looks sad and silent o'er yon western hill;\n    While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,\n    Reared on the confines of the world below.\n    Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?\n    Is that blue light the moon's or tomb-fire's gleam?\n    By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,\n    The old deserted church of Hazeldean,\n    Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,\n    Till Teviot's waters rolled their bones away?\n    Their feeble voices from their stream they raise--\n    'Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,\n    Why didst thou quit the simple peasant's lot?\n    Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,\n    The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie,\n    And Teviot's stream that long has murmur'd by?\n    And we, when death so long has clos'd our eyes,\n    How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,\n    And bear our mouldering bones across the main.\n    From vales that knew our lives devoid of stain?\n    Rash youth! beware, thy home-bred virtues save,\n    And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave.'\"\n\nAfter his arrival in Madras, his health became impaired, and he removed\nto Prince of Wales Island. He resided there some time, visiting the\nneighboring countries, and amassing curious information on the\nliterature and history of the Indo-Chinese, which he embodied in an\nelaborate dissertation read before the Asiatic Society at Calcutta.\nQuitting Prince of Wales Island, Leyden was appointed a professor in the\nBengal College, which he soon exchanged for the office of judge, a more\nlucrative employment. His spare time was devoted to the prosecution of\nhis oriental studies. \"I may die in the attempt,\" he wrote to a friend,\n\"but if I die without surpassing Sir William Jones a hundredfold in\noriental learning, let never a tear for me profane the eye of a\nborderer.\" In 1811 he accompanied the governor general to Java. His\nspirit of bold adventure led him literally to rush upon death. He threw\nhimself into the surf in order to be the first Briton who should set\nfoot upon Java. When the invaders had taken possession of Batavia, the\nsame reckless eagerness took him into a cold damp library, in which were\nmany books and manuscripts. Affected perhaps by the disease of the\nclimate he had a fit of shivering on leaving the library, and declared\nthat the atmosphere was enough to give any one a mortal fever. In three\ndays after he died, August 28, 1811, on the eve of the battle which\nsecured Java to the British Empire.\n\nLeyden's Poetical Remains were published in 1819, with a memoir. In\naddition to the \"Scenes of Infancy,\" it contains some vigorous ballads.\nTo one of these, \"The Mermaid,\" as well as to the untimely death of its\nauthor, Sir Walter Scott has referred in his \"Lord of the Isles.\"\n\n    \"Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore\n    Still rings to Corrievreckin's roar,\n      And lovely Colonsay;\n    Scenes sung by him who sings no more:\n    His bright and brief career is o'er,\n      And mute his tuneful strains;\n    Quenched is his lamp of varied lore,\n    That loved the light of song to pour:\n    A distant and a deadly shore\n      Has Leyden's cold remains.\"\n\nHis \"Scenes of Infancy\" is distinguished for the sweetness of its\nversification, and its pleasant pictures of the vale of Teviot. In\nstrength and enthusiasm, it is much inferior to his ballads. The\nopening of \"The Mermaid,\" has been praised by Sir Walter Scott \"as\nexhibiting a power of numbers, which for mere melody of sound has rarely\nbeen excelled.\"\n\n    On Jura's heath how sweetly swell\n      The murmurs of the mountain bee!\n    How softly, mourns the writh'd shell,\n      Of Jura's shore, its parent sea.\n\n    But softer, floating o'er the deep,\n      The mermaid's sweet, sea-soothing lay,\n    That charmed the dancing waves to sleep,\n      Before the bark of Colonsay.\n\nBut better known, and far more affecting, is Leyden's \"Ode to an Indian\nGold Coin,\" written in Cherical, Malabar, which in addition to its vigor\nand beauty, has a fine moral which it is not necessary to point out.\n\n    Slave of the dark and dirty mine!\n      What vanity has brought thee here?\n    How can I love to see thee shine\n      So bright, whom I have bought so dear?\n      The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear,\n    For twilight converse arm in arm;\n      The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear,\n    When mirth and music wont to cheer.\n\n    By Cherical's dark wandering streams,\n      Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,\n    Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams\n      Of Teviot loved while still a child;\n      Of castled rocks stupendous piled\n    By Esk or Eden's classic wave,\n      Where loves of youth and friendship smiled\n    Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!\n\n    Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!\n      The perished bliss of youth's first prime,\n    That once so bright on fancy played,\n      Revives no more in after time.\n      Far from my sacred natal clime\n    I haste to an untimely grave;\n      The daring thoughts that soared sublime\n    Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.\n\n    Slave of the mine, thy yellow light\n      Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.\n    A gentle vision comes by night\n      My lonely widowed heart to cheer.\n      Her eyes are dim with many a tear,\n    That once were guiding-stars to mine;\n      Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!\n    I cannot bear to see thee shine.\n\n    For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,\n      I left a heart that loved me true!\n    I crossed the tedious ocean wave,\n      To roam in climes unkind and new.\n      The cold wind of the stranger blew\n    Chill on my withered heart; the grave\n      Dark and untimely met my view--\n    And all for thee, vile yellow slave!\n\n    Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock\n      A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,\n    Now that his frame, the lightning shock\n      Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne?\n      From love, from friendship, country, torn,\n    To memory's fond regrets the prey:\n      Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!\n    Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!\n\nWhile conversing about Leyden, we must not forget a gentler, purer\nspirit, Mary Lundie Duncan, who first saw the light \"amid the blossoms\nof Kelso,\" and whose young heart first warbled its poetic strains on the\nbanks of the Tweed. Her \"Memoir,\" by her gifted mother, is one of the\nmost beautiful and touching biographies in the English language.\nPossessed of genius and piety, at once pure and tender, her brief life\nwas the fair but changeful spring-time which preceded the long summer of\neternity.\n\n    Sweet bird of Scotia's tuneful clime,\n      So beautiful and dear,\n    Whose music gushed as genius taught,\n    With Heaven's own quenchless spirit fraught,\n      I list--thy strain to hear.\n\n    Bright flower on Kelso's bosom born,\n      When spring her glories shed,\n    Where Tweed flows on in silver sheen,\n    And Tiviot feeds her valleys green,\n      I cannot think thee dead.\n\n    Fair child--whose rich unfoldings gave\n      A promise rare and true,\n    The parent's proudest thoughts to cheer,\n    And soothe of widowed woe the tear,--\n      Why hid'st thou from our view?\n\n    Young bride, whose wildest thrill of hope\n      Bowed the pure brow in prayer,\n    Whose ardent zeal and saintly grace,\n    Did make the manse a holy place,\n      We search--thou art not there.\n\n    Fond mother, they who taught thy joys\n      To sparkle up so high;\n    Thy first born, and her brother dear\n    Catch charms from every fleeting year:--\n      Where is thy glistening eye?\n\n    Meek Christian, it is well with thee,\n      That where thy heart so long\n    Was garnered up, thy home should be;--\n    Thy path with Him who made thee free;--\n      Thy lay--an angel's song.\n\n    _Lydia H. Sigourney._\n\nSome of Mary Lundie Duncan's poems are characterized not merely by\npurity and elevation of sentiment, but by sweetness and melody of\nversification. The following written at \"Callander,\" though not without\ndefects, indicates the possession of true poetical genius.\n\n    How pure the light on yonder hills,\n      How soft the shadows lie;\n    How blythe each morning sound that fills\n      The air with melody!\n\n    Those hills, that rest in solemn calm\n      Above the strife of men,\n    Are bathed in breezy gales of balm\n      From knoll and heathy glen.\n\n    In converse with the silent sky,\n      They mock the flight of years;\n    While man and all his labors die\n      Low in this vale of tears.\n\n    Meet emblem of eternal rest,\n      They point their summits grey\n    To the fair regions of the blest,\n      Where tends our pilgrim way.\n\n    The everlasting mountains there\n      Reflect undying light;\n    The ray which gilds that ambient air,\n      Nor fades, nor sets in night.\n\n    Then summer sun more piercing bright.\n      That beam is milder too;\n    For love is in the sacred light\n      That softens every hue.\n\n    The gale that fans the peaceful clime\n      Is life's immortal breath,\n    Its freshness makes the sons of time\n      Forget disease and death.\n\n    And shall we tread that holy ground,\n      And breathe that fragrant air;\n    And view the fields with glory crowned\n      In cloudless beauty fair?\n\n           *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Look up! look up, to yonder light,\n      That cheers the desert grey:\n    It marks the close of toil and night,\n      The dawn of endless day.\n\n    How sweet your choral hymns will blend\n      With harps of heavenly tone;\n    When glad you sing your journey's end\n      Around your Father's throne.\n\nMary's contributions to \"The Philosophy of the Seasons,\" over the\nsignature of M. L. D., such as \"The Rose,\" \"The Bat,\" \"Sabbath Morning,\"\nan \"Autumnal Sabbath Evening,\" are simple and elegant, indicating the\npossession of good sense and a refined imagination. Like her brother\nArchibald Lundie, who went to the South Sea Islands in order to benefit\nhis health, and to labor in the sublime work of Christian missions, Mary\npassed away in the morning of her days, but not without leaving a\nblessed fragrance behind her, which yet lingers, not over Scotland\nalone, but over the whole Christian world. And well might her stricken\nyet resigned and hopeful mother say, in the words quoted at the close of\nher daughter's _Memoir_:\n\n    \"I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starred\n      With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul;\n    Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred,\n      Nor thy heart be flung back from its gaol:\n    I know thou hast drank of the Lethe that flows\n      Through a land where they do not forget;\n    That sheds over memory only repose;\n      And takes from it only regret.\n\n    \"And though like a mourner that sits by a tomb,\n      I am wrapt in a mantle of care;\n    Yet the grief of my bosom--oh! call it not gloom--\n      Is not the black grief of despair.\n    By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,\n      Far off thy bright vision appears;\n    And hope like the rainbow, a creature of light,\n      Is born like the rainbow--in tears.\"\n\n    _J. K. Hervey._\n\nThe Duncan family to which Mary Lundie, by her marriage with one of the\nsons, belonged, is one of the most interesting in Scotland. All of its\nmembers seem possessed of fine talents, devoted piety, and generous\naffections. Two of the sons, with the father, were ministers of the\nestablished church of Scotland at the time of the secession of the Free\nChurch from that body, and made a sacrifice, for conscience' sake, of\nagreeable situations and handsome incomes. Without the slightest\nhesitation, and without a murmur even, they abandoned their beautiful\nmanses, their churches and people, and threw themselves, with their\nbrethren of the Free Church, upon the providence of God, not knowing\nwhat might be the issues of that sublime movement. \"The Philosophy of\nthe Seasons,\"[179] though written mainly by the father, the Rev. Dr.\nDuncan of Ruthwell, received contributions from all the members of the\nfamily, and remains a splendid monument of their talents, piety and\nmutual affection. It is fast becoming a classic. Filled with\ninformation, and imbued with a spirit of fervid piety, and, moreover,\nwritten in a lucid, flowing style, it is well fitted at once to instruct\nand please.\n\n[Footnote 179: Published by R. Carter, in four handsome octavos.]\n\nAs Dr. Duncan has recently deceased, a brief sketch of his life may not\nbe uninteresting in this connection.\n\nDr. Henry Duncan was \"a son of the Manse.\" He was born in 1774, at\nLochrutton, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, of which his father and\nhis grandfather were ministers successively, during a period of eighty\nyears, a striking instance of pastoral permanence. If wealth consists\n\"in the number of things we love,\" then those good men must have been\nrich beyond the common lot of ministers; and young Henry must have\nreceived from them a rich heritage of blessings. He was educated at the\nUniversities of St. Andrews, Glasgow, and Edinburgh. While attending the\nlatter he was a member of the \"Speculative Society,\" to which many of\nthe most distinguished literary characters belonged, and associated\nfreely with Lord Brougham, the Marquis of Landsdowne, Dr. Andrew Thomson\nand others. He became the pastor of the Established church in Ruthwell,\nDumfriesshire, where he labored with great success for many years. He\ndied in the forty-seventh year of his ministry.\n\nDr. Duncan was imbued with a spirit of enlarged Christian benevolence,\nand felt a peculiar interest in the amelioration of the condition of\nthe poorer classes. Hence he formed the scheme of the \"Cheap Repository\nTracts,\" addressed to the working classes, and designed to enforce the\nmost useful lessons suited to their condition. It was in this collection\nthat his \"Cottage Fireside\" was first published, a production which\nbecame exceedingly popular, and passed through many editions. The book\nabounds in happy delineations of Scottish manners, fine strokes of\nhumor, and admirable lessons of practical wisdom. \"The South Country\nWeaver,\" possesses the same qualities and aims; and, in a time of\nexcessive political excitement, did much to allay the discontent and\nrevolutionary tendency of the people. He is also said to be the author\nof another work of a higher grade, written in the same style of\nfictitious narrative, and intended to vindicate the principles and\nproceedings of the Scottish Covenanters, from the aspersions cast upon\nthem by the author of Waverley. This production has been highly esteemed\nby good judges of literary merit, but it never became popular.\n\nIt may well be supposed that Dr. Duncan felt a peculiar interest, not\nonly in the spiritual but also in the temporal condition of his own\nparish, and hence he was ever devising plans for its benefit. In this\nrespect he much resembled the benevolent Oberlin, whose well directed\nschemes turned the barren parish of Waldbach into a little paradise.\nEntering upon the duties of his charge at a time of national scarcity\nand distress, he imported from Liverpool, at considerable expense, and\nwith great personal inconvenience, large quantities of food which he\ndistributed among his poor parishioners He also devised new modes and\nsources of employment, and cheered them amid their privations by his\ncounsel and sympathy. He instituted among them two admirable \"Friendly\nSocieties,\" one for males and another for females, the advantages of\nwhich are enjoyed to this day. But perhaps his highest claim to\ndistinction as a philanthropist was the establishment of \"The Ruthwell\nParish Bank,\" the first \"Savings Bank\" in Europe, which, it is said, was\nsuggested to him partly by the beneficial results and partly by the\nadmitted defects of the Friendly Societies. His undoubted title to be\nregarded as the originator of \"Savings Banks,\" has been acknowledged by\nthe highest authorities; but it is not so generally known at what an\nimmense expenditure of time, talent, energy and pecuniary means he\nsucceeded in accomplishing this good object.\n\nDr. Duncan's learning and talents were of a high order, and these were\ndevoted exclusively to the benefit of his fellow men. His principal\nliterary work, \"The Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons,\" was planned and\nwritten in a single year, an astonishing instance of mental energy,\nindustry and talent. \"Never were the different kingdoms and varying\naspects of nature, the characteristics of the seasons, and all the grand\nand beautiful phenomena of the year, more philosophically and more\neloquently described than in this charming book. The comprehensive views\nof the philosopher, the poetic feeling of the lover of nature, and the\npious reflection of the Christian divine, are all combined in its pages,\nand win at once the admiration and affection of the reader.\" Here genius\nand piety, the love of nature and the love of God spread their sunlight\nover the face of creation, and make visible to all reverent and\nthoughtful minds\n\n    \"The Gospel of the stars--great Nature's Holy Writ.\"\n\nAs a preacher Dr. Duncan was interesting and instructive, but not\nparticularly striking and popular. In 1839 he was elected Moderator of\nthe General Assembly, the highest honor the church could confer. Warmly\nattached to evangelical religion, and deeply interested in the purity\nand progress of the church of Christ throughout the world, he earnestly\npromoted the cause of Christian missions, and kindred schemes of\nbenevolence. He was intimately associated with Dr. Chalmers and others,\nin sustaining the great principles of vital Christianity, the supremacy\nof Christ in his own church, and particularly the freedom and\nindependence of his ministers. \"True, therefore, to the principles he\nhad espoused, and ever warmly defended--true to what he considered the\ngenuine constitution of the Scottish church, this venerable and amiable\nfather left, in the ever memorable year 1843, that manse, which he had\ninhabited for four and forty long and happy years, and which his own\nfine taste had so greatly beautified and adorned--that hallowed home in\nwhich his dutiful and attached children had been reared--in which his\nfirst beloved wife had died, and which was associated with many\ndelightful recollections of joy and kindness, and prayer, indelibly\nengraven on many hearts--for _there_ was many a young idea fostered, and\nmany a guest and many a stranger hospitably entertained. But with a\ncloud of many eminent witnesses, whose names will be embalmed in the\nrecords of their country, Dr. Duncan lifted up his testimony for the\nglorious prerogative of Zion's King, and counted the reproach of Christ\ngreater riches than all the treasures of earth. And actuated by the same\nspirit of faith as the martyrs and confessors of other days--the men of\nwhom the world was not worthy--he abandoned, at an advanced age, all the\ncomforts of his lovely and endeared home, and all the emoluments and\ndelights connected with it, and meekly took up his lowly dwelling in an\nhumble cottage by the way-side, willingly enduring hardship, and\nsubmitting to ingratitude from man, that he might honor his God and hold\nfast his integrity, dearer to him than life. He was one of seven\nmoderators of the old General Assembly, men like himself of high name\nand holy deeds, who sacrificed all their honors and emoluments, and cast\nin their lot with the Free Church of Scotland, that they might display a\nbanner for the truth, and who, when driven by a cruel and miserable\npolicy from those altars which they sanctified, went forth, a veteran\nband of Christian heroes, and preached the Gospel of peace and salvation\nunder the broad canopy of heaven, with gray hairs streaming in the\nbreeze.\"\n\nDuring the summer of 1843 Dr. Duncan preached in the open air, but\nfinally succeeded by great efforts, in securing a site, and erecting\nupon it a church and a manse, a school and a schoolmaster's house. A\nsuitable successor was appointed to this charge, and Dr. Duncan removed\nhis residence to the city of Edinburgh. But his affections lingered\naround his beloved Ruthwell, and he undertook a journey to England to\nsecure funds to pay off the debt upon the new buildings and bring them\nto a state of completion. Having accomplished his object, he returned to\nScotland in excellent spirits, and reached Comlogan Castle, the\nresidence of his brother-in-law. On that and the succeeding day he\noccupied himself in laying out the grounds about the manse and giving\ndirections respecting the buildings. On the following Sabbath he\npreached to an overflowing audience. Monday and Tuesday were devoted to\nvisiting his old parishioners. He was invited to address a prayer\nmeeting at the house of an elder of the Established church, and it was\nwhile engaged in the performance of that duty that the messenger of\nDeath met him. He had not spoken ten minutes, when his voice trembled,\nhis body shuddered, and it was evident to all that he was struck with a\nsudden paralysis. He was immediately conveyed to Comlogan Castle. \"On\nhis way, though his speech was much affected, his consciousness was\nentire, and he repeatedly lifted up his hand, in devout admiration of\nGod's beautiful works, for the moon, surrounded by thousands of stars,\nwas shedding its calm and chastened lustre over the face of Nature, and\npresented a meet emblem of the inward peace of the dying saint, whose\ncharacteristic taste and love of Nature's beauties were still manifested\neven in this trying hour.\"[180] After two days, in which he suffered\nlittle pain, he gently \"fell asleep in Jesus,\" on Thursday evening, 12th\nof February, 1846.\n\n[Footnote 180: \"Dumfries Advertiser and Galloway Standard,\" from which\nwe quoted a preceding extract.]\n\n    Behold the western evening light,\n      It melts in deepening gloom;\n    So calmly Christians sink away,\n      Descending to the tomb.\n\n    The winds breathe low; the yellow leaf\n      Scarce whispers from the tree;\n    So gently flows the parting breath,\n      When good men cease to be.\n\n    How beautiful on all the hills,\n      The crimson light is shed!\n    'Tis like the peace the Christian gives\n      To mourners round his bed.\n\n    How mildly on the wandering cloud\n      The sunset beam is cast!\n    So sweet the memory left behind,\n      Where loved ones breathe their last\n\n    And lo! above the dews of night\n      The vesper star appears;\n    So faith lights up the mourner's heart,\n      Whose eyes are dim with tears.\n\n    Night falls, but soon the morning light\n      Its glories shall restore;\n    And thus the eyes that sleep in death\n      Shall wake to close no more.\n\n    _Peabody._\n\nDaylight is on the hills, and we are off once more down the Tweed, which\ngathers volume by accessions from tributary streams, and mirrors in its\nclear bosom many a happy home, nestling among the trees on its banks. We\npass Coldstream, on the north bank of the Tweed, from its proximity to\nEngland a sort of Gretna Green in former times, where Lord Brougham was\nmarried at one of the hotels; whence we journey to Tillmouth; at which\nplace the Till, a narrow, deep, sullen stream, flows into the Tweed.\nBeneath Twisel Castle, which stands upon its banks, you see the ancient\nbridge by which the English crossed the Till before the battle of\nFlodden.\n\n                  --\"They cross'd\n    The Till, by Twisel Bridge.\n    High sight it is, and haughty, while\n    They drew into the deep defile;\n    Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,\n    Beneath the castle's airy wall.\n      By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,\n    Troop after troop are disappearing;\n    Troop after troop their banners rearing,\n      Upon the eastern bank you see,\n    Still pouring down the rocky den\n      Where flows the sullen Till,\n    And rising from the dim wood glen\n    Standards on standards, men on men\n      In slow succession still,\n    And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,\n    And passing on, in ceaseless march\n      To gain the opposing hill.\"\n\n    _Marmion._\n\nFlodden Field, on which the \"flowers of the forest,\" were cut down so\nmercilessly, is not far from here, and the whole region seems invested\nwith an air of \"dule and wae.\"\n\n    \"Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!\n      The English, for once by guile won the day;\n    The Flowers of the Forest, that focht aye the foremost.\n      The prime o' our land are cauld in the clay.\n\n    \"We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,\n      Women and bairns are heartless and wae;\n    Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--\n      The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.\"[181]\n\n[Footnote 181: \"The Flowers of the Forest,\" by Miss Jane Elliot, one of\nthe sweetest and most affecting ballads of Scotland. By the 'Flowers of\nthe Forest' are meant the young men of Ettrick Forest, slain at Flodden\nField.]\n\nPursuing our way, we come to Norham Castle, so magnificently described\nin Marmion.\n\n    \"Day set on Norham's castle steep,\n    And Tweed's fair river broad and deep,\n      And Cheviot's mountains lone;\n    The battled towers, the donjon keep,\n    The loop-hole grates where captives weep,\n    The flanking walls that round it sweep,\n      In yellow lustre shone.\"\n\nNine miles further on, we arrive at \"Berwick upon Tweed,\" where the\nriver falls into the German Ocean, and where our wanderings in Scotland\ncease,--the scene of fierce struggles between the Scots and English.\nNorth Berwick was sometimes in the hands of the one, sometimes in the\nhands of the other. Its streets often ran blood; its walls echoed the\ntramp of armies, the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying.\nIts old ramparts are yet standing; but all is quiet and passionless\nnow. A sort of stillness pervades the place, in striking contrast with\nthe havoc and turmoil of the ancient Border wars. The environs are full\nof historic recollections, which have been well illustrated in the\n\"Border Tales,\" by John Mackie Wilson, who was a native of Berwick, and\nresided here till his death. This event took place, suddenly and\nunexpectedly, on the 2d of September, 1835, when he was only thirty-one\nyears of age. His early days were spent, in peace and happiness, under\nthe parental roof. At school he was distinguished for his love of\nknowledge, and the rapidity with which he executed all his tasks. At a\nsuitable age he was apprenticed to a printer, and found the employment\ncongenial, as it brought him into contact with books. Eagerly thirsting\nfor knowledge, he soon exhausted his scanty means of gratifying his\ntaste in Berwick on Tweed, and leaving the place of his nativity,\nrepaired to London, where he encountered the greatest difficulties and\nhardships. It is said that some of the most touching descriptions of the\nsufferings endured by the aspirant for fame were actually endured by\nhimself, and \"that the sobs and tears which involuntarily burst from the\nfamily circle when these tales were read, were poured forth for him\nwhose pen had described them.\" Often amid the splendor of London, did he\nwander \"homeless and friendless.\" But nothing could repress the native\nardor and buoyancy of his mind. And amid all the darkness of the night\nwhich enveloped his pathway, he was ever looking for sunrise. Despair\nand poverty, however, drove him from the British metropolis, and he was\nforced to seek in the provinces what he could not find in London, nor\ndid he seek in vain. He reaped \"a golden harvest of opinions;\" but\npoverty continued to be his companion for years. During a sojourn in the\ncity of Edinburgh, he published several dramas and other poems, which\nhad a share of success. He wrote a series of \"Lectures and Biographical\nSketches,\" which he delivered with considerable eclat in different towns\nof Scotland and England. Three years before his death \"he rested from\nhis wanderings,\" in his native village, among his friends and early\nassociates, having been invited to become editor of \"The Berwick\nAdvertiser,\" which he conducted with great spirit. Amid his labors as an\neditor, he found time to indulge his taste for literature, and the\nmatter of his journal was often enlivened by his own literary and\npoetical effusions. But it was \"The Border Tales,\" which made him a\ndecided favorite with the public, and gave him a warm place in the\nScottish heart. They were published in a fugitive form, and commanded a\ncirculation far beyond the author's most sanguine hopes. It was from\nthese that he and his friends saw a prospect of reward for his toils.\nBut the scene which was thus opening upon him was blighted,--and from\nthe high place which he had gained in the estimation of his townsmen,\nfrom the caresses of his friends, and from the reproaches of his foes,\nhe now lies \"where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at\nrest.\"\n\nWe do not admire Wilson's poetry as a whole; and yet some beautiful\nstrains might be culled from it. He wrote rapidly and diffusely;\nthrowing off everything at a first draft, without much correction or\npolish. His \"Border Tales\" are quite miscellaneous in their character,\nand contain much that he would doubtless have thrown out, had he lived\nto place them in a permanent form. They are written diffusely and\ncarelessly. But with all their faults, they give indications of genius,\nhumor and pathos, a keen insight into character, great descriptive\npowers, and a fine conception of the beautiful and true. Some of them\nare told with great pith and raciness; and though inferior in some\nrespects, to Professor Wilson's \"Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life,\"\nare more natural and easy, more characteristic and amusing. Upon the\nwhole, they give a better idea of the Scottish character than the\nProfessor's splendid, but exaggerated pictures. James Mackay Wilson died\ntoo young for his fame; but his simple tales will be read, for many a\nday, in the homes of \"bonny Scotland.\" Among other things, they give a\njust representation of the religious character of the Scottish\npeasantry. While their faults and foibles are depicted with graphic\npower, their solemn faith, their profound enthusiasm, and their\nleal-hearted piety are exhibited in beautiful relief. Justice is done to\nthe old Covenanters, whose rough patriotism and burning zeal were the\nsalvation of their native land. Long may their martyr spirit, softened\nby charity, prevail in Scotland; and generations yet unborn shall \"rise\nup and call her blessed.\"\n\nIn this series of sketches, now brought to a close, it has been the\nauthor's aim to make a contribution to literature, which, while it might\nprove attractive, would yet exert a pure moral influence. Such an\nexcursion beyond the peculiar limits of his profession, he thinks, was\npermitted him, and may tend in some slight degree to promote the great\nobject for which he desires to live. At all events, if he has\naccomplished nothing more, he has yet succeeded in calling up \"a gentle\nvision\" of \"Auld Lang Syne,\" by which his own heart has been solaced and\ncheered.\n\n    \"Lang Syne! how doth the word come back,\n      With magic meaning to the heart,\n    As memory roams the sunny track,\n      From which hope's dreams were loath to part!\n    No joy like by-past joy appears;\n      For what is gone we fret and pine;\n    Were life spun out a thousand years,\n      It could not match Lang Syne!\n\n    \"Lang Syne!--ah, where are they who shared\n      With us its pleasures bright and blithe?\n    Kindly with some hath fortune fared;\n      And some have bowed beneath the scythe\n    Of death; while others scattered far\n      O'er foreign lands, at fate repine,\n    Oft wandering forth 'neath twilight's star,\n      To muse on dear Lang Syne!\n\n    \"Lang Syne!--the heart can never be\n      Again so full of guileless truth;\n    Lang Syne!--the eyes no more shall see\n      Ah, no! the rainbow hopes of youth.\n    Lang Syne!--with thee resides a spell\n      To raise the spirit, and refine.\n    Farewell!--there can be no farewell\n      To thee, loved, lost Lang Syne!\"\n\n    _Dr. Moir._","title":"The Genius of Scotland; or, Sketches of Scottish Scenery, Literature and Religion","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":92297}