"From scenes like these auld Scotia's grandeur springs,That makes her loved at home, revered abroad;Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,'An honest man's the noblest work of God.'O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent,Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,Be blest with health and peace and sweet content!And oh, may Heaven their simple lives preventFrom luxury's contagion, weak and vile!Then howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,A virtuous populace may rise the while,And stand a wall of fire around their much loved Isle."
"From scenes like these auld Scotia's grandeur springs,That makes her loved at home, revered abroad;Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,'An honest man's the noblest work of God.'
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent,Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,Be blest with health and peace and sweet content!And oh, may Heaven their simple lives preventFrom luxury's contagion, weak and vile!Then howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,A virtuous populace may rise the while,And stand a wall of fire around their much loved Isle."
But we have dwelt long enough on generaltopics. If the reader will accompany us, we will ramble together in some particular scenes, meditating, as we go, on things new and old, and chatting, in lively or in sombre mood, as the humor may seize us. First of all then, let us visit "Auld Reekie," as the inhabitants often call it, or more classically, "the modern Athens," the beautiful and far famed metropolis of Scotland.
The city of Edinburgh—Views from Arthur's Seat—The Poems of Richard Gall—"Farewell to Ayrshire"—"Arthur's Seat, a Poem"—Extracts—Craigmillar Castle—The Forth, Roslin Castle and the Pentland Hills—Liberty.
The city of Edinburgh—Views from Arthur's Seat—The Poems of Richard Gall—"Farewell to Ayrshire"—"Arthur's Seat, a Poem"—Extracts—Craigmillar Castle—The Forth, Roslin Castle and the Pentland Hills—Liberty.
We will enter the city on the west side, as if we were coming from Glasgow, pass through Prince's Street, with its elegant buildings and fine promenades, skirting that enclosure of walks and shrubbery, just under the frowning battlements of the Castle, and adorned with the superb statue of Sir Walter Scott, rising rapidly to its completion; then turn the corner at right-angles, cross the North Bridge, enter High Street, and thence plunge down the hill into the old Canongate; and without waiting to look at "the Heart of Midlothian," or even the beautiful ruins of Holyrood House, at the foot of the hill, let us turn to the right, and climb the rocky sides of "Arthur's Seat" with its summit of verdure overlooking the city and the neighboring country. For there the whole panorama of the city will spread itself before us, surrounded with magnificent scenery, stretching far and wide from the Pentland Hills on the one side to the Firth of Forth on the other, from Stirling Castle on the west to the German Ocean on the east. Here we are then, on the very highest point of the mountain, with the warm sunshinearound us, tempered as it is by the fresh "westlin wind," at once so sweet and bland. Aye, aye! this is beautiful! What a landscape! How varied and yet how harmonious! Not only beautiful exceedingly, but ineffably grand and striking! Beneath us is the fine old city—new and old at the same time, lying nearly square, with its lofty buildings and elegant monuments, handsome parks and green shrubberies. To the left is the older part of the city, rising gradually from the palace of Holyrood at our feet, and crowned by the Castle, which is built upon a granite rock, whose rough sides, terminating abruptly to the north and west, hang over Prince's Street and the lower part of the city.
"There watching high the least alarms,Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;Like some bold veteran gray in armsAnd pierced with many a seamy scar:The ponderous wall and massy bar,Grim rising o'er the rugged rock;Have oft withstood assailing war,And oft repelled the invader's shock."—Burns.
"There watching high the least alarms,Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;Like some bold veteran gray in armsAnd pierced with many a seamy scar:The ponderous wall and massy bar,Grim rising o'er the rugged rock;Have oft withstood assailing war,And oft repelled the invader's shock."—Burns.
Before us and stretching away towards the Forth and the city of Leith is "the new town," surmounted on this side by the Calton Hill, on which stand the monuments of Dugald Stewart and Admiral Nelson, the unfinished Parthenon, and the monument of Robert Burns,—beautiful and imposing objects, reminding us of the Acropolis of Athens, and affording fine relief to the long ranges of smooth and polished buildings beyond. Behind usare the Pentland Hills with their verdant slopes and historic recollections. To the right lie the city and bay of Leith, "the Piræus" of Edinburgh, the long winding shore in the direction of Portobello, and "the dark blue deep" of the ocean, studded with white sails, glistening in the summer radiance. To the north, at a distance of a few miles, you see the majestic Firth of Forth, and beyond, "in cultur'd beauty," the "Kingdom of Fife," with the distant range of the Ochil and Campsie hills. From this point also you can see, at a distance of some three miles, the gray ruins of Craigmillar Castle, famous in the annals of Scotland, as the residence of Queen Mary, and the scene of those secret machinations, which ended in the tragedy of Holyrood; Inch Keith with its lofty lighthouse; the isle of May, once consecrated to St. Adrian, and on which stands another "star of hope" to the mariner; and old Inchcolm, famous for its ancient convent founded by St. Colomba, one of the patron saints of Scotland. How gloriously, light and shade, land and ocean, park and woodland, old castles and hoary ruins, frowning rocks and smiling meadows mingle and blend in this rare and magnificent landscape.
"Traced like a map the landscape liesIn cultur'd beauty stretching wide;There Pentland's green acclivities,There ocean, with its azure tide;There Arthur's Seat, and gleaming throughThy southern wing Dun Edin blue!While in the orient, Lammer's daughters,A distant giant range are seen,North Berwick Law, with cone of green,And Bass amid the waters."Delta.[5]
"Traced like a map the landscape liesIn cultur'd beauty stretching wide;There Pentland's green acclivities,There ocean, with its azure tide;There Arthur's Seat, and gleaming throughThy southern wing Dun Edin blue!While in the orient, Lammer's daughters,A distant giant range are seen,North Berwick Law, with cone of green,And Bass amid the waters."Delta.[5]
Here you can easily understand the reason why Edinburgh has been thought to resemble the city of Athens. Mr. Stuart, author of the "Antiquities of Athens," was the first to call attention to this fact, and his opinion has often been confirmed since. Dr. Clarke remarks that the neighborhood of Athens is just the Highlands of Scotland, enriched with the splendid remains of art. Another acute observer states that the distant view of Athens from the Ægean Sea is extremely like that of Edinburgh from the Firth of Forth, "though," he adds, "certainly the latter is considerably superior." "The resemblance," says J. G. Kohl, the celebrated German traveller, "is indeed very striking. Athens, like Edinburgh, was a city of hills and valleys, and its Ilissus was probably not much larger than the Water of Leith. Athens, like Edinburgh, was an inland town, and had its harbor, Piræus, on the sea-coast. The mountains near Edinburgh very much resemble those near Athens. I have little doubt, however, that Athens is more honored by being compared to Edinburgh, than Edinburgh to Athens; for it is probable that the scenery and position of the Northern are more grand and striking in their beauty, than those of the Southern Athens."
By the way there is a beautiful poem in the Scottish dialect, entitled "Arthur's Seat," written byRichard Gall, a young man of great promise, the friend and correspondent of Burns. He struggled with poverty, and like Fergusson and Michael Bruce, was cut off prematurely, but not before he had written some exquisite poems, in the style of Burns, whom he greatly admired. He was contemporary with the unfortunate but gifted Tannahill of Paisley, and possessed a kindred taste in song writing.[6]His "Farewell to Ayrshire," commencing—
"Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Scenes that former thoughts renew;Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Now a sad and last adieu!Bonnie Doon sae sweet at gloaming,Fare thee weel before I gang—Bonnie Doon where early roaming,First I weaved the rustic sang"—
"Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Scenes that former thoughts renew;Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,Now a sad and last adieu!Bonnie Doon sae sweet at gloaming,Fare thee weel before I gang—Bonnie Doon where early roaming,First I weaved the rustic sang"—
has been often printed, on account of its locality and associations, as the composition of Burns. He is doubtless greatly inferior to Burns, and not quite equal to Bruce or even Tannahill, but his verses possess great sweetness, and contain some graphic and beautiful descriptions. This is the case especially, with "Arthur's Seat," his longest and most elaborate poem. As its sketches of scenery in and around Edinburgh, are at once accurate and pleasing, and as it is entirely unknown in America, we will take the liberty of quoting some of its finest passages.
Gazing from Arthur's Seat, the poet invokes the genius of Burns—
"To sing ilk bonny bushy bower,Adorned with many a wild-born flower;Ilk burnie singing through the vale,Where blooming hawthorns scent the gale;And ilka sweet that nature yields,In meadow wild or cultur'd fields;The cultur'd fields where towering strangThe sturdy aik his shadows flang;Where lonely Druids wont to rove,The mystic tenants of the grove."
"To sing ilk bonny bushy bower,Adorned with many a wild-born flower;Ilk burnie singing through the vale,Where blooming hawthorns scent the gale;And ilka sweet that nature yields,In meadow wild or cultur'd fields;The cultur'd fields where towering strangThe sturdy aik his shadows flang;Where lonely Druids wont to rove,The mystic tenants of the grove."
He aptly and strikingly interweaves historical and poetical allusions. The following contains a fine contrast, and a striking description of the ruins of Craigmillar Castle, in the vicinity of Edinburgh.
"Yes,Arthur, round thy velvet chair,Ilk chequered picture blushes fair,And mixed with nature's landscape green,The varied works o' art are seen.Here starts the splendid dome to view,Mang sylvan haunts o' vernal hue;There some auld lanely pile appears,The mouldering wreck o' former years,Whose tottering wa' nae mair can standBefore fell Time's resistless hand;Sic as Craigmillar's Castle gray,That now fa's crumbling to decay,A prey to ilka blast that blawsAn' whistles through its royal ha's—Where mirth ance burst with joyfu' soundAnd melting music rang around,Ah! there dull gloomy silence reigns,The mossy grass creeps o'er the stanes,And howlets loud at e'enin's fa',Rejoice upon the ruined wa'."
"Yes,Arthur, round thy velvet chair,Ilk chequered picture blushes fair,And mixed with nature's landscape green,The varied works o' art are seen.Here starts the splendid dome to view,Mang sylvan haunts o' vernal hue;There some auld lanely pile appears,The mouldering wreck o' former years,Whose tottering wa' nae mair can standBefore fell Time's resistless hand;Sic as Craigmillar's Castle gray,That now fa's crumbling to decay,A prey to ilka blast that blawsAn' whistles through its royal ha's—Where mirth ance burst with joyfu' soundAnd melting music rang around,Ah! there dull gloomy silence reigns,The mossy grass creeps o'er the stanes,And howlets loud at e'enin's fa',Rejoice upon the ruined wa'."
Craigmillar Castle naturally suggests the name of the beautiful and unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who once resided within its lordly but now forsaken halls. The poet therefore breaks out into the following animated and pathetic strains, which, it has been said, will bear a comparison with Mr. Burke's celebrated rhapsody on the unfortunate Queen of France.
"There was a time when woman's charmsCould fire the warlike world of arms,And breed sic wae to auld and young,As Helen wept and Homer sung,But Mary o' ilk stay bereft,Misfortune's luckless child was left;Nae guileless friend to stem her grief,The bursting sigh her whole relief.—O ye whose brave forefathers bled,And oft the rage of battle led,Wha rushing o'er the crimson field,At Bannockburn made Edward yield;Ye wha still led by glory's flame,Make terror mix wi' Scotia's name—Where slept your dauntless valor keenWhen danger met your injured Queen?"
"There was a time when woman's charmsCould fire the warlike world of arms,And breed sic wae to auld and young,As Helen wept and Homer sung,But Mary o' ilk stay bereft,Misfortune's luckless child was left;Nae guileless friend to stem her grief,The bursting sigh her whole relief.—O ye whose brave forefathers bled,And oft the rage of battle led,Wha rushing o'er the crimson field,At Bannockburn made Edward yield;Ye wha still led by glory's flame,Make terror mix wi' Scotia's name—Where slept your dauntless valor keenWhen danger met your injured Queen?"
His descriptions of the Forth and the neighboring regions, of the Pentland hills, and the scenery of the Esk, are strikingly beautiful.
"What varied scenes, what prospects dearIn chequer'd landscape still appear!What rural sweets profusely thrangThe flowery Links of Forth alang,O'er whose proud shivering surface blueFife's woods and spires begirt the view;Where Ceres gilds the fertile plainAn' richly waves the yellow grain,An' Lomond hill wi' misty showers,Aft weets auld Falkland's royal towers,Nor distant far, upon the earThe popling Leven wimples clear,Whose ruined pile and glassy lakeShall live in sang for Mary's sake.[7]Return fond muse frae haunts sae fair,To Lothian's shore return ance mair,And let thy lyre be sweetly strung,For peerless Esk remains unsung.Romantic stream, what sweets combineTo deck ilk bank and bower o' thine!For now the sun, wi' cheerfu' raysGlows soft o'er a' thy woody braes,Where mony a native wild flower's seen,Mang birks and briars, and ivy green,An' a' the woodland chorists singOr gleesome flit on wanton wing,Save where the lintie mournfullySabs sair 'aneath the rowan tree,To see her nest and young ones a'By thoughtless reaver borne awa.'What saftening thoughts resistless start,And pour their influence o'er the heart;What mingling scenes around appearTo musing meditation dear,When wae we tent fair grandeur fa'By Roslin's ruined Castle wa'![8]O what is pomp? and what is power?The silly phantoms of an hour!Sae loudly ance from Roslin's brow[9]The martial trump of grandeur blew,While steel-clad vassals wont to waitTheir chieftain at the portalled gate;And maidens fair, in vestments gay,Bestrewed wi' flowers the warrior's way.But now, ah me! how changed the scene!Nae trophied ha', nae towers remain;Nae torches bleeze wi' gladsome light,A guiding star in dead o' night;Nae voice is heard, save tinkling rill,That echoes from the distant hill."
"What varied scenes, what prospects dearIn chequer'd landscape still appear!What rural sweets profusely thrangThe flowery Links of Forth alang,O'er whose proud shivering surface blueFife's woods and spires begirt the view;Where Ceres gilds the fertile plainAn' richly waves the yellow grain,An' Lomond hill wi' misty showers,Aft weets auld Falkland's royal towers,Nor distant far, upon the earThe popling Leven wimples clear,Whose ruined pile and glassy lakeShall live in sang for Mary's sake.[7]
Return fond muse frae haunts sae fair,To Lothian's shore return ance mair,And let thy lyre be sweetly strung,For peerless Esk remains unsung.Romantic stream, what sweets combineTo deck ilk bank and bower o' thine!For now the sun, wi' cheerfu' raysGlows soft o'er a' thy woody braes,Where mony a native wild flower's seen,Mang birks and briars, and ivy green,An' a' the woodland chorists singOr gleesome flit on wanton wing,Save where the lintie mournfullySabs sair 'aneath the rowan tree,To see her nest and young ones a'By thoughtless reaver borne awa.'
What saftening thoughts resistless start,And pour their influence o'er the heart;What mingling scenes around appearTo musing meditation dear,When wae we tent fair grandeur fa'By Roslin's ruined Castle wa'![8]O what is pomp? and what is power?The silly phantoms of an hour!Sae loudly ance from Roslin's brow[9]The martial trump of grandeur blew,While steel-clad vassals wont to waitTheir chieftain at the portalled gate;And maidens fair, in vestments gay,Bestrewed wi' flowers the warrior's way.But now, ah me! how changed the scene!Nae trophied ha', nae towers remain;Nae torches bleeze wi' gladsome light,A guiding star in dead o' night;Nae voice is heard, save tinkling rill,That echoes from the distant hill."
How exquisite, and how entirely and peculiarly Scottish is the following:
"Now tent the Pentlands westlin's seen,O'erspread wi' flowery pastures green;Where, stretching wide, the fleecy ewes[10]Run bleating round the sunny knowes,And mony a little silver rillSteals gurgling down its mossy hill;And vernal green is ilka treeOn bonny braes o' Woodhouselee."
"Now tent the Pentlands westlin's seen,O'erspread wi' flowery pastures green;Where, stretching wide, the fleecy ewes[10]Run bleating round the sunny knowes,And mony a little silver rillSteals gurgling down its mossy hill;And vernal green is ilka treeOn bonny braes o' Woodhouselee."
The genius of Scotland is one of freedom, of independent thought, and unfettered action in matters civil and religious. This produced the Reformation; this generated the recent secession from the 'Kirk;' this characterizes the literature of the nation. We cannot, therefore, refrain from making one more quotation, which breathes the lofty spirit of freedom:
"Alas! sic objects to behold,Brings back the glorious days of old,When Scotia's daring gallant train,That ever spurned a tyrant's chain,For dearest independence bled,And nobly filled their gory bed—So o'er yon mountains stretching lang,Their shields the sons of Freedom rang,When Rome's ambition wild, burst forth,An' roused the warriors of the north,WhenCalgachurged his dauntless train,And freedom rush'd through ilka vein,And close they met the haughty foe,And laid fu' mony a tyrant low;As fierce they fought, like freemen a',Oh! glorious fought—yet fought to fa'!They fell, and thou sweetLiberty,Frae Grampia's blood-stained heights did flee,And fixed thy seat remote, serene,Mang Caledonia's mountains green.Fair Maid! O may thy saftest smileFor ever cheer my native isle!"
"Alas! sic objects to behold,Brings back the glorious days of old,When Scotia's daring gallant train,That ever spurned a tyrant's chain,For dearest independence bled,And nobly filled their gory bed—So o'er yon mountains stretching lang,Their shields the sons of Freedom rang,When Rome's ambition wild, burst forth,An' roused the warriors of the north,WhenCalgachurged his dauntless train,And freedom rush'd through ilka vein,And close they met the haughty foe,And laid fu' mony a tyrant low;As fierce they fought, like freemen a',Oh! glorious fought—yet fought to fa'!They fell, and thou sweetLiberty,Frae Grampia's blood-stained heights did flee,And fixed thy seat remote, serene,Mang Caledonia's mountains green.Fair Maid! O may thy saftest smileFor ever cheer my native isle!"
Walk to the Castle—The old Wynds and their Occupants—Regalia of Scotland—Storming of the Castle—Views from its Summit—Heriot's Hospital—Other Hospitals—St. Giles's Cathedral—Changes—The Spirit of Protestantism.
Walk to the Castle—The old Wynds and their Occupants—Regalia of Scotland—Storming of the Castle—Views from its Summit—Heriot's Hospital—Other Hospitals—St. Giles's Cathedral—Changes—The Spirit of Protestantism.
Let us now descend into the city. We will not linger long in old Holyrood Palace, interesting as it is, nor dwell upon "the stains" of Rizzio's blood in Queen Mary's room, as these have been described a thousand times, and are familiar to every one. Neither will we spend time in gazing upon the spot where once stood that quaint old gaol, called "The Heart of Midlothian," made classic by the pen of Scott, in the beautiful story of Jeanie Deans. Neither will we visit the old "Parliament House" and the "Advocates' Library;" but we will pass right up through High Street, amid those colossal buildings, rising, on either side, to the height of six, seven, and even eight and ten stories, swarming with inhabitants; and dive into one or two of those close, dark wynds, where reside, in countless multitudes, the poorest and most vicious of the people. Here, it must be confessed, are some strange sights and appalling noises. Yet it is not quite so bad as some have represented it. All large cities have their poor and vicious inhabitants, and although those of the Scottish metropolis are tolerablydirty and vastly degraded, they bear no comparison to the lazzaroni of Naples and the beggars of Rome. Some of the streets and wynds are narrow enough and vile enough, but they contain, after all, many worthy people, who own a Bible, and read it too; and were you only to become thoroughly acquainted with them, you would be surprised to find how much of honesty and kindly affection still dwell in their hearts. In ancient times the houses in these very "closes" or "wynds" were inhabited by the nobility and gentry. Hence Grey's Close, Morrison's Close, Stewart's Close, &c. They built their houses in these narrow streets in order to be more secure from the attacks of their enemies, and to be the better able to defend the principal thoroughfares into which they opened. In Blythe's Close may be seen the remains of the palace of the Queen Regent, Mary of Guise. In another stand the old houses of the Earls of Gosford and Moray. One of the largest old palaces is now inhabited by beggars and rats.
It would be a great improvement if these miserable dwellings could be removed, and replaced by better streets and houses; a still greater one, if the people could only be induced to abandon the use of whiskey, for then they would abandon their hovels as a matter of course. Their besetting sin is the love of strong drink, though this has been gradually diminishing for the last few years throughout Scotland. It is to be hoped that the pious and moral portion of the community will unite in a strong effort to reclaim this degraded class of theirfellow-townsmen, and that the time will speedily come when the only reproach which rests upon their fair fame shall be wholly obliterated.
But let us leave this region, the only unpleasant one in the whole of this magnificent city, and ascend to the old Castle, where we shall see the Regalia of Scotland, preserved in a little room at the top of the Castle. These regalia consist of the crown of Robert Bruce the hero of Bannockburn, the sceptre of James the Fifth, a sword presented by Pope Julius the Second to James the Sixth, and other articles of inferior note. It is somewhat singular that the Regalia should have lain concealed from 1745 to the year 1818. At the time of the Union in 1707 between England and Scotland, they were walled up by some Scottish patriots, in order to prevent their being removed to London.
What recollections of the stormy but glorious history of Scotland cluster around the mind, while gazing at that antique-looking crown which adorned the head of the Bruces and the ill-fated Mary. The freedom and prosperity now enjoyed by the nation had a gloomy and tempestuous birth. Their very religion, placid and beautiful now, was cradled amid the war of elements and the shock of battle. But, thanks to God, it is all the purer and stronger for its rough and tempestuous youth.
Draw near to the edge of that battlement, and look down over the frowning rock. Would it be possible, think you, to storm the Castle from that side? One would suppose it beyond the power of man. It has been done, however, and the circumstanceillustrates the spirit of hardihood and enterprise which has ever distinguished the people of Scotland. In the year 1313, when the Castle was in the possession of the English, Randolph, Earl of Moray, was one day surveying the gigantic rock, when he was accosted by one of his men at arms with the question, "Do you think it impracticable, my lord?" Randolph turned his eyes upon the speaker, a man a little past the prime of life, but of a firm well-knit figure, and bearing in his keen eye and open forehead marks of intrepidity which had already gained him distinction in the Scottish army. "Do you mean the rock, Francis?" said the Earl; "perhaps not, if we could borrow the wings of our gallant hawks."[11]
"There are wings," replied Francis, with a thoughtful smile, "as strong, as buoyant, and as daring. My father was keeper of yonder fortress."
"What of that? You speak in riddles."
"I was then young, reckless, high-hearted: I was screwed up in that convent-like castle; my sweetheart was in the plain below"—
"Well, what then?"
"'Sdeath, my lord, can you not imagine that I speak of the wings of love? Every night I descended that steep at the witching hour, and every morning before the dawn I crept back to mybarracks. I constructed a light twelve-foot ladder, by means of which I was able to pass the places that are perpendicular; and so well, at length, did I become acquainted with the route, that in the darkest and stormiest night, I found my way as easily as when the moonlight enabled me to see my love in the distance waiting for me at the cottage door."
"You are a daring, desperate, noble fellow, Francis! However, your motive is now gone; your mistress"—
"She is dead; say no more; but another has taken her place."
"Ay, ay, it's the soldier's way. Women will die or even grow old; and what are we to do? Come, who is your mistress now?"
"My Country!What I have done for love, I can do again for honor; and what I can accomplish, you, noble Randolph, and many of our comrades can do far better. Give me thirty picked men, and a twelve-foot ladder, and the fortress is our own!"
"The Earl of Moray, whatever his real thoughts of the enterprise might have been, was not the man to refuse such a challenge. A ladder was provided, and thirty men chosen from the troops; and in the middle of a dark night, the party, commanded by Randolph himself, and guided by William Francis, set forth on their desperate enterprise.
"By catching at crag after crag, and digging their fingers into the interstices of the rocks, they succeeded in mounting a considerable way; but the weather was now so thick, they could receivebut little assistance from their eyes; and thus they continued to climb, almost in utter darkness, like men struggling up a precipice in the night-mare. They at length reached a shelving table of the cliff, above which the ascent, for ten or twelve feet, was perpendicular; and having fixed their ladder, the whole party lay down to recover breath.
"From this place they could hear the tread and voices of the 'check watches,' or patrol, above; and, surrounded by the perils of such a moment, it is not wonderful that some illusions may have mingled with their thoughts. They even imagined that they were seen from the battlements, although, being themselves unable to see the warders, this was highly improbable. It became evident, notwithstanding, from the words they caught here and there in the pauses of the night-wind, that the conversation of the English soldiers above related to a surprise of the Castle; and at length these appalling words broke like thunder on their ears: 'Stand! I see you well!' A fragment of the rock was hurled down at the same instant; and as rushing from crag to crag it bounded over their heads, Randolph and his brave followers, in this wild, helpless, and extraordinary situation, felt the damp of mortal terror gathering upon their brow, as they clung with a death-grip to the precipice.
"The startled echoes of the rock were at length silent, and so were the voices above. The adventurers paused, listening breathless; no sound was heard but the sighing of the wind, and the measured tread of the sentinel who had resumed hiswalk. The men thought they were in a dream, and no wonder; for the incident just mentioned, which is related by Barbour, was one of the most singular coincidences that ever occurred. The shout of the sentinel and the missile he had thrown, were merely a boyish freak; and while listening to the echoes of the rock, he had not the smallest idea that the sounds which gave pleasure to him carried terror and almost despair into the hearts of the enemy.
"The adventurers, half uncertain whether they were not the victims of some illusion, determined that it was as safe to go on as to turn back; and pursuing their laborious and dangerous path, they at length reached the bottom of the wall. This last barrier they scaled by means of their ladder; and leaping down among the astonished check-watches, they cried their war-cry, and in the midst of answering shouts of 'treason! treason!' notwithstanding the desperate resistance of the garrison, captured the Castle of Edinburgh."
Sit down here on the edge of this parapet. That huge cannon there is called Mons Meg, from being cast atMons, in Flanders, and reminds us, somewhat significantly, of the terrible use to which all the arrangements of the Castle are applied.[12]How singular, that men have to be governed and controlled like bull-dogs, that castles and dungeons, halters, and cannon, are necessary to keep themfrom stealing each other's property, or cutting each other's throats! Surely mankind have ills enough to bear without turning upon each other like tigers.
"Many and sharp the numerous ills,Inwoven with our frame!More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame;And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man's inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn."Burns.
"Many and sharp the numerous ills,Inwoven with our frame!More pointed still we make ourselves,Regret, remorse, and shame;And man, whose heaven-erected faceThe smiles of love adorn,Man's inhumanity to manMakes countless thousands mourn."
Burns.
But all is quiet now. The tendency of the times is to peace; and Edinburgh Castle, Mons Meg, and the whole array of cannon bristling over the precipice, are but objects of natural curiosity or of poetical interest.
Do you see yonder turreted building, with high pointed gables and castellated walls, in the Elizabethan style, just beyond the Grass Market. That is George Heriot's Hospital, one of the proudest monuments of the city, and one of the most beautiful symbols of its peaceful prosperity. It was founded by the rich and benevolent George Heriot, jeweller to King James the Sixth, "Jingling Geordie," as he is quaintly termed in the "Fortunes of Nigel." It is of vast extent, as you perceive, and presents a good specimen of the mixed style of architecture prevalent in the days of Queen Mary. The object of this noble institution is the maintenance and education of poor and fatherless boys, or of boys in indigent circumstances, "freemen's sonsof the town of Edinburgh." Of these, one hundred and eighty receive ample board and education within its walls. By this means they are thoroughly prepared for the active business of life, each receiving at his dismissal a Bible, and other useful books, with two suits of clothes chosen by himself. Those going out as apprentices are allowed $50 per annum for five years, and $25 at the termination of their apprenticeship. Boys of superior scholarship are permitted to stay longer in the institution, and are fitted for college. For this purpose they receive $150 per annum, for four years. Connected with this institution are seven free schools, in the different parishes of the city, for the support of which its surplus funds are applied. In these upwards of two thousand children receive a good common school education. The girls, in addition to the ordinary branches, are taught knitting and sewing.
In addition to these provisions for the education of the poor, there are also ten "bursaries," or university scholarships, open to the competition of young men, not connected with the institution. The successful candidates receive $100 per annum for four years. No wonder that Sir Walter Scott felt authorized to put into the mouth of the princely founder of these charities the striking sentiment: "I think mine own estate and memory, as I shall order it, has a fair chance of outliving those of greater men."
Edinburgh abounds in charitable hospitals, and particularly in free educational institutions, in thesupport of which the citizens evince a laudable enthusiasm. Thus, for example, we have Watson's Hospital, the Merchant Maiden's Hospital, the Trades' Maiden Hospital, Trinity College Hospital, Cauvin's Hospital, a little out of the city; Gillespie's Hospital, Donaldson's Hospital, Chalmers's Hospital, the House of Refuge, the House of Industry, the Strangers' Friend Society, the Institution for the Relief of poor old Men, and another for the Relief of indigent old Women, and many others.
Below us, on one side of High Street, you see the fine old Gothic Cathedral of St. Giles. It was founded in the twelfth or thirteenth century, and named after St. Giles, abbot and confessor, and tutelar saint of Edinburgh in the olden time. The Scottish poet, Gavin Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld, was sometime provost of St. Giles. He translated Virgil into English, the first version of a classic ever made in Britain, and was the author of "The Palace of Honor," from which some have absurdly supposed that John Bunyan borrowed the idea of the "Pilgrim's Progress." This edifice is interesting, chiefly as connecting the past with the present condition of Scotland, and indicating the mighty transitions through which it has passed. In the fifteenth century incense ascended from forty different altars within its walls; now it contains three Protestant places of worship. Once it enshrined the relics of St. Giles; now its cemetery contains the body of John Knox! On the 13th of October, 1643, "the solemn League and Covenant" was sworn to and subscribed within its walls, by the Committeeof the Estates of Parliament, the Commission of the Church, and the English Commission. The sacred vessels and relics which it contained, including the arm-bone of the patron saint, were seized by the magistrates of the city, and the proceeds of their sale applied to the repairing of the building. Puritanism has thus often showed itself a rough and tempestuous reformer; nevertheless it possesses wonderful vitality, and has conferred upon Scotland the blessings of civil and religious liberty. Its outer form is often hard and defective, and its movements irregular and convulsive, but its inner spirit is ever generous and free. Its rudeness and excess none will approve; its life, energy, and activity, all will admire. It came forth, like a thunder-cloud, from the mountains. Its quick lightning-flashes went crashing amid the old images of papal worship. The atmosphere of spiritual pollution was agitated and purified. Upon the parched ground fell gentle and refreshing showers. The sun of freedom began to smile upon hill and valley, and the whole land rejoiced under its placid influence.
John Knox's House—History of the Reformer—His Character—Carlyle's View—Testimony of John Milton.
John Knox's House—History of the Reformer—His Character—Carlyle's View—Testimony of John Milton.
Let us now descend from the Castle, and, passing down High Street, turn to the left, at the head of the Nether-bow, where we shall see the house of that stern but glorious old reformer, John Knox. There it is, looking mean enough now among those miserable gin-shops, paint-shops, and so forth; yet hallowed by the recollections of the past. Over the door is an inscription, invisible from the numerous sign-boards that cover it, containing the spirit and essence of that lofty Puritanism which Knox preached:
"LUFE . GOD . ABOVE . ALL . AND . YOUR . NICHBOUR . AS . YOURSELF."
"LUFE . GOD . ABOVE . ALL . AND . YOUR . NICHBOUR . AS . YOURSELF."
In this house Knox lived many years; here also he died in holy triumph; and from that little window he is said frequently to have addressed the populace. A rude stone effigy of the Reformer may be seen at the corner, and near it, cut in the stone, the name of God, in Greek, Latin, and English. It is gratifying to know that measures have recently been taken to erect a monument to Knox, near this spot, which shall be worthy of his memory.
The character of Knox has been terribly blackened by heartless and infidel historians, andespecially by sickly sentimentalists of the Werter school. Nevertheless, he was a noble-hearted, truth-loving, sham-hating, God-fearing, self-sacrificing man; a hero in the proper sense of the word, a minister of righteousness, an angel of Reform. Not, indeed, a soft, baby-faced, puling sentimentalist; but a lofty, iron-hearted man, who "never feared the face of clay," and did God's will, in spite of devils, popes, and kings. His history possesses the deepest and most romantic interest. It is one of the most magnificent passages in Scottish story. Bruce battled for a crown; Knox battled for the truth. Both conquered, after long toils and struggles; and conquered mainly by the might of their single arm. But the glory which irradiates the head of the Reformer far outshines that of the hero of Bannockburn, for the latter is earthly and evanescent; the former celestial and immortal.
John Knox was born in Haddington, not far from Edinburgh, of poor but honest parents, in the year 1505; grew up in solitude; was destined for the church; received a thorough collegiate education; became an honest friar; wore the monk's cowl for many years; adopted silently and unostentatiously the principles of the Protestant Reformation; spent much of his time in teaching, and in the prosecution of liberal studies, of which he was considered a master; was suddenly and unexpectedly called, at St. Andrews, by the unanimous voice of his brethren, to the preaching of the Word, and the defence of their religious liberties; after a brief struggle with himself yielded to the call, nobly threwhimself into the breach, at the hazard of his life, attacked "Papal idolatry" with unsparing vigor, was seized by the authorities, and sent a prisoner to France in 1547, where he worked in the galleys as a slave, but evermore maintaining his lofty courage and cheerful hope; was set at liberty two years afterwards; preached in England in the time of Edward the Sixth; refused a bishopric from the best of kings; retired to the continent at the accession of Mary, residing chiefly at Geneva and Frankfort; returned to Scotland in 1555; labored with indomitable perseverance to establish Protestantism; rebuked the great for immorality, profaneness and rapacity, and succeeded in greatly strengthening the cause of truth and freedom. At the earnest solicitation of the English congregation in Geneva, he went thither a second time; there he published "The First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment (Government) of Women," directed principally against Mary, Queen of England, and Mary of Guise, Regent of Scotland, two narrow-minded miserable despots; returned to Scotland in 1559; continued his exertions in behalf of Christ's truth; did much to establish common schools; finally saw Protestantism triumphant in Scotland; and died in 1572, so poor that his family had scarce sufficient to bury him, but with the universal love and homage of his countrymen, a conscience void of offence, and a hope full of immortality. "He had a sore fight of an existence; wrestling with popes and principalities; in defeat, contention, life-long struggle; rowing as a galley-slave, wandering as anexile. A sore fight, but he won it. 'Have you hope?' they asked him in his last moment when he could no longer speak. He lifted his finger, 'pointed upwards with his finger,' and so died. Honor to him! His works have not died. The letter of his work dies, as of all men's; but the spirit of it never."[13]
Knox has been much abused for his violent treatment of Queen Mary. His addresses and appeals to her have been characterized as impudent and cruel; but, thoroughly inspected, they will be found the reverse. Strong and startling they were, but neither impudent nor cruel. Doubtless they fell upon her ear like the tones of some old prophet, sternly rebuking sin, or vindicating the rights of God. Mary was a woman of matchless beauty; and had she been educated differently, might have blessed the world with the mild lustre of her Scottish reign; but she was the dupe of bad counsels, in spirit and practice a despot, the plaything of passion, and the reckless opposer of the best interests of her country. Her beauty and sufferings have shed a false lustre over her character; above all, have aided in concealing the terrible stain of infidelity to her marriage vows, and the implied murder of her wretched husband, charges which her apologists can extenuate, but not deny. But, forsooth, it is an insufferable thing for a plain honest-hearted man like John Knox to tell the truth to such an one! She was young, beautiful, fascinating;and however recklessly, madly, ruinously wrong, he must not advise her—above all, must not warn her! Now, such a notion may possibly commend itself to your "absolute gentlemen, of very soft society, full of most excellent differences and great showing; indeed, to speak feelingly of them, who are the card and calendar of gentry;" but it cannot be imposed upon our plain common sense. Mary was a queen, however, and John Knox a poor plebeian! Aye, aye! that is a difficulty! Kings and queens may do what they please. The people are made for them, not they for the people. And sure enough it is a vulgar thing to oppose them in their ambitious schemes, or to tell them the honest truth be-times! Poor John Knox! thou must fall down and worship "a painted bredd" after all. A beautiful queen must be spared, if Scotland should perish. But looking at the matter from the free atmosphere of New England, we maintain that John Knox was of higher rank than Mary Queen of Scots. He was more true, more heroic, more kingly, than all the race of the Stuarts. He had a right, in God's name, to speak the truth, "to reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with all long-suffering." Hence, though his words were stern and appalling, they were uttered with a kind and generous intention. "Madame," said Knox, when he saw Mary burst into tears from vexation and grief, "in God's presence I speak; I never delighted in the weeping of any of God's creatures, yea,I can scarcely well abide the tears of mine own boys, when mine own hands correct them, much less can I rejoice in your Majesty'sweeping; but seeing I have offered unto you no just occasion to be offended, I must sustain your Majesty's tears, rather than I dare hurt my conscience, or betray the commonwealth by silence."
Yes, he was a stern old puritan, a lion of a man, who made terrible havoc among the "painted bredds" of Popery, and turned back the fury of wild barons and persecuting priests. "His single voice," says Randolph, "could put more life into a host than six hundred blustering trumpets." Single handed, he met the rage of a disappointed government and an infuriated priesthood, and conquered by the silent might of his magnanimous audacity. In the wildest whirl of contending emotion, he never lost sight of the great end of his being, as a servant of God, nor swerved a hair's breadth from truth and right.
Yet this stern old Covenanter was not without a touch of gentleness and even of hilarity. He loved his home, his children, and his friends. An honest, quiet laugh often mantled his pale earnest visage. "They go far wrong," says Carlyle, whose thorough appreciation of such men as Luther, Cromwell, and Knox, is truly refreshing amid the vapid inanities or coarse prejudices of ordinary historians, "who think that Knox was a gloomy, spasmodic, shrieking fanatic. Not at all. He is one of the solidest of men. Practical, cautious, hopeful, patient; a most shrewd, observing, quietly discerning man. In fact, he has very much the type of character we assign to the Scotch at present: a certain sardonic taciturnity is in him;insight enough; and a stouter heart than he himself knows of. * * An honest-hearted, brotherly man; brother to the high, brother also to the low; sincere in his sympathy with both."
Knox, doubtless, had his faults; and what of that? He made some mistakes! and what, too, of that? Was he not a true man, and a true minister of God's Word? Did he not accomplish a great and beneficial work of Reform; and, having done this, did he not die a sweet and triumphant death? God has set his seal upon him, and upon his work; and that is enough for us.
We hesitate not, with Carlyle, to name the Reformation under Knox as the great era in Scottish history, as the one glorious event which gave life to the nation. Thence resulted freedom, activity, purity of morals, science, national and individual greatness. Previous to this event Scotland possessed only a rough, tumultuous physical life; her politics—dissensions and executions; her religion—a puerile superstition;—her literature—ballads and monkish legends; her joy—hunting, fighting, and drinking! But the Reformation breathed into her the breath of a spiritual existence. Her national prosperity dates from that era. Thence proceeded faith and order, education, industry, and wealth. "It was not a smooth business; but it was welcome surely, and cheap at that price, had it been far rougher. On the whole, cheap at any price, as life is. The people began tolive; they needed first of all todo that, at what cost and costs soever. Scottish literature and thought, Scotch industry, JamesWatt, David Hume, Walter Scott, Robert Burns. I find Knox and the Reformation acting in the heart's core of every one of these persons and phenomena; I find that, without the Reformation, they would not have been. Or what of Scotland? The Puritanism of Scotland became that of England, of New England. A tumult in the High Church of Edinburgh spread into a universal battle and struggle over all these realms; and there came out of it, after fifty years' struggling, what we all call 'the Glorious Revolution,' a Habeas Corpus Act, Free Parliaments, and much else."
It has become fashionable of late, in certain quarters, to undervalue the Reformation, and contemn those great and rugged spirits by whom it was accomplished. A sentimental, baby-hearted, superstition-smitten generation, cannot appreciate those mighty men, and mightier reforms of the olden time. But how well and worthily does the large-hearted and ethereal Milton speak of it: "When I recall to mind, at last, after so many dark ages, wherein the huge over-shadowing train of error had almost swept all the stars out of the firmament of the church; how the bright and blissful Reformation, by Divine power, struck through the black and settled night of ignorance and anti-Christian tyranny, methinks a sovereign and reviving joy must needs rush into the bosom of him that reads or hears, and the sweet odor of the returning Gospel imbathe his soul with the fragrancy of Heaven. Then was the sacred Bible sought out of the dusty corners, where profane falsehood and neglect hadthrown it, the schools opened, divine and human learning raked out of the embers of forgotten tongues; the princes and cities trooping apace to the new-erected banner of salvation; the martyrs, with the unresistible might of weakness, shaking the powers of darkness, and scorning the fiery rage of the red old dragon."[14]A noble testimony like this far outweighs all the cant of a whining sentimentalism. Its truth, as well as its eloquence, all must admit.
Edinburgh University—Professor Wilson—His Life and Writings, Genius and Character.
Edinburgh University—Professor Wilson—His Life and Writings, Genius and Character.
We will now re-enter High Street, and thence turn at right angles into South-bridge Street, and proceed to the University. It is a large and imposing structure, but fails to produce its proper impression from the circumstance of being wedged in among such a mass of other buildings. We enter by a magnificent portico on the right, supported by Doric columns, twenty-six feet in height, each formed of a single block of stone, and find ourselves in a spacious quadrangular court, surrounded by the various college edifices. The buildings are of free stone, beautifully polished, and of recent erection, the old buildings, which were unsightly and incommodious, having been taken down to make way for this elegant and spacious structure. The University itself was founded by King James the Sixth, in the year 1582, and has enjoyed uninterrupted prosperity to the present time. The average number of students is from ten to twelve hundred. The Rev. Dr. Lee, one of the most amiable and learned men, is at present Principal of the University, and the various chairs are filled by gentlemen of distinguished talent. The students are not resident within the college, but choose theirboarding-houses, at pleasure, in any part of the city. They are not distinguished, as at Glasgow and Oxford by any peculiar badge; are of all ages, and enjoy the liberty of selecting the classes which they attend. Those however who take degrees are required to attend a particular course, but this is not done by more than one-half or at most two-thirds of the students. The government of the University is not particularly strict. The examinations are limited and imperfect; and hence it is very possible for a young man to slip through the University, without contracting any great tincture of scholarship. It is mainly the talent of the professors, and the high literary enthusiasm they inspire, which sustain the institution. There are thirty-four foundations for bursaries or scholarships, the benefit of which is extended to eighty students. The aggregate amount is about fifty dollars a year, for each. The Annual Session lasts from October to May, with an occasional holiday, and a week or two's vacation at Christmas. The rest of the year which includes most of the summer and autumn is vacation, which gives the professors an opportunity for rest and preparation, and the students facilities either for private study, or for teaching and other employments. This order prevails in all the other Scottish Universities, and is attended with many advantages. But a truce to general remarks.
We have not time to visit the Museum, which is quite extensive and admirably arranged, nor the Library, which is distinguished by its ample dimensions and beautiful decorations. Neither can wedwell upon the celebrated men who have encircled this Institution with a halo of literary and scientific glory. But we will step into that door in front of us, ascend the stairs, and enter the lecture-room of Professor Wilson, the far famed "Christopher North," poet and novelist, orator, critic and philosopher. The young gentlemen have assembled, but the Professor has not yet come in. Good looking but noisy fellows these! Some of them, you perceive, are very young, others are considerably advanced in years. Most of them are well dressed, some poorly so. A few look studious and care-worn, but the majority hearty and joyous. How their clear loud laugh rings through the hall! They are from all ranks of society, some being the sons of noblemen, others of farmers and mechanics. Most of them probably have wherewithal to pay their college expenses, but not a few, you may rely on it, are sorely pinched. The Scots are an ambitious, study-loving race, and quite a number of these young men are struggling up from the depths of poverty; and if they do not die in the effort, will be heard of, one of these days, in the pulpit, or at the bar.
But there comes the Professor, bowing graciously to the students, while he receives from them a hearty "ruff," as the Scots call their energetic stamping. What a magnificent looking man! Over six feet high, broad and brawny, but of elegant proportions, with a clear, frank, joyous looking face, a few wrinkles only around the eye, in other respects hale and smooth, his fine locks sprinkled with gray,flowing down to his shoulders, and his large lustrous eye beaming with a softened fire. His subject is "the Passions." He commences with freedom and ease, but without any particular energy,—makes his distinctions well, but without much precision or force; for, to tell the honest truth, philosophical analysis is not his particular forte. Still, it is good, so far as it goes, and probably appears inferior chiefly by contrast. But he begins to describe. The blood mantles to his forehead, thrown back with a majestic energy, and his fine eye glows, nay, absolutely burns. And now his impassioned intellect careers, as on the wings of the wind, leaping, bounding, dashing, whirling, over hill and dale, rises into the clear empyrean, and bathes itself in the beams of the sun. His audience is intent, hushed, absorbed, rapt! He begins, however, to descend, and O! how beautifully, like a falcon from "the lift," or an eagle from the storm-cloud. And, now he skims along the surface with bird-like wing, glancing in the sunlight, swiftly and gracefully. How varied and delicate his language, how profuse his images, his allusions how affecting, and his voice, ringing like a bell among the mountains. At such seasons his style, manner and tone, are unequalled. Chaste and exhilarating as the dew of the morning in the vale of Strathmore, yet rich and rare as a golden sunset on the brow of Benlomond. But listen, he returns to his philosophical distinctions,—fair, very fair, to be sure, but nothing special, rather clumsy perhaps, except in regard to his language. True, undoubtedly, but notprofound, not deeply philosophical, and to me, not particularly interesting. His auditors have time to breathe. You hear an occasional cough, or blowing of the nose. A few of the students are diligently taking notes, but the rest are listless. This will last only a moment, and now that he is approaching the close of his lecture, he will give us something worth hearing. There, again he is out upon the open sea. How finely the sails are set, and with what a majestic sweep the noble vessel rounds the promontory, and anchors itself in the bay.[15]
Instead of spending our time gazing at public buildings, let us continue our conversation about the Professor, whose life has been a tissue of interesting and romantic events. We shall find it profitable as well as pleasant, to glance at the principal points in his history, as they tend to throw light on the Genius of Scotland.
John Wilson is the oldest son of a wealthy manufacturer in the city of Paisley, and was born there in the year 1788, and is now therefore fifty-eight years of age. He was reared and educated, with almost patrician indulgence, and inherited from his father a considerable amount of property, variously estimated from twenty to fifty thousand pounds sterling. Of course he enjoyed the best facilities for acquiring a thorough and polished education. His instructor in classical learning was Mr. Peddie of Paisley, to whom a public dinner was given in 1831 by his friends and pupils. Professor Wilson was present, and on proposing the health of hisvenerable preceptor, delivered a brilliant oration, not the least interesting portion of which had reference to his somewhat erratic course at school. "Sometimes," said he, "I sat as dux—sometimes in the middle of the class—and I am obliged to confess, that on some unfortunate occasions, I was absolutelydolt!" The confession was received, of course, with roars of laughter.
From this school he was entered at the University of Glasgow, when he was little more than thirteen years of age. But he was tall for his years, and possessed an original and remarkably exuberant mind; and though distinguished at this time, more for the vigor of his physical constitution, and the buoyancy of his spirits, than for any particular attainments in literature, he generally kept his standing among his fellow students, many of whom were greatly his seniors.
From Glasgow he was transferred to Oxford, and here he first distinguished himself as a man of genius. He contended in the annual competition for the Newdigate prize of fifty guineas for the best fifty lines of English verse, and though the contest was open to not less than two thousand individuals, he carried off the palm from every competitor.
At Oxford as at Glasgow he was distinguished for his fine athletic frame, his joyous and even boisterous spirits, and his excessive devotion to all sorts of gymnastics, field sports and frolicking. This however was blended with an extraordinary devotion to literature, and a peculiar simplicity andfrankness of character, which rendered him a universal favorite. It is well known that at Oxford great latitude is enjoyed, especially by "gentlemen commoners," as they are called, to which class Wilson chose to belong. It is expected that the "gentlemen commoners" shall wear a more splendid costume,—spend a good deal more money,—and enjoy various immunities, which amount occasionally to a somewhat unbridled license. "Once launched on this orbit," says a fellow student of Wilson's, writing to a friend in America, "Mr. Wilson continued to blaze away for four successive years. * * * Never did a man, by variety of talents and variety of humors, contrive to place himself as the connecting link between orders of men so essentially repulsive of each other; from the learned president of his college, Dr. Routh, the Editor of parts of Plato, and of some theological selections, with whom Wilson enjoyed unlimited favor, down to the humblest student. In fact from this learned Academic Doctor, and many others of the same class, ascending and descending, he possessed an infinite gamut of friends and associates, running through every key; and the diapason closing full in groom, cobbler, stable boy, barber's apprentice, with every shade and hue of blackguard and ruffian. In particular, amongst this latter kind of worshipful society, there was no man who had any talents, real or fancied, for thumping, or being thumped, but had experienced some taste of his merits from Mr. Wilson. All other pretensions in the gymnastic arts he took apride in humbling or in honoring, but chiefly did his examinations fall upon pugilism; and not a man who could either 'give,' or 'take,' but boasted to have been punished by Wilson ofMallens(corruption of Magdalen) College."
Whether the statement of Wilson's pugilistic attainments is not somewhat exaggerated we have not the means of deciding. All reports however go to confirm its general accuracy. His career was certainly a wild and hazardous one, and would have ruined an ordinary man. But underlying the wild exuberance of Wilson's nature, there was a solid foundation of good feeling and good sense, which ever and anon manifested itself, and finally formed the principal element of his character. Besides, he could never forget the holy instructions of his childhood. Scotland throws a thousand sacred influences around the hearts of her children; and hence, wild and wayward in their youth, they not unfrequently live to be the safeguards of virtue and the ornaments of society.
It may be well supposed that on leaving Oxford, in the very hey-day of youth, with an amazing exuberance of animal spirits, and the command of an ample fortune, he must have run a somewhat extravagant career. He purchased a beautiful estate on the banks of Windermere, not far from the residences of Southey, Coleridge and Wordsworth, and yielded himself to the full enjoyment of every pleasure. Having built upon his estate a new and splendid edifice, he furnished it with every appliance of taste and luxury, and succeeded by his"magnificent" style of housekeeping, in spending a large amount of his property. He gave himself up to the most diversified pursuits, now conning his literary treasures, and now frolicking in sailor jacket and trowsers, with the young men of the country.
The following, from a writer already quoted, will give a lively idea of Wilson's habits and appearance, at this period of his life. "My introduction to him—setting apart the introducee himself—was memorable from one circumstance, viz., the person of the introducer.William Wordsworth, it was, who in the vale of Grasmere, if it can interest you to know the place, and in the latter end of 1808, if you can be supposed to care about the time, did me the favor of making me known to John Wilson. I remember the whole scene as circumstantially as if it belonged to but yesterday. In the vale of Grasmere—that peerless little vale which you, and Gray, the poet, and so many others have joined in admiring as the very Eden of English beauty, peace, and pastoral solitude—you may possibly recall, even from that flying glimpse you had of it, a modern house called Allan Bank, standing under a low screen of woody rocks, which descend from the hill of Silver Horn, on the western side of the lake. This house had been recently built by a wealthy merchant of Liverpool; but for some reason, of no importance to you or me, not being immediately wanted for the family of the owner, had been let for a term of three years to Mr. Wordsworth. At the time I speak of, both Mr. Coleridge and myself were ona visit to Mr. Wordsworth, and one room on the ground floor, designed for a breakfasting room, which commands a sublime view of the three mountains, Fairfield, Arthur's Chair, and Seat Sandal, was then occupied by Mr. Coleridge as a study. On this particular day, the sun having only just risen, it naturally happened that Mr. Coleridge—whose nightly vigils were long—had not yet come down to breakfast; meantime and until the epoch of the Coleridgean breakfast should arrive, his study was lawfully disposable to profane uses. Here, therefore, it was, that opening the door hastily in quest of a book, I found seated, and in earnest conversation, two gentlemen, one of them my host, Mr. Wordsworth, at that time about thirty-eight years old; the other was a younger man, by at least sixteen or seventeen years, in a sailor's dress, manifestly in robust health—fervidus juventa, and wearing upon his countenance a powerful expression of ardor and animated intelligence, mixed with much good nature.Mr. Wilson of Elleray—delivered as the formula of introduction, in the deep tones of Mr. Wordsworth—at once banished the momentary surprise I felt on finding an unknown stranger where I had expected nobody, and substituted a surprise of another kind. I now understood who it was that I saw; and there was no wonder in his being at Allan Bank, as Elleray stood within nine miles; but (as usually happens in such cases) I felt a shock of surprise on seeing a person so little corresponding to the one I had half unconsciously prefigured to myself."
Mr. Wilson here appears in a comparatively grave and dignified aspect. The same writer describes him in quite a different scene. Walking in the morning, he met him, with a parcel of young "harum skarum" fellows on horseback, chasing an honest bull, which had been driven off in the night from his peaceful meadow, to furnish sport to these "wild huntsmen." About this time, also, he was the leader of a "boating club," which involved him in great expense. They had no less than two or three establishments for their boats and boat-men, and innumerable appendages, which cost each of them annually a little fortune. The number of their boats was so great as to form a little fleet, while some of them were quite large and expensive. One of these in particular, a ten-oared barge, was believed at the time to have cost over two thousand dollars. In consequence of these and other expenses, and perhaps the loss of some of his patrimony by the failure of a trustee, subjected him to the necessity of seeking a change of life. This led to his becoming a candidate for the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh.
Previous to this he had formed plans of extensive travel. One was a voyage of exploration to Central Africa and the sources of the Nile. Another was concocted with two of his friends, with whom he proposed to sail from Falmouth to the Tagus, and landing wherever accident or fancy might determine, to purchase mules, hire Spanish servants, and travel extensively in Spain andPortugal, for eight or nine months; then, by such of the islands in the Mediterranean as particularly attracted them, they were to pass over into Greece, and thence to Constantinople. Finally, they were to have visited the Troad, Syria, Egypt, and perhaps Nubia!
But the reduction of his means, and his marriage with a young and beautiful English lady, to whom he was greatly attached, broke up these extravagant schemes. His marriage took place in 1810. Two sons and three daughters were the fruits of it; and the connection has doubtless proved one of the happiest events in the Professor's life. Death however has entered this delightful circle. "How characteristic of him," says Gilfillan, "and how affecting, was his saying to his students, in apology for not returning their essays at the usual time, 'I could not see to read them in the Valley and the Shadow of Death.'"
His application in 1820 for the professorship of Moral Philosophy which he now fills, was successful, notwithstanding he had for his competitor one of the profoundest thinkers, and most accomplished writers of the age, Sir William Hamilton, who conducted himself in the affair with the greatest dignity and urbanity. Many things were said, at the time, derogatory to Wilson's personal character, and his fitness to fill the chair of Moral Philosophy. The matter probably was decided, more with reference to political considerations than any thing besides, as at that time party politics ran exceedingly high. Professor Wilson has disappointedthe expectations of his enemies, to say the least, and has been gaining in the esteem and good will of all classes of the community.
His splendid career as a poet, editor, critic and novelist, is well known. His poems, the principal of which are the "Isle of Palms," and the "City of the Plague," are exquisitely beautiful, but deficient in energy, variety and dramatic power. He excels in description, and touches, with a powerful hand, the strings of pure and delicate sentiment. Nothing can be finer than his "Address to a Wild Deer"—"A Sleeping Child"—"The Highland Burial Ground," and "The Home Among the Mountains" in the "City of the Plague." His tales and stories, such as "Margaret Lindsay," "The Foresters," and those in "The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," are well conceived, and charmingly written. They breathe a spirit of the purest morality, and are highly honorable not only to the head but to the heart of their eloquent author. But it is in criticism and occasional sketching in which he chiefly excels. In this field, so varied and delightful, he absolutely luxuriates. His series of papers on Spenser and Homer are remarkable for their delicate discrimination, strength and exuberance of fancy. No man loves Scotland more enthusiastically, or describes her peculiar scenery and manners with more success. Here his "meteor pen," as the author of the Corn Law Rhymes aptly called it, passes like sunlight over the glowing page. His descriptions of Highland scenery and Highland sports are instinct with life and beauty.In a word, to quote the eulogy of the discriminating Hallam, "Wilson is a writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters."
Professor Wilson's nature is essentially poetical. It is sensitive, imaginative and generous. It is also said to be deeply religious. Age and experience, reflection, and the Word of God, which he greatly reveres, have tamed the wild exuberance of his youth, strengthened his better principles, and shed over his character the mellow radiance of faith and love. "The main current of his nature," says Gilfillan, "is rapt and religious. In proof of this we have heard, that on one occasion, he was crossing the hills from St. Mary's Loch to Moffat. It was a misty morning; but as he ascended, the mist began to break into columns before the radiant finger of the rising sun. Wilson's feelings became too much excited for silence, and he began to speak, and from speaking began to pray; and prayed aloud and alone, for thirty miles together in the misty morn. We can conceive what a prayer it would be, and with what awe some passing shepherd may have heard the incarnate voice, sounding on its dim and perilous way."