"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried,Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,O'er the grave where our hero we buried."
"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried,Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,O'er the grave where our hero we buried."
Sir John Moore was a citizen of Glasgow, and his townsmen have erected this statue as expressive of their veneration for his memory. To the rightof this monument, in the south-west angle of the square, you see in bronze, and of colossal magnitude, the noble figure of James Watt. He is represented in a sitting posture on a circular pedestal of Aberdeen granite. It is considered one of the happiest productions of the distinguished Chantrey. The fine meditative features of the great inventor are strikingly developed. Watt was born in Greenock, on the 19th of January, 1736, but conducted his experiments chiefly in Glasgow. He came thither in 1757, first as a mathematical instrument maker to the college, and subsequently as an engineer. In early life he gave indications of his peculiar genius, by various little mechanical contrivances. At the age of six years, he was occasionally found stretched on the floor, delineating with chalk the lines of a geometrical problem. At other times he greatly obliged his young companions by making and repairing their toys; and before he had reached his seventeenth year he had amused them with the wonders of an electrical machine of his own construction. He had also instructed himself by making experiments on the steam of a tea-kettle. He subsequently stored his mind with the wonders of physics, chemistry and medicine.
In the University of Glasgow, Watt was employed to fit up the instruments of the Macfarlane Observatory, which gave him an opportunity of becoming acquainted with Adam Smith, Joseph Black, and Robert Simson, names immortal in the scientific annals of Scotland. Here also he formed an intimacy with John Robinson, then a student atcollege, and subsequently the celebrated Dr. Robinson, who first called the attention of Watt to the subject of steam engines, and threw out the idea of applying them to steam carriages and other purposes.
The steam-engine had existed before this time, but it was extremely imperfect, and, moreover, of no great practical use. Hence Mr. Watt was not, properly speaking, the inventor but the improver of the steam-engine. Still his improvement was equal to an invention of the highest order. It made the instrumentavailablefor the highest practical purposes. "He found the crazy machines of Savery and Newcomen laboring and creaking at our mine heads, and occupying the same rank as prime movers with the wind-mill and the water-wheel; and by a succession ofinventionsanddiscoveries, deduced from the most profound chemical knowledge, and applied by the most exquisite mechanical skill, he brought the steam-engine to such a degree of perfection as to stamp it the most precious gift which man ever bequeathed to his race."[125]
Watt had "a sore fight of existence," at least in the early part of his career, and he came near being deprived of the emolument which was his just due as a benefactor of his race. But he eventually triumphed over all opposition, retired from business, and continued to reside during the rest of his life on his estate at Heathfield Soho. He was exceedingly happy in his domestic relations, thoughcalled, in 1804, to suffer a painful bereavement in the loss of his youngest son Gregory, who had given high promise of literary and scientific eminence. In 1808 he was elected a corresponding member of the Institute of France; and in 1814, he was nominated by the Academy of Sciences as one of itseightforeign correspondents. In 1819 his health suffered a rapid decline, and he himself felt that this was his last illness. "Resigned, himself, he endeavored to make others resigned. He pointed out to his son the topics of consolation which should occupy his mind; and expressing his sincere gratitude to Providence for the length of days he had enjoyed, for his exemption from most of the infirmities of age, and for the serenity and cheerfulness which marked the close of his life; he expired at Heathfield on the 25th of August, 1819." He was interred in the parish church of Handsworth; and over his tomb his son erected an elegant Gothic chapel, containing a beautiful marble bust by Chantrey. Another bust by the same artist has been placed in one of the halls of Glasgow College. A colossal statue of Carrara marble, procured at great expense by public subscription, graces the recesses of Westminster Abbey.
The most useful memorial of Watt, however, exists in Greenock, in the form of a large and handsome building for a public library, erected by his son, in which the citizens have caused to be placed a handsome marble statue, with an inscription from the pen of Lord Jeffrey. Lord Brougham concluded an eloquent speech on the merits of Mr.Watt, in the following striking terms:—"If in old times the temples of false gods were appropriately filled with the images of men who had carried devastation over the face of the earth, surely our temples cannot be more worthily adorned with the likenesses of those whose triumphs have been splendid indeed, but unattended by sorrow to any—who have achieved victories, not for one country only, but to enlarge the power and increase the happiness of the whole human race."
Passing up High Street, we come to an arched gateway, and find ourselves in a quadrangular court, with antique looking buildings on each side. Beyond this we come to another quadrangle, also surrounded by buildings of perhaps more recent date. Passing straight on we reach a handsome edifice of polished freestone, directly in front of us, and standing alone, which is nothing less than the Hunterian museum. These then are the buildings of Glasgow University. Beyond us is the college-green, ornamented with trees, and divided into two parts by a sluggish stream which passes through the centre. A number of the students, having laid aside their scarlet gowns, are playing at football, a violent but delightful and invigorating exercise.
The University of Glasgow was founded in 1450, in the time of James the Second. Bishop Turnbull was then in possession of the see, and his successors were appointed chancellors. The history of the institution has been various; but, generally speaking, it has enjoyed a high degree of prosperity.Of late years the number of students has declined, from what cause we know not. The number, in all the departments, does not exceed a thousand, whereas, in 1824, when the writer was a student in Glasgow, there were from fourteen to fifteen hundred. Well does he remember the enthusiasm with which they welcomed their popular candidate for rector, Henry Brougham, Esq., M. P., as he was then termed, and the eager interest with which they listened to his inaugural discourse. Sir James McIntosh, a fine hearty looking man, with bland expressive eyes, and two of the sons of Robert Burns, tall, good looking young men, but with no particular resemblance to their illustrious father, were present, with others, to grace the occasion. Brougham was in the maturity of his strength, and the hey-day of his fame. Tall, muscular, and wiry, with searching visage, dark complexion, keen piercing eyes, ample forehead, and long outstretched finger, he stood up the very personification of strength and eloquence. But Brougham has been frequently described, and we therefore pass him by. The next rector that was chosen was Thomas Campbell, the poet, once a member of the college, and one of its most distinguished ornaments. A large portion, if not the whole of the "Pleasures of Hope" was written while he was a student at college.
Many distinguished men have been professors in this institution. Among these Dr. Reid and Dr. Hutcheson, Dr. Simpson and Dr. Moore, Adam Smith, and Professor Sandford stand pre-eminent. Well does the writer remember the accomplished,but unfortunate Sandford, and the profound enthusiasm for the Greek classics which he inspired in his students. He was a son of the venerable Bishop Sandford, a distinguished graduate of Oxford, and a man of the highest attainments in Greek and English literature. Of small stature, he yet possessed an elegant and commanding form. His pale face, finely chiselled mouth, dark eyes, and marble forehead are before me now. I hear his clear, musical voice, rolling out,ore rotundo, the resounding periods of Homer, or the energetic lines of Eschylus. No man ever recited Greek with such enthusiasm and energy. It was a perfect treat to hear him read the odes of Anacreon or the choral hymns of Eschylus; to say nothing of his elegant translations, or his fine critical remarks. He was created a baronet by the government, and bade fair to be one of the most distinguished and influential literary men in the country. But he was seduced into party politics, was sent as the representative of Glasgow to parliament, and failed—failed utterly and forever; for his want of success in the House of Commons preyed upon his spirits, and caused his death.
Among the distinguished men now occupying places in this university we find Mr. Lushington, of Trinity College, Cambridge, professor of Greek, and Dr. Nichol, author of the popular Lectures on the Wonders of the Heavens, professor of practical astronomy. Mr. Mylne, professor of moral philosophy, and Mr. Buchanan, professor of logic, are acute and learned men.
Leaving the college, we ascend High Street, andafter reaching the top of the hill, a little to the right, we see before us the "High Kirk," or rather the old cathedral of Glasgow, one of the finest remains of antiquity, surrounded by a vast church-yard, containing many rich and ancient monumental tombs, and the mouldering bones of many by-gone generations. It has a superb crypt, "equalled by none in the kingdom,"—once used as a place of worship, but now as a place for burying the dead. The author of Waverley has invested it with additional interest by making it the scene of a striking incident in Rob Roy. The whole edifice has a most commanding appearance.
At the north-east end of the cathedral the spot is yet to be seen where papal bigotry and superstition lighted the fires of religious persecution. There in the year 1538, Jerome Russel, a member of the convent of Franciscan friars, in Glasgow, a man of considerable talents, and John Kennedy, a young man from Ayr, of high family, only about eighteen years of age, were burned for having embraced the doctrines of the infant Reformation. They sustained the terrible ordeal through which they passed to glory with a becoming dignity and fortitude. "This is your hour and power of darkness," said Russel, "now you sit as judges, and we are wrongfully condemned, but the day cometh which will clear our innocency, and you shall see your own blindness to your everlasting confusion—go on and fulfil the measure of your iniquity." Is it surprising that the reaction of reform which followed such proceedings should occasionally have gone to unjustifiablelengths, and that the people should have torn down "the rookeries," which sheltered those birds of prey, as the papal tyrants of that day might well be termed? Never were a nobler or more heroic set of men than the martyrs and confessors of that trying time! Knox, Melville, and Wishart might be stern, but they were men of godlike temper and heroic zeal, of whom the world was not worthy; and whatever poetasters and novelists, sentimental journalists, and infidel historians may say of them, they will be found at last, occupying an honored place, at God's right hand.
The Necropolis—Jewish Burial Place—Monument to John Knox—Monuments of William Macgavin and Dr. Dick—Reminiscences—Character and Writings of Dr. Dick—Pollok and 'the Course of Time'—Grave of Motherwell—Sketch of his Life—His Genius and Poetry—'Jeanie Morrison.'—'My Heid is like to rend, Willie.'—'A Summer Sabbath Noon.'
The Necropolis—Jewish Burial Place—Monument to John Knox—Monuments of William Macgavin and Dr. Dick—Reminiscences—Character and Writings of Dr. Dick—Pollok and 'the Course of Time'—Grave of Motherwell—Sketch of his Life—His Genius and Poetry—'Jeanie Morrison.'—'My Heid is like to rend, Willie.'—'A Summer Sabbath Noon.'
East of the Cathedral, a few steps, lies the Necropolis, on the brow of a hill which overlooks the city and the surrounding regions. We pass over the "Bridge of Sighs," so named from its leading to the Cemetery, and consisting of a handsome arch, spanning the "Molendinar Burn," a brawling rivulet, whose waters, collected into a small basin, dash over an artificial cascade into the ravine below. The Necropolis covers the rocky eminence formerly crowned with dark firs, and supposed, in ancient times to have been a retreat of the Druids, who here performed their fearful rites. But how sweet and peaceful now, ornamented with fine trees and shrubbery, shady walks, and beautiful monuments, a serene retreat for the peaceful dead. In point of situation and appearance, the Necropolis is superior to "Pere la Chaise," though certainly inferior to "Greenwood" and "Mount Auburn," in our opinion the most attractive burying-places in the world. Still, each of these has a beauty of its own, well fitted to soften and subdue those feelingsof grief and horror naturally excited by death and the grave. Such sweet and attractive places of burial are in harmony with the genius of the Gospel. The ancient Greeks, from their very horror of death and their ignorance of futurity, endeavored to invest the tomb with festal associations. Why, then, should not we, upon whom the light of immortality has descended, lay those we love in scenes of quiet beauty, where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest?" Does not Holy Writ declare, "Blessedare the dead that die in the Lord?" It is therefore meet to place their bodies only in scenes which remind us of rest, of hope, and of Heaven.
"The Dead cannot grieve,Not a sob nor a sigh meets mine ear,Which compassion itself could relieve.Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one here."
"The Dead cannot grieve,Not a sob nor a sigh meets mine ear,Which compassion itself could relieve.Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear;Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one here."
Let affection, then, bury her dead and build her tombs amid the trees and the flowers, which preach to us of the resurrection-morn and the paradise of God.
"The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,And look for the sleepers around us to rise!The second to Faith which insures it fulfilled;And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,Who bequeathed us them both when he rose from the skies!"
"The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,And look for the sleepers around us to rise!The second to Faith which insures it fulfilled;And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,Who bequeathed us them both when he rose from the skies!"
This cemetery was founded in 1831, and the first sale was to the Jews, who require a burying-place for themselves. It lies in the north-west corner of the grounds. The enclosure contains the requisiteaccommodations for washing the bodies before interment as required by the Jewish law, which also forbids one body to be deposited above another. The place is ornamented with excellent taste. On the left is a beautiful pillar, in imitation of Absalom's pillar in the "King's dale." On the front of this column, and immediately under its capital, is a piece of fret-work, formed of Hebrew letters, representing the words, "Who among the gods is like unto Jehovah?" On the shaft of the column are those touching stanzas from Byron's Hebrew Melodies, concluding thus:
"Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,Where shall ye flee away and be at rest;The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,Mankind their country—Israel but the grave."
"Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,Where shall ye flee away and be at rest;The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,Mankind their country—Israel but the grave."
On the lower part of the column is the following:
"Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let thy widows trust in me."
"Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let thy widows trust in me."
On the other side of the gateway are engraved the following verses:
"A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel weeping for her children, refused to be comforted for her children, because they were not.""Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord, and they shall come again from the land of the enemy.""And there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall come again to their own border."
"A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel weeping for her children, refused to be comforted for her children, because they were not."
"Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord, and they shall come again from the land of the enemy."
"And there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall come again to their own border."
And on the opposite pillar is the following:
"How hath the Lord covered the daughter of Sion with a cloud in his anger, and cast down from heaven to the earth the beauty of Israel, and removed not his footstool in the day of his anger.""But though he caused grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies. For he doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men."
"How hath the Lord covered the daughter of Sion with a cloud in his anger, and cast down from heaven to the earth the beauty of Israel, and removed not his footstool in the day of his anger."
"But though he caused grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies. For he doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men."
On the summit of the hill, and towering above the rest, is the commanding monument of John Knox, intended to be commemorative of the Reformation. On a lofty square pedestal, stands the statue of the stern old Reformer, with the Bible in one hand, and the other stretched out, as if in the act of addressing the multitude. On one side of the pedestal is the following inscription:
To testify gratitude for inestimable servicesIn the cause of Religion, Education, and Civil Liberty,To awaken admirationOf that Integrity, Disinterestedness and Courage,Which stood unshaken in the midst of trials,And in the maintenance of the highest objects—Finally,To cherish unceasing reverence for the principles and blessingsof that Great Reformation, by the influence of which ourcountry, though in the midst of difficulties, hasrisen to honor, prosperity, and happiness,This Monument is erected by Voluntary Subscription,To the Memory ofJOHN KNOX,The chief instrument, under God, of the Reformationin Scotland,On the 22d day of Sept. 1825.He died rejoicing in the faith of the Gospel, at Edinburgh, on the24th of Nov. 1532, in the 69th year of his age.
On the other sides are the following:
"The Reformation produced a revolution in the sentiments of mankind, the greatest as well as most beneficial that has happened since the publication of Christianity.""In 1547, and in the city where his friend George Wishart had suffered, John Knox, surrounded with dangers, first preached the doctrines of the Reformation. In 1559, on the 24th of August, the parliament of Scotland adopted the confession of faith, presented by the reformed ministers, and declared popery no longer to be the religion of this kingdom."John Knox became then a minister of Edinburgh, where he continued to his death, the incorruptible guardian of our best interests."'I can take God to witness,' he declared, 'that I never preached in contempt of any man, and wise men will consider that a true friend cannot flatter; especially in a case that involves the salvation of the bodies and the souls, not of a few persons, but of the whole realm.' When laid in the grave, the Regent said: 'There lieth he who never feared the face of man, who was often threatened with pistol and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and honor.'"Patrick Hamilton, a youth of high rank and distinguished attainments, was the first martyr in Scotland in the cause of the Reformation. He was condemned to the flames in St. Andrews, in 1528, and the 24th year of his age."From 1530 to 1540, persecution raged in every quarter, many suffered the most cruel deaths, and many fled to England and the continent. Among these early martyrs were Jerome Russel and Alexander Kennedy, two young men of great piety and talent, who suffered at Glasgow. William Wishart returned to Scotland, from which he had been banished, and preached the Gospel in various quarters. In 1546, this heavenly-minded man, the friend and instructor of Knox, was committed to the flames at St. Andrews."
"The Reformation produced a revolution in the sentiments of mankind, the greatest as well as most beneficial that has happened since the publication of Christianity."
"In 1547, and in the city where his friend George Wishart had suffered, John Knox, surrounded with dangers, first preached the doctrines of the Reformation. In 1559, on the 24th of August, the parliament of Scotland adopted the confession of faith, presented by the reformed ministers, and declared popery no longer to be the religion of this kingdom.
"John Knox became then a minister of Edinburgh, where he continued to his death, the incorruptible guardian of our best interests.
"'I can take God to witness,' he declared, 'that I never preached in contempt of any man, and wise men will consider that a true friend cannot flatter; especially in a case that involves the salvation of the bodies and the souls, not of a few persons, but of the whole realm.' When laid in the grave, the Regent said: 'There lieth he who never feared the face of man, who was often threatened with pistol and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and honor.'
"Patrick Hamilton, a youth of high rank and distinguished attainments, was the first martyr in Scotland in the cause of the Reformation. He was condemned to the flames in St. Andrews, in 1528, and the 24th year of his age.
"From 1530 to 1540, persecution raged in every quarter, many suffered the most cruel deaths, and many fled to England and the continent. Among these early martyrs were Jerome Russel and Alexander Kennedy, two young men of great piety and talent, who suffered at Glasgow. William Wishart returned to Scotland, from which he had been banished, and preached the Gospel in various quarters. In 1546, this heavenly-minded man, the friend and instructor of Knox, was committed to the flames at St. Andrews."
Let the thoughtful ponder these interesting memorials, and say whether the Reformation in Scotland was not a glorious event!
At a little distance from Knox's monument, is one to the memory of Mr. Macgavin, a banker in Glasgow, and author of "the Protestant;" andanother of great elegance and beauty, to the memory of Dr. Dick, late professor of theology in the United Secession Church. "Say not that the good ever die," and "he sleeps a sacred sleep," are engraven, in Greek, upon the sides of the monument, beautiful and appropriate sentiments for the tomb of a Christian. Dr. Dick was pre-eminently a good man, and not only so but a man of the highest attainments. Well does the writer remember his dignified bearing, fine countenance, and silver hair. But a few years ago, he sat at the feet of this venerable man, as his instructor in theology, and received from his lips lessons of holy wisdom. While professor of theology, the reverend doctor was also pastor of one of the largest and most influential of the Secession churches in the city of Glasgow. He was greatly venerated, both by the people of his charge and by his theological pupils, for his dignity and purity of character, his clear, well balanced intellect, his calm and consistent piety. He wrote lucidly and elegantly on the "Inspiration of the Scriptures," a work which a distinguished English bishop so much admired that he carried it about with him in his pocket. His "Lectures on the Acts of the Apostles," though inferior to the production just named, is also a valuable work. Since his death, his "Theological Prelections" have been published, and are much esteemed for their clear statement, and defence of evangelical truth. Always lucid, always logical and satisfactory, he is never profound or original. His style glides in pellucid beauty, like a rivulet through the meadow,mirroring in its calm depths the green foliage which adorns its banks, and the blue heavens bending above it, but never cutting itself a new channel, or sweeping onward, with majestic force, like a torrent to the sea. The labors of Dr. Dick were pre-eminently useful; and a host of young men, educated under his influence, now fill posts of the highest responsibility in Scotland, and in other parts of the world. Pollok was a student of the Doctor's at the same time with the writer, but was not known to be possessed of any extraordinary genius till after the publication of "The Course of Time." He was considered a man of talent, however, and had written two or three sermons, containing passages of considerable power. But his heart was in his great poem during the whole of his student life. So intensely did he work upon it, that he had often to be assisted to bed, from sheer exhaustion. "The Course of Time" has many obvious faults, but abounds in strokes of genius and power. A great soul has poured itself into this rugged and sometimes gloomy channel, which, traversing the whole course of time, finally loses itself in the ocean of eternity. Pollok was tall, well proportioned, of a dark complexion, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set eyes, heavy eyebrows and black bushy hair. A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, which flashed, with a meteor brilliancy, whenever he spoke with enthusiasm and energy. He was born in 1798, at North Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,—
"'Mong hills and streamsAnd melancholy deserts, where the sunSaw as he pass'd, a shepherd only hereAnd there, watching his little flock; or heardThe ploughman talking to his steers."
"'Mong hills and streamsAnd melancholy deserts, where the sunSaw as he pass'd, a shepherd only hereAnd there, watching his little flock; or heardThe ploughman talking to his steers."
His father was an honest farmer, and his early home a scene of much domestic endearment. To the trees which overshadowed the paternal mansion he thus pays homage in his verse:
"Much of my native scenery appears,And presses forward, to be in my song;But must not now; for much behind awaits,Of higher note. Four trees I pass not by,Which o'er our house their evening shadow threw;—Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were,And old; and had been old a centuryBefore my day. None living could say aughtAbout their youth; but they were goodly trees;And oft I wondered, as I sat and thoughtBeneath their summer shade, or in the nightOf winter heard the spirits of the windGrowling among their boughs—how they had grownSo high, in such a rough, tempestuous place:And when a hapless branch, torn by the blastFell down, I mourned as if a friend had fallen."
"Much of my native scenery appears,And presses forward, to be in my song;But must not now; for much behind awaits,Of higher note. Four trees I pass not by,Which o'er our house their evening shadow threw;—Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were,And old; and had been old a centuryBefore my day. None living could say aughtAbout their youth; but they were goodly trees;And oft I wondered, as I sat and thoughtBeneath their summer shade, or in the nightOf winter heard the spirits of the windGrowling among their boughs—how they had grownSo high, in such a rough, tempestuous place:And when a hapless branch, torn by the blastFell down, I mourned as if a friend had fallen."
Pollok had just finished his studies, and was licensed as a preacher, by the United Secession Church, when he published his poem which thrilled all hearts in Scotland, and struck his fellow-students with perfect amazement, not unmingled, however, with delight. But he was then sick. His over-wrought frame began to yield, and he sought health in a foreign country, which he did not live to reach. He died in England in the autumnof 1827, the same year in which he had published his poem, having lived just long enough to complete it, and receive the applause of his countrymen.
Before leaving the Necropolis, we must visit a grave at one corner of the grounds, in a quiet, shady spot, as if retired somewhat from the rest. There it is, the grave of William Motherwell, one of the sweetest of the Scottish poets, the author of "Bonnie Jeanie Morrison" and "My Heid is like to rend, Willie," and many other poems of exquisite grace and pathos.
William Motherwell was born in the city of Glasgow in the year 1797, and died there in 1835. In his eleventh year he was transferred to the care of his uncle in Paisley, who brought him up. Here he received a liberal education, and commenced the study of law. At the age of twenty-one he was appointed Deputy to the Sheriff-Clerk of Paisley, a highly respectable but not lucrative situation. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany, called "The Harp of Renfrewshire," which he conducted with much taste and judgment. A relish for antiquarian research led him to investigate the subject of the ballad poetry of Scotland, the results of which he published in 1827, in two volumes, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern." His introduction to this collection is admirably written, and must form the basis of all future investigations upon this subject. He seems to have been unusually successful in recovering many of the old ballads, which werenever committed to writing, and known to very few persons. Some of these, though rude and grotesque in thought or style, are exquisitely beautiful. Allan Cunningham, another of Scotland's sweetest poets, had labored in this field, but not with the same success. But the genius of both of these poets was deeply imbued with the spirit of the old ballad rhymes. They had conned them in their minds so frequently that they naturally wrote their own effusions in the same simple and touching style. Soon after the publication of his "Ancient Minstrelsy," Motherwell became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his finest poems. The talent and spirit which he evinced in these literary labors, were the occasion of his being removed to the city of Glasgow, to the editorial care of the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. He conducted this paper with great ability.
Motherwell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head was large and finely formed; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In mixed society he was rather reserved, "but appeared internally to enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul." Somewhat pensive in his mood, he lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way to a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailings of a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his lofty aspirations after the beautiful and true.
In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He was also associated with the Ettrick Shepherd in editing the works of Burns, and at the time of his death was collecting materials for the life of Tannahill, an humble weaver in Paisley, but one of the finest song-writers Scotland has ever produced. "Accompanied by a literary friend, on the first of November, 1835, he had been dining in the country, about a couple of miles from Glasgow, and on his return home, feeling indisposed, he went to bed. In a few hours thereafter he awakened, and complained of a pain in the head, which increased so much as to render him speechless. Medical assistance was speedily obtained; but alas! it was of no avail—the blow was struck, and the curtain had finally fallen over the life and fortunes of William Motherwell. One universal feeling of regret and sympathy seemed to extend over society, when the sudden and premature decease of this accomplished poet and elegant writer became known. His funeral was attended by a large body of the citizens, by the most eminent and learned of the literary professions, and by persons of all shades of political opinions. He was interred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far from the resting-place of his fast friend, Mr. William Henderson."
Though Motherwell's death was thus sudden and unexpected, he seems to have had something like a premonition of it. The following touching lines were given to a friend, a day or two before his decease:
When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,Life's fever o'er,Will there for me be any bright eye weeping,That I'm no more?Will there be any heart still memory keeping,Of heretofore?When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,Sad music make?When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,Like full hearts break,Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing,Mourn for my sake?When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,With purest ray,And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining,Burst through that clay,Will there be one still on that spot repining,Lost hopes all day?When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,On that low mound,And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary,Its loneness crowned;Will there be then one versed in misery's story,Pacing it round?It may be so,—but this is selfish sorrow,To ask such meed—A weakness and a wickedness to borrowFrom hearts that bleed,The waitings of to-day for what to-morrowShall never need.Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,Thou gentle heart;And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,Let no tear start;It were in vain—for Time hath long been knelling—Sad one, depart!
When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping,Life's fever o'er,Will there for me be any bright eye weeping,That I'm no more?Will there be any heart still memory keeping,Of heretofore?
When the great winds through leafless forests rushing,Sad music make?When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing,Like full hearts break,Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing,Mourn for my sake?
When the bright sun upon that spot is shining,With purest ray,And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining,Burst through that clay,Will there be one still on that spot repining,Lost hopes all day?
When no star twinkles with its eye of glory,On that low mound,And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary,Its loneness crowned;Will there be then one versed in misery's story,Pacing it round?
It may be so,—but this is selfish sorrow,To ask such meed—A weakness and a wickedness to borrowFrom hearts that bleed,The waitings of to-day for what to-morrowShall never need.
Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling,Thou gentle heart;And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,Let no tear start;It were in vain—for Time hath long been knelling—Sad one, depart!
These are mournful, but somewhat hopefulstrains; for one who feels that "time has long been knelling, sad one, depart!" must, if not a sceptic, have looked beyond the grave, and descried in better worlds, rest and solace for the aching heart. Here, in his "narrow dwelling," he gently sleeps, while pilgrims from afar drop tears of sympathy upon its "grassy mound."
Motherwell was a man of pure genius. His poems are distinguished for their deep tenderness and exquisite melody. They are gemmed, moreover, with beautiful conceptions, with original and striking expressions. There is nothing, in the whole range of Scottish poetry, except Burns's "Highland Mary," equal in beauty and pathos to
"JEANIE MORRISON."I've wandered east I've wandered west,Through mony a weary way;But never, never can forget,The luve o' life's young day!The fire that's blawn on Beltane[126]e'en,May weel be black 'gin[127]Yule,[128]But blacker fa' awaits the heartWhen first fond luve grows cule.O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,The thochts of bygane years,Still fling their shadows o'er my path,And blind my een wi' tears:They blind my een wi' saut,[129]saut tears,And sair and sick I pine,As memory idly summons upThe blithe blinks[130]o' lang syne.'Twas then we luvit ilk[131]ither weel,'Twas then we twa did part;Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at school,Twa bairns and but ae[132]heart!'Twas then we sat on ae laigh[133]bink,To lier[134]ilk ither lear;And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,Remembered evermair.I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,When sitting on that bink,Cheek touchin' cheek, loof[135]locked in loof,What our wee heads could think.When baith bent down o'er ae braid pageWi' ae buik on our knee,Thy lips were on thy lesson, butMy lesson was in thee.O mind[136]ye how we hung our heads,How cheeks brent red wi' shame,Whene'er the schule[137]weans laughin' said,We cleeked[138]thegither hame?And mind ye o' the Saturdays,(The schule then skail't[139]at noon,)When we ran aff to speel[140]the braes,The broomy braes o' June?My heid runs round and round about,My heart flows like a sea,As ane by ane the thochts rush back,O' schule time and o' thee.O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!O lichtsome days and lang,When hinnied[141]hopes around our hearts,Like simmer blossoms sprang!O mind ye, luve, how aft we leftThe deavin'[142]dinsome[143]toun,To wander by the green burnside,And hear its waters croon?[144]The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,The flowers burst round our feet,And in the gloamin' o' the wood,The throssil[145]whusslit sweet.The throssil whusslit in the wood,The burn sang to the trees,And we wi' Nature's heart in tune,Concerted harmonies;And on the knowe[146]abune the burn,For hours thegither sat:In the silentness o' joy, till baithWi' very, very gladness grat.[147]Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,Tears trinkled down your cheek,Like dew-beads on a rose, yet naneHad ony power to speak!That was a time, a blessed time,When hearts were fresh and young,When freely gushed all feelings forth,Unsyllabled,—unsung!I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,Gin[148]I hae been to thee,As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,As ye hae been to me?O! tell me gin their music fillsThine ear as it does mine;O! say gin e'er your heart grows[149]gritWi' dreamings o' lang syne?I've wandered east, I've wandered west,I've borne a weary lot;But in my wanderings far or near,Ye never were forgot.The fount that first burst frae this heart,Still travels on its way;And channels deeper as it runs,The luve o' life's young day.O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,Since we were sindered young,I've never seen your face, nor heardThe music o' your tongue;But I could hug all wretchedness,And happy could I die,Did I but ken your heart still dreamed,O' bygane days and me!
"JEANIE MORRISON."
I've wandered east I've wandered west,Through mony a weary way;But never, never can forget,The luve o' life's young day!The fire that's blawn on Beltane[126]e'en,May weel be black 'gin[127]Yule,[128]But blacker fa' awaits the heartWhen first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,The thochts of bygane years,Still fling their shadows o'er my path,And blind my een wi' tears:They blind my een wi' saut,[129]saut tears,And sair and sick I pine,As memory idly summons upThe blithe blinks[130]o' lang syne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk[131]ither weel,'Twas then we twa did part;Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at school,Twa bairns and but ae[132]heart!'Twas then we sat on ae laigh[133]bink,To lier[134]ilk ither lear;And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,Remembered evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,When sitting on that bink,Cheek touchin' cheek, loof[135]locked in loof,What our wee heads could think.When baith bent down o'er ae braid pageWi' ae buik on our knee,Thy lips were on thy lesson, butMy lesson was in thee.
O mind[136]ye how we hung our heads,How cheeks brent red wi' shame,Whene'er the schule[137]weans laughin' said,We cleeked[138]thegither hame?And mind ye o' the Saturdays,(The schule then skail't[139]at noon,)When we ran aff to speel[140]the braes,The broomy braes o' June?
My heid runs round and round about,My heart flows like a sea,As ane by ane the thochts rush back,O' schule time and o' thee.O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!O lichtsome days and lang,When hinnied[141]hopes around our hearts,Like simmer blossoms sprang!
O mind ye, luve, how aft we leftThe deavin'[142]dinsome[143]toun,To wander by the green burnside,And hear its waters croon?[144]The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,The flowers burst round our feet,And in the gloamin' o' the wood,The throssil[145]whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wood,The burn sang to the trees,And we wi' Nature's heart in tune,Concerted harmonies;And on the knowe[146]abune the burn,For hours thegither sat:In the silentness o' joy, till baithWi' very, very gladness grat.[147]
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,Tears trinkled down your cheek,Like dew-beads on a rose, yet naneHad ony power to speak!That was a time, a blessed time,When hearts were fresh and young,When freely gushed all feelings forth,Unsyllabled,—unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,Gin[148]I hae been to thee,As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,As ye hae been to me?O! tell me gin their music fillsThine ear as it does mine;O! say gin e'er your heart grows[149]gritWi' dreamings o' lang syne?
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,I've borne a weary lot;But in my wanderings far or near,Ye never were forgot.The fount that first burst frae this heart,Still travels on its way;And channels deeper as it runs,The luve o' life's young day.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,Since we were sindered young,I've never seen your face, nor heardThe music o' your tongue;But I could hug all wretchedness,And happy could I die,Did I but ken your heart still dreamed,O' bygane days and me!
Equally beautiful and still more pathetic, is "My Heid is like to rend, Willie." Indeed, we know of nothing so affecting as the last stanzas of this exquisite ballad. The poor heart-broken girl gives abundant evidence of her profound penitence:
O! dinna mind my words, Willie,I downa seek to blame,—But O! it's hard to live, Willie,And dree a world's shame!Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,And hailin' ower your chin;Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,For sorrow and for sin.I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,And sick wi' a' I see,—I canna live as I hae lived,Or be as I should be.But fauld unto your heart, Willie,The heart that still is thine,—And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek,Ye said was red lang syne.A stoun[150]gaes through my heid, Willie,A sair stoun through my heart,—O! hand me up, and let me kissThy brow, ere we twa pairt.Anither, and anither yet!—How fast my life's strings break!—Farewell! farewell! through yon kirk-yardStep lichtly for my sake!The lav'rock[151]in the lift,[152]Willie,That lilts[153]far ower our heid,Will sing the morn as merrilieAbune the clay-cauld deid;And this green turf we're sittin' on,Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,Will hap[154]the heart that luvit thee,As warld has seldom seen.But O! remember me, Willie,On land where'er ye be,—And O! think on the leal, leal heart,That ne'er luvit ane but thee!And O! think on the cauld, cauld mools,[155]That file[156]my yellow hair,—That kiss the cheek, that kiss the chin,Ye never sail kiss mair.
O! dinna mind my words, Willie,I downa seek to blame,—But O! it's hard to live, Willie,And dree a world's shame!Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,And hailin' ower your chin;Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,For sorrow and for sin.
I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,And sick wi' a' I see,—I canna live as I hae lived,Or be as I should be.But fauld unto your heart, Willie,The heart that still is thine,—And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek,Ye said was red lang syne.
A stoun[150]gaes through my heid, Willie,A sair stoun through my heart,—O! hand me up, and let me kissThy brow, ere we twa pairt.Anither, and anither yet!—How fast my life's strings break!—Farewell! farewell! through yon kirk-yardStep lichtly for my sake!
The lav'rock[151]in the lift,[152]Willie,That lilts[153]far ower our heid,Will sing the morn as merrilieAbune the clay-cauld deid;And this green turf we're sittin' on,Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,Will hap[154]the heart that luvit thee,As warld has seldom seen.
But O! remember me, Willie,On land where'er ye be,—And O! think on the leal, leal heart,That ne'er luvit ane but thee!And O! think on the cauld, cauld mools,[155]That file[156]my yellow hair,—That kiss the cheek, that kiss the chin,Ye never sail kiss mair.
As a specimen of Motherwell's descriptive powers, the exquisite grace of his diction, and the deep-toned melody of his verse, and not only so, but of his high devotional feelings, we give the following: