"Thus, while I ape the measure wild,Of tales that charmed me—yet a child,Rude though they be, still with the chimeReturn the thoughts of early time;And feelings roused in life's first day,Glow in the line, and prompt the lay;Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour.Though no broad river swept along,To claim perchance heroic song;Though sigh no groves in summer gale,To prompt of love a softer tale,Yet was poetic impulse givenBy the green hill and clear blue heaven.It was a barren scene, and wild,Where naked cliffs were rudely piled,But ever and anon betweenLay velvet tufts of loveliest green;And well the lovely infant knewRecesses where the wall-flower grew.And honeysuckle loved to crawlUp the low crag and ruined wall.I deemed such nooks the sweetest shadeThe sun in all its round surveyed;And still I thought that shattered towerThe mightiest work of human power;And marvelled as the aged hind,With some strange tale bewitched my mind,Of foragers who, with headlong forceDown from that strength had spurred their horse,Their southern rapine to renewFar in the distant Cheviot's blue,And home returning filled the hall,With revel, wassail-route and brawl.—Methought that still with tramp and clangThe gateway's broken arches rang;Methought grim features seamed with scars,Glared through the window's rusty bars.And even by the winter hearth;Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;Of patriot battles won of oldBy Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;Of later fields of feud and fight,When pouring from their Highland height,The Scottish clans in headlong sway,Had swept the scarlet ranks away.While stretched at length upon the floor,Again I fought each combat e'er,Pebbles and shells in order laidThe mimic ranks of war displayed;And onward still the Scottish lion bore,And still the scattered Southron fled before."
"Thus, while I ape the measure wild,Of tales that charmed me—yet a child,Rude though they be, still with the chimeReturn the thoughts of early time;And feelings roused in life's first day,Glow in the line, and prompt the lay;Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour.Though no broad river swept along,To claim perchance heroic song;Though sigh no groves in summer gale,To prompt of love a softer tale,Yet was poetic impulse givenBy the green hill and clear blue heaven.It was a barren scene, and wild,Where naked cliffs were rudely piled,But ever and anon betweenLay velvet tufts of loveliest green;And well the lovely infant knewRecesses where the wall-flower grew.And honeysuckle loved to crawlUp the low crag and ruined wall.I deemed such nooks the sweetest shadeThe sun in all its round surveyed;And still I thought that shattered towerThe mightiest work of human power;And marvelled as the aged hind,With some strange tale bewitched my mind,Of foragers who, with headlong forceDown from that strength had spurred their horse,Their southern rapine to renewFar in the distant Cheviot's blue,And home returning filled the hall,With revel, wassail-route and brawl.—Methought that still with tramp and clangThe gateway's broken arches rang;Methought grim features seamed with scars,Glared through the window's rusty bars.And even by the winter hearth;Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;Of patriot battles won of oldBy Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;Of later fields of feud and fight,When pouring from their Highland height,The Scottish clans in headlong sway,Had swept the scarlet ranks away.While stretched at length upon the floor,Again I fought each combat e'er,Pebbles and shells in order laidThe mimic ranks of war displayed;And onward still the Scottish lion bore,And still the scattered Southron fled before."
In addition to this, young Scott was a perfecthelluo librorum. He had access to a large library filled with romances, histories, biographies, and soforth, which he indiscriminately devoured. His memory was quick and tenacious, and his mind became stored with all sorts of facts, fables and fancies. Still, even in youth, he possessed a sound judgment, a clear, well balanced mind, and separated the chaff from the wheat with tolerable discrimination. His father was a good Presbyterian, and did what he could to imbue his mind with religious principles, which never deserted him. Among the first lines he is known to have written are the following. They were found wrapped up in a paper inscribed by Dr. Adam of the Edinburgh High School, 'Walter Scott, July, 1783.'
ON THE SETTING SUN.Those evening clouds, that setting ray,And beauteous tints, serve to displayTheir great Creator's praise;Then let the short-lived thing called manWhose life's comprised within a span,To Him his homage raise.We often praise the evening clouds,And tints so gay and bold,But seldom think upon our God,Who tinged these clouds with gold.
ON THE SETTING SUN.
Those evening clouds, that setting ray,And beauteous tints, serve to displayTheir great Creator's praise;Then let the short-lived thing called manWhose life's comprised within a span,To Him his homage raise.
We often praise the evening clouds,And tints so gay and bold,But seldom think upon our God,Who tinged these clouds with gold.
Scott was educated at the Edinburgh High School, and University. He had an aversion to Greek, a singular fact, but made some proficiency in Latin, moral philosophy and history. He also made himself tolerably familiar with the French, German and Italian tongues. Being much at home, he indulged in reading romances and poetry. From early life, he was an industrious collector of oldballads, many of which he committed to memory. Apprenticed to his father, as "a writer," he commenced the study of law, and began to practice in his twenty-first year. As his health was now vigorous, he made long excursions into the country, which he facetiously denominatedraids, rambling over scenes of external beauty or of historic interest, making acquaintance with the country people, and picking up information about men and things. By this means he amassed an immense store of everyday facts, and an intimate knowledge of character, which were of immense service to him in the construction of his novels.
Scott's first appearance as an author was in the translation from the German of Burger's Leonore, and "Der Wilde Jäger," or the "Wild Huntsman," ballads of singular wildness and power. These, however, made little impression on the public mind. Of this he says, "The failure of my first publication did not operate, in any unpleasant degree, either on my feelings or spirits. To speak candidly, I found pleasure in the literary labor in which I had, almost by accident, become engaged, and labored less in the hope of pleasing others, though certainly without despair of doing so, than in the pursuit of a new and agreeable amusement to myself." He continued to read the German, and to make translations from it, and became more and more interested in the ballad poetry. He was delighted to find the affinity of the old English, and especially of the Scottish language to the German, not in sound merely, but in the turn of phrase, sothat they were capable of being rendered line for line, with very little variation.
By degrees he acquired sufficient confidence to attempt the imitation of what he so much admired. His first original poem was "Glenfinlas." Next followed "The Eve of St. John." Owing to unfortunate circumstances these had no great success. Nothing daunted, however, he again appeared before the public with his "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," which immediately became popular. The success of this last work, not only established his reputation as an author, but encouraged him to devote himself to literary pursuits. Under appointment as Sheriff of Selkirkshire, he enjoyed the kind of associations and employments favorable to the cultivation of his poetical powers. Among other things, he edited the metrical romance of "Sir Tristrem," supposed to be written by "Thomas the Rhymer," or Thomas of Ercildoune, laird, poet and prophet, who flourished about the year 1280. The dissertations which accompanied this work, and the imitation of the original to complete the romance, evinced his antiquarian attainments and fine poetical taste. At length appeared "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," a higher, purer strain, which was received with universal enthusiasm, and stamped him a great and original poet. His fine conception of the minstrel, his easy versification, his admirable narrative, his glowing pictures, his wild ballad enthusiasm, his legendary lore, and his exquisite touches of the marvellous and supernatural, combined to render the poem popular beyondall precedent. Thirty thousand copies were speedily sold by the trade. Then, in quick succession, followed that splendid series of poems, so popular in their day, and still so interesting and delightful. Intrinsically, they are inferior to some of the higher strains of English poetry, but they possess certain qualities which gained the public ear, and found a place in the national heart. These doubtless were the novelty of their style, their natural and simple versification, their easy, dramatic narrative, and their lively descriptions of national scenes and manners, in contrast with the formal hexameters, with "all their buckram and binding," of which the public had become tired.
Being in easy, and almost in affluent circumstances, Scott became ambitious of founding a family. For this purpose he bought land on the banks of the Tweed, and built Abbotsford, at a very considerable expense. He received the order of knighthood, and looked forward to days of ease and prosperity. Devoting himself almost entirely to literary pursuits, he formed connections in business with James Ballantyne, then rising into extensive business in the city of Edinburgh. This involved the necessity of large advances, and Scott became involved in large pecuniary responsibilities. He received an appointment as one of the principal Clerks of the Court of Session, with perhaps six thousand dollars per annum. This, with the gains of the printing establishment, and other sources of revenue, would have secured to him and his family an ample provision.
With his customary sagacity, Sir Walter perceived that his peculiar style of poetry would not continue popular, and therefore he betook himself to a new field of literary enterprise, which proved still richer, and, by far, more congenial. Then appeared his historical novels, which became so popular, that his fame as a poet was almost forgotten. Volume after volume came from the press, and spread like wildfire over the land. Translated into French, German, and Italian, they reached every part of Europe, and completely superseded the old run of novels, with their unnatural plots and extravagant nonsense. It was Scott's ambition to elevate this species of literature, and whatever objections may be made against it, on the score of moral influence, this much must be conceded to him. In his hands novel writing became comparatively pure and dignified, nay, as some, with considerable show of reason, contend, beneficial. The moral tone of all Sir Walter's productions is pre-eminently pure. They are characterized by shrewd sense, a profound insight into men and things, a keen perception of the beautiful and brave, the generous and leal, a fine sense of honor, reverence for God, and a deep sympathy with all the wants and woes, the hopes and joys of our common humanity. Sir Walter is the Shakspeare of novel writing, and if he falls below the great dramatic poet, in the quickness and universality of his genius, he approaches him in the soundness of his intellect, the breadth of his imagination, and the versatility of his powers. From his Tory and High Church predilections hehas done some injustice to the old Covenanters and Puritans of Scotland; but he possessed a noble and generous heart, a spirit of faith and reverence, a love for God and all his creatures. His soul was naturally blithe and joyous, hopeful and strong. He loved Scotland with intense affection, and has spread the light of his genius over all her hills and vales. Under the magic influence of his pen the hoary mountains, the dark tarns and trosachs of the Highlands gleam with supernal beauty. Tweed murmurs his name, while the Firth and Tay repeat it through all their windings. His "own romantic town" glories in his memory; every city, village and hamlet of the Lowlands, with strath, meadow and moorland, echo his praise. The Genius of his country has crowned him with the same wild wreath which erst she hung upon the head of Burns, and the world has acknowledged the consecration.
It was in the year 1826 that Ballantyne and Company became insolvent, and Sir Walter Scott, in the very midst of his splendid career, found himself involved to the amount of $600,000. But he nobly refused to become a bankrupt, considering, says Allan Cunningham, "like the elder Osbaldistone of his own immortal pages, commercial honor as dear as any other honor." All he asked for was time; and in seven years he paid off more than the half of this sum by the labors of his pen. His efforts to accomplish this sublime purpose were gigantic, but they broke down his constitution. "Sometime in the beginning of the year 1831,"says his friend Cunningham, "a sore illness came upon him; his astonishing efforts to satisfy his creditors, began to exhaust a mind apparently exhaustless; and the world heard with concern that a paralytic stroke had affected his speech and his right hand, so much as to render writing a matter of difficulty. One of his letters to me at this period, is not written with his own hand: the signature is his, and looks cramped and weak. I visited him at Abbotsford, about the end of July, 1831: he was a degree more feeble than I had ever seen him, and his voice seemed affected; not so his activity of fancy, and surprising resources of conversation. He told anecdotes and recited scraps of verse, old and new, always tending to illustrate something passing. He showed me his armory, in which he took visible pleasure; and was glad to hear me commend the design of his house, as well as the skill with which it was built. * * * In a small room, half library and half armory, he usually sat and wrote: here he had some remarkable weapons, curious pieces of old Scottish furniture, such as chairs and cabinets, and an antique sort of a table, on which lay his writing materials. A crooked headed staff of Abbotsford oak or hazel usually lay beside him to support his steps as he went and came."
"When it was known," continues Cunningham, "that Sir Walter Scott's health declined, the deep solicitude of all ranks became manifest; strangers came from far lands to look on the house which contained the great genius of our times; inquirersflocked around, of humble and of high degree, and the amount of letters of inquiry or condolence was, I have heard, enormous. Amongst the visitors, not the least welcome was Wordsworth, the poet, who arrived when the air of the northern hills was growing too sharp for the enfeebled frame of Scott, and he had resolved to try if the fine air and climate of Italy would restore him to health and strength.
"When Government heard of Sir Walter's wishes, they offered him a ship; he left Abbotsford as many thought forever, and arrived in London, where he was welcomed as never mortal was welcomed before. He visited several friends, nor did he refuse to mingle in company, and having written something almost approaching to a farewell to the world, which was published with 'Castle Dangerous,' the last of his works, he set sail for Italy, with the purpose of touching at Malta. He seemed revived, but it was only for a while: he visited Naples, but could not enjoy the high honors paid to him: he visited Rome, and sighed amid its splendid temples and glorious works of art, for gray Melrose and the pleasant banks of Tweed, and passing out of Italy, proceeded homewards down the Rhine. Word came to London, that a dreadful attack of paralysis had nearly deprived him of life, and that but for the presence of mind of a faithful servant he must have perished. This alarming news was followed by his arrival in London: a strong desire of home had come upon him; he travelled with rapidity, night and day, and wasall but worn out, when carried into St. James's Hotel, Jermyn street, by his servants."
As soon as he recovered a little, he resumed his journey to Scotland, reached Abbotsford, and seemed revived, smiled when he was borne into his library, and enjoyed the society of his children. When he was leaving London the people, wherever he was recognized, took off their hats, saying, "God bless you, Sir Walter!" His arrival in Scotland was hailed with equal enthusiasm and sympathy; and so much was he revived that hopes were entertained of his recovery. But he gradually declined, listening occasionally to passages from the Bible, and from the poems of Crabbe and Wordsworth. Once he tried to write, but failed in the attempt. "He never spoke of his literary labors or success." Occasionally his mind wandered, and then he was preparing for the reception of the Duke of Wellington at Abbotsford, or exercising the functions of a judge, as if presiding at the trial of members of his own family. It may be regarded as a singular fact, that in his delirium, his mind never wandered toward those works which had filled the world with his fame. But the flame of life now flickered feebly in its socket, and gave unerring indications of its speedy extinction. "About half past one, P. M.," says Mr. Lockhart, his son-in-law and biographer, "on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day—so warm that every window was open—and so perfectly still that the sound, of all others mostdelicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible, as we knelt around his bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes."
The remains of Sir Walter were buried in Dryburgh Abbey. "As we advanced," says one who was present at the funeral, which was conducted with the greatest simplicity and solemnity, "the ruined abbey disclosed itself through the trees; and we approached its western extremity, where a considerable portion of vaulted roof still remains to protect the poet's family place of interment, which opens to the sides in lofty Gothic arches, and is defended by a low rail of enclosure. At one extremity of it, a tall thriving young cypress rears its spiral form. Creeping plants of different kinds, 'with ivy never sere,' have spread themselves very luxuriantly over every part of the Abbey. These perhaps were in many instances the children of art; but however this may have been, nature had herself undertaken their education. In this spot especially, she seems to have been most industriously busy in twining her richest wreaths around those walls which more immediately form her poet's tomb. Amongst her other decorations, we observed a plum tree, which was perhaps at one period a prisoner, chained to the solid masonry, but which having long since been emancipated, now threw out its wild pendent branches, laden with purple fruit, ready to drop, as if emblematical of the ripening and decay of human life.
"In such a scene as this, then, it was that thecoffin of Sir Walter Scott was set down on trestles placed outside the iron railing; and here that solemn service, beginning with those words, so cheering to the souls of Christians, 'I am the resurrection and the life,' was solemnly read. The manly soldier-like features of the chief mourner, on whom the eyes of sympathy were most naturally turned, betrayed at intervals the powerful efforts which he had made to master his emotions, as well as the inefficiency of his exertions to do so. The other relatives who surrounded the bier were deeply moved; and amid the crowd of weeping friends, no eye, and no heart could be discovered that was not altogether occupied in that sad and impressive ceremonial, which was so soon to shut from them forever, him who had been so long the common idol of their admiration, and of their best affections. Here and there, indeed, we might have fancied that we detected some early and long tried friends of him who lay cold before us, who, whilst tears dimmed their eyes, and whilst their lips quivered, were yet partly engaged in mixing up and contrasting the happier scenes of days long gone by, with that which they were now witnessing, until they became lost in dreamy reverie, so that even the movement made when the coffin was carried under the lofty arches of the ruin, and whendust was committed to dust, did not entirely snap the thread of their visions. It was not until the harsh sound of the hammers of the workmen who were employed to rivet those iron bars covering the grave, to secure it from violation, had begun toecho from the vaulted roof, that some of us were called to the full conviction of the fact, that the earth had forever closed over that form which we were wont to love and reverence; that eye which we had so often seen beaming with benevolence, sparkling with wit, or lighted up with a poet's frenzy; those lips which we had so often seen monopolizing the attention of all listeners, or heard rolling out, with nervous accentuation, those powerful verses with which his head was continually teeming; and that brow, the perpetual throne of generous expression, and liberal intelligence. Overwhelmed by the conviction of this afflicting truth, men moved away without parting salutation, singly, slowly, and silently. The day began to stoop down into twilight; and we, too, after giving a last parting survey to the spot where now repose the remains of our Scottish Shakspeare, a spot lovely enough to induce his sainted spirit to haunt and sanctify its shades, hastily tore ourselves away."
Melrose Abbey—The Eildon Hills—Thomas the Rhymer—Dryburgh—Monuments to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir William Wallace—Kelso—Beautiful scenery—A Pleasant Evening—Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet, Antiquary, Scholar and Traveller—The Duncan Family—Journey Resumed—Twisel Bridge—Battle of Flodden—Norham Castle—Berwick upon Tweed—Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The Border Tales'—Conclusion—'Auld Lang Syne.'
Melrose Abbey—The Eildon Hills—Thomas the Rhymer—Dryburgh—Monuments to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir William Wallace—Kelso—Beautiful scenery—A Pleasant Evening—Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet, Antiquary, Scholar and Traveller—The Duncan Family—Journey Resumed—Twisel Bridge—Battle of Flodden—Norham Castle—Berwick upon Tweed—Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The Border Tales'—Conclusion—'Auld Lang Syne.'
After visiting "fair Melrose," whose rains, rising in the centre of a rich landscape, and rendered immortal by the exquisite descriptions of Sir Walter Scott, are the most interesting and beautiful of any in Scotland;—wandering over the Eildon Hills, the Trimontium of the Romans, from the summits of which some thirty miles of wild and varied scenery can be surveyed; gazing on the ruins of Ercildoune, the manor-house of Thomas the Rhymer, whose real name was Thomas Learmont, author of "The Romance of Tristan," a poem of the thirteenth century, in the language of antique Chaucer; lingering in Dryburgh Abbey, embosomed in a richly wooded haugh on the banks of the Tweed; and especially gazing, in reverent homage, on the grave of "the Great Magician of the North," in St. Mary's Aisle, so sad and yet so fair; crossing the Tweed, and pausing a few moments, to examine a circular temple on the banksof the river, dedicated to the Muses, and surmounted by a bust of Thomson, author of "The Seasons," and a little further on the colossal statue of Sir William Wallace, the hero of Scotland, which stands upon a rocky eminence and overlooks the river, and a fine prospect of "wood and water, mountain and rock scenery," we pass along the banks of the Tweed, till we come to the handsome town of Kelso, on the margin of the river, with its ancient Abbey and delightful environs.
As the day is far spent, we will stay here for the night. But, before the sun goes down, let us wander over the neighborhood, which is singularly beautiful, and redolent with the genius of Scott and of Leyden, who has described it in his "Scenes of Infancy."
"Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,Kelso's fair vale expands before the sun;Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,And fringed with hazel, winds each flowery dell,Green spangled plains to dimpled lawns succeed,And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed:Blue o'er the river Kelso's shadow lies,And copse-clad isles amid the water rise."
"Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,Kelso's fair vale expands before the sun;Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,And fringed with hazel, winds each flowery dell,Green spangled plains to dimpled lawns succeed,And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed:Blue o'er the river Kelso's shadow lies,And copse-clad isles amid the water rise."
As the view from the bridge which spans the river is said to be one of the richest in Scotland, we linger there till the sun goes down. 'Tis a soft, still, summer afternoon, beginning to glide into the long and beautiful twilight. The rays of the sun are yet upon the mountains, and tinge the summits of the woods, the rocks, and the castellated edifices, which adorn the landscape. The Tweed is gliding, in shadow, through the wooded vale, andthe songs of the mavis and blackbird are echoing among the trees. A little above the bridge the clear waters of the Teviot and the Tweed flow together, as if attracted by each other's beauty. Beyond are the picturesque ruins of Roxburgh Castle, and somewhat nearer the ducal palace of Fleurs, rising amid a rich expanse of wooded decorations, sloping down to the very margin of the river; in front are gleaming two green islets of the Tweed, and between that river and the Teviot reposes the beautiful peninsula of Friar's Green, with the soft meadow in its foreground. On the south bank of the river are the mansion and woods of Springwood Park, and the bridge across the Teviot, on which are reposing the mellow rays of the setting sun. On the right the town lies along the bank of the river, with its elegant mansions and venerable abbey. There too is Ednam House, near which the poet Thomson had his birth. Far beyond these, the eye rests pleasantly on "the triple summits" of the Eildon Hills, looking down protectingly upon the vale of Tweed, the hills of Stitchell and Mellerstain, and the striking ruin of Home Castle, still arrayed in the purple and gold of departing day. Intermingled with all these are the windings and rippling currents of the river, clumps of rich green foliage, orchards laden with fruit, tufted rocks, verdant slopes, single trees of lofty stature, standing out from the rest, in the pride and pomp of their "leafy umbrage," cattle browsing peacefully on the banks of the stream, here and there a sylvan cottage, and an infinitevariety of light and shade, of blending colors and changing forms, hallowed, moreover, by the hoary memories and poetical associations of by-gone days. No wonder that Leyden loved to wander in such scenes, or that Scott, a more transcendent genius, should have ascribed to this influence the awakening in his soul "of that insatiable love of natural scenery, more especially when combined with ancient ruins, or remains of our fathers' piety and splendor," which gave a charm to his life, and imparted to the productions of his genius a warmth and richness of coloring unequalled in the history of literature.
But it is time to return to our comfortable hotel in Kelso, where mine host, who is an honest, round-faced, rosy-cheeked, good-natured Scot, will give us good cheer for supper, and a bed soft as down upon which to repose our weary limbs.
Well now, this is pleasant! Here in this snug room, with a cheerful cup of tea, and such toast, broiled chicken, and other edibles, as mine host only can produce, we feel as easy and independent as kings, aye, and a great deal more so; for who so satisfied and happy as the man, whatever his estate, who has a clear conscience, a mind brimful of sweet memories, a heart grateful to God and attached to those he loves? Let any person only do what is right, trust in God, enjoy nature, cultivate his mind, exercise his body, and he may secure as much happiness as falls to the lot of mortals. Trials may come, but joys will come also. All things shall "work together for good."
But it is easy moralizing over a good cup of tea, with a cheerful fire blazing in the grate, and a soft bed in prospect for weary limbs. Moreover, I promised to give you some account of Leyden, poet and antiquary, scholar and traveler.
John Leyden was born in 1775, in Denholm, Roxburghshire, not far from Kelso, of poor but honest parents. He displayed in early life the most eager desire for learning, but possessed few opportunities for gratifying it, as he had to spend much of his time in manual toil. His parents, however, seeing his thirst for knowledge, resolved to send him to Edinburgh University. He entered this institution in his fifteenth year, and made unusual progress in his studies. He distinguished himself in the Latin and Greek languages, acquired the French, Spanish, Italian and German, besides forming some acquaintance with the Hebrew, Arabic and Persian. During his college vacations he returned to the humble roof of his parents, and as the accommodations of the house were scanty, he looked for a place of study elsewhere. "In a wild recess," says Sir Walter Scott, who has furnished an animated biography of Leyden, "in the den or glen which gives name to the village of Denholm, he contrived a sort of furnace for the purpose of such chemical experiments as he was adequate to performing. But his chief place of retirement was the small parish church, a gloomy and ancient building, generally believed in the neighborhood to be haunted. To this chosen place of study, usually locked during week days, Leyden madeentrance by means of a window, read there for many hours in the day, and deposited his books and specimens in a retired pew. It was a well chosen spot for seclusion, for the kirk, (excepting during divine service,) is rather a place of terror to the Scottish rustic, and that of Cavers was rendered more so by many a tale of ghosts and witchcraft, of which it was the supposed scene, and to which Leyden, partly to indulge his humor, and partly to secure his retirement, contrived to make some modern additions. The nature of his abstruse studies, some specimens of natural history, as toads and adders, left exposed in their spirit vials, and one or two practical jests played off upon the more curious of the peasantry, rendered his gloomy haunt, not only venerated by the wise, but feared by the simple of the parish."
Leyden was originally intended for the clerical profession, but abandoned it for more secular employments. His spirit was intense, restless and ambitious, and he longed for foreign travel and literary distinction. After spending five years at college, he became tutor to a highly respectable family, with whose sons he repaired to the University of St. Andrews, where he pursued his Oriental studies, and in 1799 published a History of African Discoveries. He was the author, also, of various translations and poems, which attracted considerable attention and introduced him to the best society. In 1800 he was ordained as a minister, and his discourses were highly popular; but he was dissatisfied with them, and felt that he was calledto a different sphere. He continued to write and compose, contributed to Lewis's "Tales of Wonder," and Scott's "Border Minstrelsy." He was an enthusiastic admirer of the old ballads, and on one occasion actually walked between forty and fifty miles for the sole purpose of visiting an old person who possessed an ancient historical ballad. He edited the "Scot's Magazine," for a year, and published "The Complaynt of Scotland," an old work written about 1548, which he accompanied with a learned dissertation, notes and a glossary. His strong desire to visit foreign lands induced his friends to procure for him an appointment in India, where he might study the oriental languages and literature. The only situation which they found available was that of assistant surgeon, for which it was necessary to have a medical diploma. But such was the energy, decision and perseverance of Leyden's character, that he qualified himself in six months; and not long after set out for Madras. Before taking his departure he finished his "Scenes of Infancy," as it were, the last token of his love for Scotland, which he never again beheld. He was resolved to distinguish himself or die in the attempt. Indeed a premonition of such an issue seems to have haunted his mind, and was expressed, with touching beauty, in his "Scenes of Infancy."
"The silver moon at midnight cold and still,Looks sad and silent o'er yon western hill;While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,Reared on the confines of the world below.Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?Is that blue light the moon's or tomb-fire's gleam?By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,The old deserted church of Hazeldean,Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,Till Teviot's waters rolled their bones away?Their feeble voices from their stream they raise—'Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,Why didst thou quit the simple peasant's lot?Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie,And Teviot's stream that long has murmur'd by?And we, when death so long has clos'd our eyes,How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,And bear our mouldering bones across the main.From vales that knew our lives devoid of stain?Rash youth! beware, thy home-bred virtues save,And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave.'"
"The silver moon at midnight cold and still,Looks sad and silent o'er yon western hill;While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,Reared on the confines of the world below.Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?Is that blue light the moon's or tomb-fire's gleam?By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,The old deserted church of Hazeldean,Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,Till Teviot's waters rolled their bones away?Their feeble voices from their stream they raise—'Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,Why didst thou quit the simple peasant's lot?Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie,And Teviot's stream that long has murmur'd by?And we, when death so long has clos'd our eyes,How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,And bear our mouldering bones across the main.From vales that knew our lives devoid of stain?Rash youth! beware, thy home-bred virtues save,And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave.'"
After his arrival in Madras, his health became impaired, and he removed to Prince of Wales Island. He resided there some time, visiting the neighboring countries, and amassing curious information on the literature and history of the Indo-Chinese, which he embodied in an elaborate dissertation read before the Asiatic Society at Calcutta. Quitting Prince of Wales Island, Leyden was appointed a professor in the Bengal College, which he soon exchanged for the office of judge, a more lucrative employment. His spare time was devoted to the prosecution of his oriental studies. "I may die in the attempt," he wrote to a friend, "but if I die without surpassing Sir William Jones a hundredfold in oriental learning, let never a tear for me profane the eye of a borderer." In 1811 he accompanied the governor general to Java.His spirit of bold adventure led him literally to rush upon death. He threw himself into the surf in order to be the first Briton who should set foot upon Java. When the invaders had taken possession of Batavia, the same reckless eagerness took him into a cold damp library, in which were many books and manuscripts. Affected perhaps by the disease of the climate he had a fit of shivering on leaving the library, and declared that the atmosphere was enough to give any one a mortal fever. In three days after he died, August 28, 1811, on the eve of the battle which secured Java to the British Empire.
Leyden's Poetical Remains were published in 1819, with a memoir. In addition to the "Scenes of Infancy," it contains some vigorous ballads. To one of these, "The Mermaid," as well as to the untimely death of its author, Sir Walter Scott has referred in his "Lord of the Isles."
"Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shoreStill rings to Corrievreckin's roar,And lovely Colonsay;Scenes sung by him who sings no more:His bright and brief career is o'er,And mute his tuneful strains;Quenched is his lamp of varied lore,That loved the light of song to pour:A distant and a deadly shoreHas Leyden's cold remains."
"Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shoreStill rings to Corrievreckin's roar,And lovely Colonsay;Scenes sung by him who sings no more:His bright and brief career is o'er,And mute his tuneful strains;Quenched is his lamp of varied lore,That loved the light of song to pour:A distant and a deadly shoreHas Leyden's cold remains."
His "Scenes of Infancy" is distinguished for the sweetness of its versification, and its pleasant pictures of the vale of Teviot. In strength and enthusiasm, it is much inferior to his ballads. Theopening of "The Mermaid," has been praised by Sir Walter Scott "as exhibiting a power of numbers, which for mere melody of sound has rarely been excelled."
On Jura's heath how sweetly swellThe murmurs of the mountain bee!How softly, mourns the writh'd shell,Of Jura's shore, its parent sea.But softer, floating o'er the deep,The mermaid's sweet, sea-soothing lay,That charmed the dancing waves to sleep,Before the bark of Colonsay.
On Jura's heath how sweetly swellThe murmurs of the mountain bee!How softly, mourns the writh'd shell,Of Jura's shore, its parent sea.
But softer, floating o'er the deep,The mermaid's sweet, sea-soothing lay,That charmed the dancing waves to sleep,Before the bark of Colonsay.
But better known, and far more affecting, is Leyden's "Ode to an Indian Gold Coin," written in Cherical, Malabar, which in addition to its vigor and beauty, has a fine moral which it is not necessary to point out.
Slave of the dark and dirty mine!What vanity has brought thee here?How can I love to see thee shineSo bright, whom I have bought so dear?The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear,For twilight converse arm in arm;The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear,When mirth and music wont to cheer.By Cherical's dark wandering streams,Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,Sweet visions haunt my waking dreamsOf Teviot loved while still a child;Of castled rocks stupendous piledBy Esk or Eden's classic wave,Where loves of youth and friendship smiledUncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!The perished bliss of youth's first prime,That once so bright on fancy played,Revives no more in after time.Far from my sacred natal climeI haste to an untimely grave;The daring thoughts that soared sublimeAre sunk in ocean's southern wave.Slave of the mine, thy yellow lightGleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.A gentle vision comes by nightMy lonely widowed heart to cheer.Her eyes are dim with many a tear,That once were guiding-stars to mine;Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!I cannot bear to see thee shine.For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,I left a heart that loved me true!I crossed the tedious ocean wave,To roam in climes unkind and new.The cold wind of the stranger blewChill on my withered heart; the graveDark and untimely met my view—And all for thee, vile yellow slave!Ha! com'st thou now so late to mockA wanderer's banished heart forlorn,Now that his frame, the lightning shockOf sun-rays tipt with death has borne?From love, from friendship, country, torn,To memory's fond regrets the prey:Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!
Slave of the dark and dirty mine!What vanity has brought thee here?How can I love to see thee shineSo bright, whom I have bought so dear?The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear,For twilight converse arm in arm;The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear,When mirth and music wont to cheer.
By Cherical's dark wandering streams,Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,Sweet visions haunt my waking dreamsOf Teviot loved while still a child;Of castled rocks stupendous piledBy Esk or Eden's classic wave,Where loves of youth and friendship smiledUncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!
Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!The perished bliss of youth's first prime,That once so bright on fancy played,Revives no more in after time.Far from my sacred natal climeI haste to an untimely grave;The daring thoughts that soared sublimeAre sunk in ocean's southern wave.
Slave of the mine, thy yellow lightGleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.A gentle vision comes by nightMy lonely widowed heart to cheer.Her eyes are dim with many a tear,That once were guiding-stars to mine;Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!I cannot bear to see thee shine.
For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,I left a heart that loved me true!I crossed the tedious ocean wave,To roam in climes unkind and new.The cold wind of the stranger blewChill on my withered heart; the graveDark and untimely met my view—And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mockA wanderer's banished heart forlorn,Now that his frame, the lightning shockOf sun-rays tipt with death has borne?From love, from friendship, country, torn,To memory's fond regrets the prey:Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!
While conversing about Leyden, we must not forget a gentler, purer spirit, Mary Lundie Duncan, who first saw the light "amid the blossoms of Kelso," and whose young heart first warbled its poetic strains on the banks of the Tweed. Her "Memoir," by her gifted mother, is one of themost beautiful and touching biographies in the English language. Possessed of genius and piety, at once pure and tender, her brief life was the fair but changeful spring-time which preceded the long summer of eternity.
Sweet bird of Scotia's tuneful clime,So beautiful and dear,Whose music gushed as genius taught,With Heaven's own quenchless spirit fraught,I list—thy strain to hear.Bright flower on Kelso's bosom born,When spring her glories shed,Where Tweed flows on in silver sheen,And Tiviot feeds her valleys green,I cannot think thee dead.Fair child—whose rich unfoldings gaveA promise rare and true,The parent's proudest thoughts to cheer,And soothe of widowed woe the tear,—Why hid'st thou from our view?Young bride, whose wildest thrill of hopeBowed the pure brow in prayer,Whose ardent zeal and saintly grace,Did make the manse a holy place,We search—thou art not there.Fond mother, they who taught thy joysTo sparkle up so high;Thy first born, and her brother dearCatch charms from every fleeting year:—Where is thy glistening eye?Meek Christian, it is well with thee,That where thy heart so longWas garnered up, thy home should be;—Thy path with Him who made thee free;—Thy lay—an angel's song.Lydia H. Sigourney.
Sweet bird of Scotia's tuneful clime,So beautiful and dear,Whose music gushed as genius taught,With Heaven's own quenchless spirit fraught,I list—thy strain to hear.
Bright flower on Kelso's bosom born,When spring her glories shed,Where Tweed flows on in silver sheen,And Tiviot feeds her valleys green,I cannot think thee dead.
Fair child—whose rich unfoldings gaveA promise rare and true,The parent's proudest thoughts to cheer,And soothe of widowed woe the tear,—Why hid'st thou from our view?
Young bride, whose wildest thrill of hopeBowed the pure brow in prayer,Whose ardent zeal and saintly grace,Did make the manse a holy place,We search—thou art not there.
Fond mother, they who taught thy joysTo sparkle up so high;Thy first born, and her brother dearCatch charms from every fleeting year:—Where is thy glistening eye?
Meek Christian, it is well with thee,That where thy heart so longWas garnered up, thy home should be;—Thy path with Him who made thee free;—Thy lay—an angel's song.
Lydia H. Sigourney.
Some of Mary Lundie Duncan's poems are characterized not merely by purity and elevation of sentiment, but by sweetness and melody of versification. The following written at "Callander," though not without defects, indicates the possession of true poetical genius.
How pure the light on yonder hills,How soft the shadows lie;How blythe each morning sound that fillsThe air with melody!Those hills, that rest in solemn calmAbove the strife of men,Are bathed in breezy gales of balmFrom knoll and heathy glen.In converse with the silent sky,They mock the flight of years;While man and all his labors dieLow in this vale of tears.Meet emblem of eternal rest,They point their summits greyTo the fair regions of the blest,Where tends our pilgrim way.The everlasting mountains thereReflect undying light;The ray which gilds that ambient air,Nor fades, nor sets in night.Then summer sun more piercing bright.That beam is milder too;For love is in the sacred lightThat softens every hue.The gale that fans the peaceful climeIs life's immortal breath,Its freshness makes the sons of timeForget disease and death.And shall we tread that holy ground,And breathe that fragrant air;And view the fields with glory crownedIn cloudless beauty fair?Look up! look up, to yonder light,That cheers the desert grey:It marks the close of toil and night,The dawn of endless day.How sweet your choral hymns will blendWith harps of heavenly tone;When glad you sing your journey's endAround your Father's throne.
How pure the light on yonder hills,How soft the shadows lie;How blythe each morning sound that fillsThe air with melody!
Those hills, that rest in solemn calmAbove the strife of men,Are bathed in breezy gales of balmFrom knoll and heathy glen.
In converse with the silent sky,They mock the flight of years;While man and all his labors dieLow in this vale of tears.
Meet emblem of eternal rest,They point their summits greyTo the fair regions of the blest,Where tends our pilgrim way.
The everlasting mountains thereReflect undying light;The ray which gilds that ambient air,Nor fades, nor sets in night.
Then summer sun more piercing bright.That beam is milder too;For love is in the sacred lightThat softens every hue.
The gale that fans the peaceful climeIs life's immortal breath,Its freshness makes the sons of timeForget disease and death.
And shall we tread that holy ground,And breathe that fragrant air;And view the fields with glory crownedIn cloudless beauty fair?
Look up! look up, to yonder light,That cheers the desert grey:It marks the close of toil and night,The dawn of endless day.
How sweet your choral hymns will blendWith harps of heavenly tone;When glad you sing your journey's endAround your Father's throne.
Mary's contributions to "The Philosophy of the Seasons," over the signature of M. L. D., such as "The Rose," "The Bat," "Sabbath Morning," an "Autumnal Sabbath Evening," are simple and elegant, indicating the possession of good sense and a refined imagination. Like her brother Archibald Lundie, who went to the South Sea Islands in order to benefit his health, and to labor in the sublime work of Christian missions, Mary passed away in the morning of her days, but not without leaving a blessed fragrance behind her, which yet lingers, not over Scotland alone, but over the whole Christian world. And well might her stricken yet resigned and hopeful mother say, in the words quoted at the close of her daughter'sMemoir: