Theviolet peeps from its emerald bed,And rivals the azure in hue overhead;To the breeze, sweeping by on invisible wings,Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings,And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heardSweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.The swallow is dipping his wing in the tide,And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied;Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine,And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine;Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray—Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.Oft forsaking the haunts and the dwellings of men,I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen;And the presence of June, making vocal each bough,Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow:The rustling of leaves, the blithe hum of the bee,Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.When the rose bends with dew on her emerald throne,And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown;When the musical thrush is asleep on its nest,And the red-bird is in her light hammock at rest;When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill,Is heard thy sad anthem, oh sad whip-poor-will!The Indian, as twilight was fading away,Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay,And deeming thy note the precursor of wo,Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe;But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight,While the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!Brightest month of the year! when thy chaplet grows pale,I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale:The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair,In clearness can ne'er with thy waters compare;Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vieWith the tint of thy rose, or the hue of thy sky!
Theviolet peeps from its emerald bed,And rivals the azure in hue overhead;To the breeze, sweeping by on invisible wings,Its gift of rich odor the young lily flings,And the silvery brook in the greenwood is heardSweetly blending its tones with the song of the bird.
The swallow is dipping his wing in the tide,And the aspect of earth is to grief unallied;Ripe fruit blushes now on the strawberry vine,And the trees of the woodland their arms intertwine;Forming shields which the sun pierceth not with his ray—Screening delicate plants from the broad eye of day.
Oft forsaking the haunts and the dwellings of men,I have sought out the depths of the forest and glen;And the presence of June, making vocal each bough,Would drive the dark shadow of care from my brow:The rustling of leaves, the blithe hum of the bee,Than the music of viols is sweeter to me.
When the rose bends with dew on her emerald throne,And the wren to her perch in the forest hath flown;When the musical thrush is asleep on its nest,And the red-bird is in her light hammock at rest;When sunlight no longer gilds streamlet and hill,Is heard thy sad anthem, oh sad whip-poor-will!
The Indian, as twilight was fading away,Would start when his ear caught thy sorrowful lay,And deeming thy note the precursor of wo,Would arm for the sudden approach of the foe;But I list to thy wild, fitful hymn with delight,While the pale stars are winking, lone minstrel of night!
Brightest month of the year! when thy chaplet grows pale,I shall mourn, for the bearer of health is thy gale:The pearl that young Beauty weaves in her dark hair,In clearness can ne'er with thy waters compare;Nor yet can the ruby or amethyst vieWith the tint of thy rose, or the hue of thy sky!
H.
FROM ROUGH NOTES OF A VISIT TO ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY
NUMBER THREE.
THE HIGHLANDS—PERTH, STIRLING, ETC.
Tuesday, June15.—At 7 o'clock, on a fine morning, I left Edinburgh for the lakes and highlands. My route for the day was the same as that of the Antiquary and Lovel. The coach, however, was much more prompt than in the days of Mrs. Macleuchar, and started off while the clock of St. Giles was striking, from Waterloo-place instead of High-street. Arrived at Queensferry, seven miles, after a beautiful ride, modern improvements were again visible; for, instead of having to wait for the tide, as did Oldbuck and his friend, we drove down a stone pier, at the end of which the water is always deep enough, and transferring our luggage and ourselves to a sail-boat just sufficiently large to contain the coach's company, guard, and coachee included, the canvass was spread, and in a few minutes we were at North Queensferry, on the other side of the Frith of Forth. Here we breakfasted; the landlord, who could produce a dinner 'peremtorie,' has been succeeded by one who has it already on the table at the moment the coach drives up.
The ride from this place to Kinross is not particularly interesting; neither is the scenery about Loch Leven. I stopped, however, of course, at the village, and walking down to the lake, over some marshy flats, made a bargain with a couple of fellows to row me over to the castle, on the same side from which Queen Mary escaped. There is a boat, it seems, kept by the cicerone of the place, who charges five shillings sterling to each visitor—a great imposition. My men had to keep out of sight, lest they should be fined for trespass! The whole lake is owned by one person—Lord Somebody, who leases the privilege of angling in it, for £500 per annum, and the lessee charges a guinea per day for sub-privileges! It abounds with fine trout. The castle, which is quite a ruin, only one tower remaining entire, looks more like a prison than a place of residence.
'No more its arches echo to the noiseOf joy and festive mirth; no more the glanceOf blazing taper through its window beams,And quivers on the undulating wave:But naked stand the melancholy walls,Lashed by the wintry tempests, cold and bleak,Which whistle mournfully through the empty halls,And piecemeal crumble down the tower to dust.'
'No more its arches echo to the noiseOf joy and festive mirth; no more the glanceOf blazing taper through its window beams,And quivers on the undulating wave:But naked stand the melancholy walls,Lashed by the wintry tempests, cold and bleak,Which whistle mournfully through the empty halls,And piecemeal crumble down the tower to dust.'
The entrance to the chamber pointed out as Queen Mary's is not more than four feet high, so that you have to stoop in entering it. The gate through which she escaped, with Douglas, is on the opposite side of the castle from her apartments, and not the usual place for leaving the island. The spot where she landed is yet called Queen Mary's Knoll.
After leaving Kinross, there is some fine scenery, particularly nearPerth, where I arrived about half past two. It is a large and handsome town, on the banks of the Tay. In my first walk through it, I noticed, as rather singular, a number of 'fair maids.' There is one, however, an inn-keeper's daughter, who seems to bear the palm, and is distinguished, I was told,par excellence, as 'The Fair Maid of Perth.' I saw several vessels, coaches, etc., thus named; and yet I could not find in the whole town a single copy of Scott's novel! Wandering down to the river, I saw a steam-boat just starting for Dundee,[2]twenty-two miles' sail on the beautiful river and Frith of Tay, and the fare nine-pence! So, not being very particular in my destination, I jumped on board, and was off in a trice, without my dinner, which I had ordered at the hotel. The trip was very pleasant, for it was a lovely day; and at six o'clock I dined in the best style, on 'three courses and a dessert,' in a handsome parlor, at the Royal Hotel, Dundee, for two shillings—the cheapest dinner and trip I have had in his Majesty's dominions. Dundee is a very large and flourishing place, and carries on more trade and commerce than any other town in Scotland, Glasgow perhaps excepted. It is admirably situated, and has quite a city-like appearance. The docks would be an honor to New-York. After dinner, I walked out to Broughty Ferry, four miles, along the banks of the Frith, to call on Dr.Dick, the author of the Christian Philosopher, and several other very able and popular works. He has a little of the pedagogue in his appearance and conversation, but seems to be a very plain, kind-hearted man. He is very much interested in our country and its literature, and had many questions to ask respecting his correspondents here. He thinks we are far before Great Britain on the score of education; and says that such a work as Burritt's Astronomy would be quite too deep and scientific to be used in schools there. Of course, he touched upon slavery. He did not understand why the blacks should not be admitted into society, and considered as equals in intellect with the whites! In the little attic room, are a variety of scientific instruments, such as telescopes, orreries, etc. Among the books were his last one, 'The Mental Illumination and Moral Improvement of Mankind,' English and American editions. After tea, it being ten o'clock, and yet light enough in this northern latitude to read without a candle, the doctor kindly escorted me nearly three miles on my way back to Dundee.
Thursday morning, at six o'clock, I mounted a coach returning to Perth, with a fine clear sky, and the warmest day I have experienced in Britain. The road is along the banks of the Forth, and is very quiet and pleasant, passing several splendid seats; among them Kinfauns Castle, (Lord Gray,) in the bosom of the hills, fronting the water. Near this, on the banks, are found fine onyxes, cornelians, and agates. There is a handsome stone bridge over the Tay at Perth. This is a lovely river, the current being very swift, and the water deep, clear, and dark. After breakfast, I walked two milesalong the banks north to the palace of Scone, where the Scottish kings were formerly crowned. I saw the celebratedstoneon which they were crowned, in Westminster Abbey, whither it has been removed. The present palace, is a modern and very splendid edifice, the finest I have seen of the kind, situated in an extensive park or lawn sloping to the banks of the river. It is occupied by the Earl of Mansfield, grand-son of the famous Lord Mansfield. The apartments on the ground-floor are very magnificent, particularly the drawing-room, which I imagine is thene plus ultraof modern elegance, and a fine specimen of a wealthy nobleman's apartment. The tables and cabinets are inlaid with brass, the ceiling carved with great taste, and the walls covered with superb silk furniture, furnished in the richest manner. It is as large as four or five good sized parlors. The library is of the same size. This, and some other rooms, contain paintings by Lady Mansfield herself, which are vastly creditable to her ladyship, and would be to a professed artist. The gallery is one hundred and fifty feet long, and contains a large organ. In the chambers, are bed-curtains, etc., wrought by Mary, Queen of Scots, when at Loch Leven.
Rode in the afternoon to Dunkeld, fifteen miles. Near this town, we enter the grand pass to the highlands, which here commence in all their beauty and grandeur. On the road; we passed Birnam Wood, (which it seems has not all 'moved to Dunsinane,') a mountain twelve miles distant, and seen from the top of Birnam. Dunkeld is beautifully situated, in a vale on the banks of the Tay, which is here even fairer than at Perth, surrounded by lofty and picturesque mountains, which closely overlook the town. The scenery here exceeds any thing I have seen; yet this is but the mere gate to the highlands; and I may as well reserve my enthusiasm.
The principal landed proprietor in this region, is the Duke of Athol, whose pleasure-grounds alone are said to extend fifty miles in a strait line. We walked though the charming garden on the banks of the river, to the half-finished palace which had been commenced by the present duke, but now remains instatu quo; for the 'poor rich man' became insane, and is now confined in a mad-house, near London. Crossing the rapid current of the river, in a boat, we climbed up to 'Ossian's Hall,' a pretty bower on the brink of a deep precipice, and in front of a beautiful waterfall, which comes tumbling down a rocky ravine from an immense height, and is enchantingly reflected in the mirrors of the bower. From this height, is a fine view of the Grampians, where
'My father feeds his flocks.'
Stirling, June17,P. M.—The Abbey of Dunblane and the battle-field of Sheriff-Muir were the only objects of interest during the ride from Perth: and there is little to excite curiosity in the old and irregular town of Stirling, except its noble castle, scarcely second to that of Edinburgh in fame and importance. Entering the esplanade, I happened to meet the commanding officer, who inquired if I was a stranger, and politely escorted me to every part of the extensive fortification. 'Inthatroom,' said he, 'James VI. was born;'thispalace was built by James V., (the 'Knight of Snowdon, James Fitz James,') who often travelled alone in various disguises, etc. The views from the ramparts of the castle are very extensive, and in many respects have been pronounced unrivalled. They reach from Arthur's Seat, on one side, to the highlands of Loch Katrine and Loch Lomond on the other, a distance of sixty-five miles. Eleven counties, comprising most of the places celebrated in Scottish history, may be seen from these battlements. On the south, two miles distant, is the memorable field of Bannockburn, where thirty thousand Scotchmen under Bruce routed the English army of one hundred thousand men, thirty thousand of whom were killed. During the battle, when victory was yet doubtful, the boys ('killies') who had charge of the Scotch luggage, curious to know the result of the contest, came with their carts to the top of the hill near by, and the English, supposing them to be a fresh army, took fright and scampered. So the place is called 'Killies' Hill,' to this day.
At fiveP. M., set off for Callender, fifteen miles, crossing the Forth, and passing 'the Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doune,' (but not Burns',) and the ruins of Doune Castle, a strong fortress, where Waverley was confined. A little farther, we ride along the Teith, pass the seat of Buchanan, where Scott spent much of his boyhood, and had his taste for the sublime and beautiful in nature inflamed into a noble passion, by contemplating the scenery spread before him.
Callender is a retired and quite a rude little village, at the south-west entrance to the highlands, and is the usual stopping place for tourists. The people here generally speak Gäelic, and the children wear the highland kilt. The inn is the only decent house in the place. Joined an agreeable party from Edinburgh, and walked out to Bracklinn Bridge, and a beautifully-romantic waterfall. For eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, at this place, at present, (June) it is light enough to read without a candle; and at elevenP. M., it is as light as our twilight.
Stewart's Inn, Loch Achray, Friday Eve.—This has been a most delightful day. It was a soft and brilliant morning, and we walked eight miles before breakfast to the celebrated Pass of Leven, one of the grandest in the highlands. Ben Ledi, 'the Hill of God,' (where the natives are said to have worshipped the sun,) lifts its lofty summit on one side, and at its base are two lovely little lakes, their glassy surface reflecting clearly the splendid picture around.
After an excellent breakfast, M'Gregor, our host, furnished us with the 'Rob Roy' car, and we were soon ushered into the classic and romantic region of the 'Lady of the Lake;' Ben Ledi being on our right, Ben An and Ben Venue frowning upon us in front. Riding along the banks of Loch Vennachar, on our left, we see Coilantogle Ford, where was the 'Combat', in which Fitz James mastered Roderick Dhu:
'By thicket green and mountain grey,A wildering path! they winded nowAlong the precipice's brow,Commanding the rich scenes beneath,The windings of the Forth and Teith,And all the vales between that lie,Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky.'
'By thicket green and mountain grey,A wildering path! they winded nowAlong the precipice's brow,Commanding the rich scenes beneath,The windings of the Forth and Teith,And all the vales between that lie,Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky.'
Our course was the same as that of the Knight of Snowdon, reversed; and every turn of the road brought new beauties to view, in the splendid landscape. On the opposite shore of Loch Vennachar, we saw the 'Gathering Place of Clan Alpine,' where, at the shrill whistle of Roderick Dhu, and to the surprise of Fitz James:
'Instant through copse and heath aroseBonnets, and spears, and bended bows;On right, on left, above, below,Sprang up at once the lurking foe;From shingles grey their lances start,The bracken bush sends forth the dart;The rushes and the willow-wandAre bristling into axe and brand;And every tuft of broom gives lifeTo plaided warrior, armed for strife.'
'Instant through copse and heath aroseBonnets, and spears, and bended bows;On right, on left, above, below,Sprang up at once the lurking foe;From shingles grey their lances start,The bracken bush sends forth the dart;The rushes and the willow-wandAre bristling into axe and brand;And every tuft of broom gives lifeTo plaided warrior, armed for strife.'
Every visitor here must remark the singularaccuracyof the pictures of scenery throughout this poem. We can find the original of every passage of local description, and I cannot help quoting some of them.
The 'plaided warriors' are now scarcely to be seen this side of the Braes of Balquiddar. How similar is their case to that of our American Indians! Like them, they were the original possessors of the soil, and roved in lawless freedom:
'Far to the south and east, where layExtended in succession gay,Deep waving fields and pastures green,With gentle slopes and groves between:Thesefertile plains,thatsoftened vale,Were once the birth-right of theGäel;Thestrangercame, with iron hand,And from our fathers reft the land.'
'Far to the south and east, where layExtended in succession gay,Deep waving fields and pastures green,With gentle slopes and groves between:Thesefertile plains,thatsoftened vale,Were once the birth-right of theGäel;Thestrangercame, with iron hand,And from our fathers reft the land.'
And as Roderick continues, addressing the king:
'Thinkst thou we will not sally forthTo spoil the spoiler as we may,And from the robber rend the prey?'
'Thinkst thou we will not sally forthTo spoil the spoiler as we may,And from the robber rend the prey?'
A short distance beyond Loch Vennachar, we came to Loch Achray, about a half mile long, and so placid and beautiful, that an Englishman took it for a work of art, and remarked that it was 'very well got up!' On the banks of this lovely lake, surrounded by the grand and loftyTrosachs, is the rustic little inn ofArdchinchrocan, where we stopped for the day. It 'takes' a Scott to do justice to this charming spot, and the wild but majestic scenery around. It seems far removed from the noise and trouble of the 'work-day world.'
After dinner, we took a walk toLoch Katrine, through the most sublime and difficult of all the passes through the Grampians—that formed by the Trosachs, or 'bristled territory.' All that is wild and stupendous in mountain scenery here unites:
'High on the south, huge Ben Venue,Down to the lake its masses threw;Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'dThe fragments of an earlier world.'
'High on the south, huge Ben Venue,Down to the lake its masses threw;Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl'dThe fragments of an earlier world.'
Not a shrub nor a plant can be seen on these heights. Their rough, gloomy sides form a strange contrast to the green vales below. Theechofrom them is remarkably distinct. We passed through the shady ravine, where the green knights' gallant grey fell, exhausted after 'the chase.' A few steps from this, the charming Loch Katrine suddenly appears. The upper part only is visible at first, 'the Island' obstructing the view, so that new and varied beauties are discovered at every step. The scene is calculated to inspire and elevate the nobler feelings of the visitor. Passing along the banks, we came to 'the beach of pebbles white as snow,' opposite 'the Island,' where Fitz James first saw Ellen:
'I well believe,' the maid replied,As her light skiff approached the side,'I well believe that ne'er beforeYour foot hath trod Loch Katrine's shore.'
'I well believe,' the maid replied,As her light skiff approached the side,'I well believe that ne'er beforeYour foot hath trod Loch Katrine's shore.'
The 'promontory,' 'the bay,' 'the brake,' 'the pebbles,' are all here; and to enliven the scene, there was an old man who might have been Allan Bane, playing wildly on a flute; and he gave us some fine old Scotch airs, which were quite a treat. We had a thunder-shower, too, and taking shelter in a cave, we heard 'heaven's artillery' echoed through these mighty mountains, with most impressive grandeur. On our return, with much exertion, I at length achieved the summit of one of the minor heights, and was amply repaid by the prospect therefrom. It was at sunset; and the whole of the three Lochs Katrine, Achray, and Vennachar, with the snow-capped Grampians on the north, and the distant ocean on the west, were distinctly seen. The cattle on the nearest mountains appeared not larger that cats.
Inverary, Head of Loch Fine, Saturday, 11 P. M.—With the moon-lit lake under my window, I resume my disjointed narrative. Yesterday we had seen the Trosachs in the clearest atmosphere, but to-day they were encircled with the mists which rolled majestically along their sides, while their summits were 'bright with the beams of the morning sun.' Our hostess at Loch Achray provided us with a boat and oarsmen, and we proceeded through the pass from which
'Loch Katrine lay beneath us roll'd—In all her length far winding lay,With promontory, creek, and bay,And islands that empurpled bright,Floated amid the livelier light;And mountains that like giants standTo sentinel enchanted land.'
'Loch Katrine lay beneath us roll'd—In all her length far winding lay,With promontory, creek, and bay,And islands that empurpled bright,Floated amid the livelier light;And mountains that like giants standTo sentinel enchanted land.'
How accurate and graphic the picture! This lake is about seven miles long, and perhaps half a mile wide. We sailed over its smooth and brilliantly-dark, transparent surface, and touched the banks of Ellen's Isle:
'The stranger view'd the shore around,'Twas all so close with copse-wood bound,Nor track, nor path-way might declareThat human foot frequented there.'
'The stranger view'd the shore around,'Twas all so close with copse-wood bound,Nor track, nor path-way might declareThat human foot frequented there.'
Our boatmen here gave us a specimen of the wonderful echoes.[3]His shrill call was answeredthree times, with perfect distinctness, and apparently from a great distance. He had a pithy way of talking, this rower. 'Do the sun's rays,' I asked, 'ever reach that glen under Ben An?' who here
'Lifts high his forehead bare.'
'Yes,' he said; 'they just give it a peep, to say 'How-dye-do?' and are off again.'
'Is it fiveEnglishmiles across the next pass?'
'English miles, but aScotch road.'
We passed the goblin cave, and enjoyed all at which 'the stranger' was enraptured and amazed; 'that soft vale,' and 'this bold brow,' and 'yonder meadow far away.' On landing, our boat-party found ponies in waiting to take us over the rough and dreary pass to Loch Lomond. Our cavalcade, with the guides, straggling along between these wild hills and precipices, was a subject for the pencil. There were some odd geniuses among us, too, who contributed much to our amusement. Arrived at Loch Lomond, we descended a rocky steep, to the banks where the steam-boat from Glasgow was to call for us. The place is called Inversnaid; but the only habitation in sight was a little hut, at the foot of a pretty cascade, where Wordsworth wrote:
'And I, methinks, 'till I grow old,As fair a maid shall ne'er behold,As I do now—the cabin small,The lake, the bay, the water-fall,And thou the spirit of them all.'
'And I, methinks, 'till I grow old,As fair a maid shall ne'er behold,As I do now—the cabin small,The lake, the bay, the water-fall,And thou the spirit of them all.'
The boat took us to the head of the loch to seeRob Roy's Cave, (which also once gave shelter to Robert Bruce,) and then reversed her course toward Glasgow. As we proposed to see Inverary, and some of the Western Islands, we landed at Tarbet, opposite Ben Lomond. The sky looked too black to warrant an ascent; but with glasses we could see several persons on the sugar-loaf summit. A tourist wrote on the window of the inn here, in 1777, a chapter of metrical advice to those
'Whose taste for grandeur and the dread sublimePrompt them Ben Lomond's dreadful height to climb.'
'Whose taste for grandeur and the dread sublimePrompt them Ben Lomond's dreadful height to climb.'
From Tarbet, we took a car and rode through the grand but dreary pass of Glencroe, Ben Arthur frowning upon us for six miles, and went round the head of Loch Long to Cairndow, on Loch Fine, where we again took boat for Inverary, and had a charming moonlight sail. This is a very neat and pretty little village, belonging almost entirely to the Duke of Argyle. The houses are mostly white, and evidently arranged for effect, being clearly reflected in the quiet lake, like Isola Bella, in Italy. The duke's castle, near the village, is an elegant modern edifice, of blue granite, with a circular tower at each corner. We had a ride through the extensive parksand pleasure-grounds, which are filled with every variety of valuable exotic trees. The owner of this fine estate has not been here for fifteen years—no great argument for his grace's good taste, or justice to his tenants. Some of the most eminent British artists have found ample employment for their pencils in this neighborhood. The loch is celebrated for its fine herrings, which is the chief article of trade of Inverary.
Monday Morning.—At three o'clock we were awakened for the steam-boat, and were not more than half dressed, when the steam ceased from growling, and the bell from tolling; nevertheless, we caught up what garments remained, leaving a few as wind-falls to the chamber-maid, and fled to the dock. The steamer was off, sure enough, but came to, and sent a boat for us, on seeing our signals. It is now broad day-light, and was, indeed, at two o'clock! The sail down Loch Fine is rather tedious. It is a salt-water lake, from thirty to forty miles in length, and the shores are low and barren as the sea-coast.
We stopped at several places for passengers, and passing between the isles of Bute and Arran, (celebrated in 'The Lord of the Isles,') we entered the Kyles of Bute, where the shores are verdant and interesting.
At the town of Rothsay, on the Isle of Bute, we saw the ruins of the famous Rothsay Castle; and a few miles farther, we passed the Castle of Dunoon, and several pretty summer-villas on the banks of the water. Entering the Frith of Clyde, we stopped at the flourishing ports of Greenock and Port Glasgow, and the strong fortress of Dumbarton, built on a lofty and picturesque rock, at the mouth of the river Clyde. From here, is a fine view of the Vale of Leven, and the whole outline of Ben Lomond, about fifteen miles distant. The pretty vale in the fore-ground is the scene of Smollet's beautiful ode:
'On Leven's banks when free to rove,And tune the rural pipe to love.'
'On Leven's banks when free to rove,And tune the rural pipe to love.'
In sailing up the Clyde, the most remarkable sight was the immense number of steam-boats which passed us in rapid succession. We met no less thantwenty-one, of a large class, on the river, all bound out; and I was told that upward of eighty are owned in Glasgow alone. We landed at Glasgow, after a voyage of twelve hours, during which we had stopped at as many different places. I was surprised at the extent and elegance of Glasgow, as much as at its evident importance as a manufacturing and commercial city. It seems to be scarcely second to Liverpool, and is certainly the third city in Great Britain on the score of population and trade.
It is too far up the river for a seaport, so that Greenock is a sharer in its prosperity. The buildings, like those of thenewtown of Edinburgh, are nearly all of a handsome free-stone, which is found in great abundance near the city, and is the cheapest as well as the best material they can use. Loss by fire is especially rare. Some of the private residences would do honor to the west end of London.The streets fronting the Clyde, on both sides, are very imposing, and are connected by four handsome stone bridges, while the banks of the river are substantially walled with granite, surmounted with iron railings. There is a public park, pleasure-ground, and gymnasium, near the river. The streets, particularly the Broadway of the town, Trongate-street, were literally thronged, quite as much so as Cheap-side and Fleet-street in the Metropolis. In this street I saw the remaining tower of the Tolbooth, where Rob Roy conducted Frank, and met Baillie Nichol Jarvie. From thence I walked up High-street to the venerable University, of which Campbell, the poet, who is a native of Glasgow, was lately principal.[4]The structure is very antique, and encloses three squares. I passed through college after college, looking as learned as possible, and graduated in the 'green,' where Frank Osbaldistone encountered Rashleigh. Farther up the street, I arrived at the oldcathedral, one of the largest in Britain. It is now divided into three churches for Presbyterians. The pillars which support the great tower are immense. I measured my umbrella twice onone sideof a single square pillar. Thecrypt(basement) where Frank Osbaldistone attended church, and was warned by Rob Roy, extends the whole length of the cathedral, and is the most curious part of it. In the grave-yard I noticed monuments to John and McGavin, author of the Protestant.
* * * The Merchants' Exchange is a splendid Corinthian edifice, and contains a noble public hall, and an extensive reading-room, where I was glad to find theKnickerbocker. I was surprised at the extraordinary cheapness of rents, both here and in Edinburgh, compared with those in our good city of Gotham. The very best finished three-story houses, of stone, of the largest class, and in desirable situations, may be had for four hundred and fifty dollars per annum. Our New-York landlords would demand for a similar residence, at least twelve hundred dollars. In Edinburgh, as it is not a commercial place, rents are still lower. Very superior houses, with large gardens, etc., are let for eighty pounds per year.
After seeing Langside, about two miles from Glasgow, where the cause of the ill-fated Queen of Scots was finally overthrown, I rode to Linlithgow, for the sake of a glance at her birth-place; the palace once so famous and 'fair.'
'Of all the palaces so fair,Built for the royal dwelling,Above the rest, beyond compare,Linlithgow is excelling.'
'Of all the palaces so fair,Built for the royal dwelling,Above the rest, beyond compare,Linlithgow is excelling.'
The walls remain nearly entire, but the interior was totally destroyed by fire, during one of the civil feuds. The town, as well as that of Falkirk, a few miles beyond, is dull and gloomy. Some of the old houses in Falkirk were once occupied by the knights of St. John, who had a preceptory near the place. The field where the great battle was fought, in which Wallace was defeated, is a short distance from the town. I reached Edinburgh at tenP. M., in the canal-boat from Glasgow, which goes at the rate of nine milesan hour, and landed under the batteries of the castle; having passed the most of a week, of delightful weather, among the most interesting parts of Scotland. I have been agreeably surprised at the evident marks of industry and prosperity which are almost every where apparent. The Scotch are notoriously shrewd, industrious, and thriving; but we yankees, like other nations, are apt to think ourselves far before the rest of the world in 'inventions and improvements;' and though a foreigner would sneer at my presumption, I have really felt pleased when I have seen any thing abroad 'pretty nearly' as good aswecan show at home. It is folly, at the same time, for us to flatter ourselves that we can in no wise take profitable example from our father-land!
ADVERSITY.
Wesometimes strike the madman to the earth,And mercy deals the pain-inflicting blow,That body's suffering may give reason birth,And with slight anguish mitigate much wo.When 'neath the surgeon's hand the patient lies,Whose mortifying limb requires the knife,With fortitude he bears his agonies,Nor heeds the torture that will save his life.Thus heaven doth strike us with adversity,Thus should we bow to its omniscient will;Then through dark clouds bright sunshine we should seeAnd sweetest comfort draw from direst ill.All is not sad, that to us seems to be,Nor all adverse, we call adversity.
Wesometimes strike the madman to the earth,And mercy deals the pain-inflicting blow,That body's suffering may give reason birth,And with slight anguish mitigate much wo.When 'neath the surgeon's hand the patient lies,Whose mortifying limb requires the knife,With fortitude he bears his agonies,Nor heeds the torture that will save his life.Thus heaven doth strike us with adversity,Thus should we bow to its omniscient will;Then through dark clouds bright sunshine we should seeAnd sweetest comfort draw from direst ill.All is not sad, that to us seems to be,Nor all adverse, we call adversity.
AGES.
Ages!to trace thy path, my curious eyePierces the vista of forgotten time:Ye awe me with your vast sublimity,Ye moving mysteries, that will consignThe breathing form that wonders at your might,Like unto myriads o'er whom ye have swept,To the dark lethe of impris'ning night;Where I must sleep, and where they long have slept.Like the majestic ocean's waves ye roll,Which o'er the sweetest, fondest memories ride,Slow journeying toward your destined goal,With all of earth mysteriously allied.Sweep on, Time's chroniclers! yourselves shall beEngulphed at last in vast eternity!
Ages!to trace thy path, my curious eyePierces the vista of forgotten time:Ye awe me with your vast sublimity,Ye moving mysteries, that will consignThe breathing form that wonders at your might,Like unto myriads o'er whom ye have swept,To the dark lethe of impris'ning night;Where I must sleep, and where they long have slept.Like the majestic ocean's waves ye roll,Which o'er the sweetest, fondest memories ride,Slow journeying toward your destined goal,With all of earth mysteriously allied.Sweep on, Time's chroniclers! yourselves shall beEngulphed at last in vast eternity!
ANGELS.
Theinfant sleeping on its mother's breast,Or seeking in her eye a sunny smile—The heart that boasts as calm and pure a rest,As spotless, and as free from earthly guile;The eye that weeps calamity to see,The hand that opens in its might to give;The crushed and sinking heart, that yearns to beBathed in His blood who died that it might live;The pure out-gushings of the fervent soul,The God-like thoughts that raise our hearts to heaven,Have each an Angel's spirit; and controlThe sordid clay, to shrine our spirits given.This is all felt—but Nature bids us traceThe Angel in earth's glory—woman's face.
Theinfant sleeping on its mother's breast,Or seeking in her eye a sunny smile—The heart that boasts as calm and pure a rest,As spotless, and as free from earthly guile;The eye that weeps calamity to see,The hand that opens in its might to give;The crushed and sinking heart, that yearns to beBathed in His blood who died that it might live;The pure out-gushings of the fervent soul,The God-like thoughts that raise our hearts to heaven,Have each an Angel's spirit; and controlThe sordid clay, to shrine our spirits given.This is all felt—but Nature bids us traceThe Angel in earth's glory—woman's face.
I havesaid, that owing to the aimless, reckless course of life which I pursued, after leaving college, I lost my place in society, and found myself without friends, and a marked man. This began my education. I began to look about me, and to think. What! my acquaintance slight me as unworthy their notice! What could be the cause of this? Could I live under such a ban? I resolved to reform. The effect upon me of this rule in society proves its excellence. I was at first staggered. I knew not that ruin was so near at hand. I was awakened from the trance of years. I determined to make a desperate effort. I collected the amount of my debts, and gave them in to my father, telling him, as coolly as I could, that I had determined to leave the city—to retire upon the smallest sum possible for the most secluded life. He paid my debts, enormous as they were. Without bidding adieu to any one, for I did not think myself of consequence enough to take leave formally, I, in a few days after my determination, was on my way to N——.
I took with me a few books, and they were well chosen. I had Scott and Byron, Mackenzie's works, the British Essayists, Sterne, Shenstone's Essays, Bacon's Essays, Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living and Dying, and Shakspeare. Yes! I took, too, Burns's poems and letters. His letters more than his poems I admired, or loved too read, for we feel more sympathy for Burns, on account of his hard struggles, than because he wrote 'Tam O'Shanter,' or the 'Twa Dogs.' These were all the books I took with me. I mention them with a feeling of pride, that my taste was so pure at so early a day, and in spite of my idleness and dissipated habits. If I were to select now from the whole field of literature—throwing in the old English prose writers by Young—I would not give up one of these books, supposing I could have no more in number.
The pleasure I received in reading these works—the tears I always shed over the Man of Feeling—prove to me that I was not so abandoned as I thought myself at this time, or at least, that we all have some good about us, however low we may stand in the estimation of the world. I think there is a double lesson to be learned from this: first, that all impressions, however trite and unimportant they may appear at the time they are being made, never should be deemed of small weight, because their effects are not seen immediately: and second, that we should be careful lest we do the greatest injustice to our fellow men, by looking on the surface of character only, which, from some accidental cause, may appear rough and disgusting, while the seeds of good feeling and honorable exertion lie hid from our sight, and only want opportunity to command our applause.
With these few silent, voiceless friends, I took up my residence in the village of N——, a village of New-England. The pleasantness of the situation determined my location, for the advantages of study can be had in any place. There was a quiet air about this village, whichenchanted me. It lay several miles from any other, on the banks of a river, upon a table-land. One long street extended through it, in a straight line. This street was very wide. The houses were not crowded upon the dusty path, but placed several rods back, with a green lawn in front, and painted white. It did not look like a business place—this was another good point—but it seemed like the residence of old and respectable families. There was fine scenery about it, too; high hills, and deep valleys, watered by swift and clear brooks. There was, and is, and ever will be, an air of easy comfort about this place, to strike strangers and foreigners. There is wealth without ostentation; hospitality without the appearance of obligation; and kindness and benevolence, ever to be remembered. Virtue is natural to a refined mind.
I entered my name in the office of a gentleman of rather retired habits. He had an excellent library, both of law books and miscellaneous reading, and read much himself; but he was considered by the people as rather an oddity, and a book-worm. He rarely appeared in court, and clients never came to his office; yet he had made a fortune by his profession. I will venture to swear that he made his money with clean hands and a quiet conscience. He was rarely seen off of his own territory, and never attended a public meeting in his life, except to hear a sermon. His history is somewhat singular. He was a shoe-maker, until thirty years of age, and then studied law, and supported himself, for the first years of his practice, by making shoes in his garret, as it is said. A man of few words, he never spoke first to any one, but always listened more than he talked, even in the company of a fool. With the coarsest features and roughest skin I ever saw, and the ugliest face, he had the most benevolent smile in the world. He never killed a fly, or trod upon a worm, though a lawyer. He was much respected by the older and better sort of people, and by those of his profession, who were glad to find their opinions supported by his.
Himself and wife constituted his family, and they lived as quietly as two mice. Every thing was kept as neat as wax. The house, and office contiguous, stood upon a slight elevation, opposite the village church and tavern, shaded by umbrageous trees. A stray stick or stone never remained long within ten rods of the place. He was the pattern of order, and neatness, and regularity, in every thing he did or possessed. I never saw an unpleasing expression upon the face of this gentleman, except when some one of the choir got out of key in church; and then his countenance would suddenly be drawn up into knots, that, it would seem, could never be unravelled; for with a coarse body, he possessed the most susceptible soul, and refined tastes in the arts. Retirement and self-examination had made him appear diffident; yet it was far from being an ungraceful kind of bashfulness, but rather that drawing back, as if he mistrusted your power fully to enter into his feelings. But to return.
I commenced the task of study, and stuck to it for a short time; but the feeling that follows the discharge of a duty soon became no novelty, and I began to be quite sick of being so very good. Every thing was too smooth. I always loved contrast; and here are some verses that I wrote, the first week I spent in the country:
Tears are like showers, that wet the sun-burnt soil,And freshen quick its verdure. After toil,Sweet is the laborer's rest.Affliction gives a zestTo joy, and tears are blest.For tears, if not by guilty conscience shed,Clear the dull channels of the brain and head;Our smiles are brighter,Our hearts are lighter;For memory loves to contrast joy with sorrow;We weep to-day, that we may laugh to-morrow.
Tears are like showers, that wet the sun-burnt soil,And freshen quick its verdure. After toil,Sweet is the laborer's rest.Affliction gives a zestTo joy, and tears are blest.For tears, if not by guilty conscience shed,Clear the dull channels of the brain and head;Our smiles are brighter,Our hearts are lighter;For memory loves to contrast joy with sorrow;We weep to-day, that we may laugh to-morrow.
This is the doctrine that has always swayed me; and if life at times becomes too quiet, I set the imagination to work to conjure up some wrong or injustice I suppose myself to have suffered, and work myself into a state of superior wretchedness. The freak passes away, and I am very pleased, and much excited, by what would be but sources of common enjoyment to the equable and reasonable.
Beside, there was another obstacle to studious habits—woman. I was among a new race of beings. Women in the country and in the city are as different as the barn-door fowl is from the bright-plumaged bird of the untrodden wild. In the first place, city girls are not so handsome as those living in the country. The former excel in dress, and the wavy lines of grace; they understand the art of showing off their feet and ankles to better advantage; but they lack the one thing needful—the nature. They walk upon the paved street, not the grassy lawn, where every foot-step is in a line of poetry. They have grown up surrounded by artificial refinements; in the sickly glare of lamps, and a smoky atmosphere; their minds have not been tutored by the goddess of nature. They do not so often see the setting sun, the burnished clouds, the bright artillery of heaven. They feel not the balmy air, the dewy freshness of the morning. They do not hear the songs of birds; neither do they see the sparkling rivulet. How then is it possible they can be equal to those in affections, tastes, health, and beauty, who see, and hear, and feel all these things?
The daughters of people in moderate circumstances in the country are well educated. They usually spend a winter in town, and acquire all that can be learned of dress, although they depend little upon the 'aid of ornament.' They usually understand music and drawing. They read a great deal. The society they meet is pure; not varnished rottenness. Their habits are simple, and their tastes elegant.
They are without doubt the most fascinating women in the world; and are sought in matrimony by city merchants and lawyers, who have amassed fortunes, and begin to look about for some domestic comfort, while the city miss, who is never in public without being absorbed in her appearance, and dress, and walk, and who is always under the restraint of some forced prettiness, as she thinks it, is suffered to dash the years away in idleness and folly, till her nerves are worn out, and her health and beauty gone, beyond the arts of paint; or she marries very young, and soon fades, and is laid on the shelf; or she devotes herself to living her life over again in her daughter, her counterpart.
I soon found myself, in the society of this village, visiting everyday. I could not withstand the temptation. It was all novelty. Such fine healthy countenances, open air, engaging conversation, offered in every house, that from law I turned to love. Blessed exchange!—from baron and femme, and contingent remainders, to ponder over the unwritten poetry of beauty, and the silver-tongued voices of young, imaginative maids, who treat you as if you were their brother, the moment their parents show, by their deportment, that they have confidence that you are a gentleman.
How seldom is this confidence abused by an American? Who ever heard a case of seduction, in one of our country villages, among the better classes of society—among equals? These accidents, which our city-calendars register in the city, are mostly the handiwork of foreigners. Gallantry, conjugal infidelity, is not a vice of good society here, as in France or England. Men and women can be elegant, and happy, and contented, without the excitement of intrigue, to give a dash of romance to the career of a fine Lady Anybody, or bewitching Sir Nobody.
I defy the nicest art to circumvent one of our American girls, brought up as young ladies are brought up in our opulent country villages. Her very innocence protects her. She will not understand your passion, if it verges to freedom; think you drunk or crazy; any thing, but serious in your wild words and looks, and escape from you as soon as she can, and probably go and tell her mother, who will take care you do not see her very often. And this shall all be done, and brought about, and no fuss be made, either.
I happened to make the acquaintance here of a fine intelligent girl of my own age—twenty. She had found out a good deal about the world in books, and somewhat by observation in society. Her reading had been of a peculiar cast. She had read Byron from top to bottom, Tom Moore, all the novels and poetry she could get hold of; and, without any method or direction, she had studied philosophy, moral and natural, skimmed metaphysics and logic, and knew a little Latin, and some French. When quite young, she was called a 'smart girl;' every body prophesied she would be a wonder of intelligence and beauty; and she was. Her person was as remarkable as her mind. Of the medium stature in woman, with a form finely proportioned and graceful, you forgot every thing else about her, when you encountered her large black eyes, of uncommon depth of expression. This kind of eye is rare, though we sometimes find it among the inhabitants of the South. It seems as if it reached far back into the head, and contained the means of looking into your own heart, while the beholder is at a loss to fix its own expression. There is passion, love, self-possession, indifference, anger, scorn, dwelling in it; either to be called out in an instant, as the mind varies. Her complexion was a dark brunette; her nose and lips were nicely formed, and her teeth even and regular; her forehead very high and broad, set off majestically by a profusion of hair as black as the raven's wing.
The first time I ever saw her, was one evening when I called at her father's. In the movement that followed my entrance into the room, her hair by accident or design fell and enveloped her whole bust. Her dark eyes gleamed through its folds, and all her striking charms were the more enhanced, when half concealed by such rich drapery.I was taken by surprise. I had never seen such a woman. She reminded me of something I had read of in eastern tales—houris of paradise—something very lovely, and passionate, and devoted.
My imagination was inflamed, and I loved her upon the instant, and did for years after; and now I cannot say but I feel some regrets that fate should have parted us. But we never could have been happy together as man and wife. She had no system of thinking or acting, and I certainly had none, and never shall have. We were then, both, the creatures of impulse, and perhaps it is better as it is. She was much my superior in self-control. Equally acted on by impulse, I yielded to the whim of the moment in conduct; she felt the desire, but sustained herself, and her feelings preyed upon her happiness.
I very soon after this first meeting saw her at a ball. We danced and walked together. She had the reputation of being a coquette, in the village, and I was marked as the next victim to be offered, in the minds of all present.
Indeed I was a fit subject. I knew nothing then of the faults of women. I had sisters, and thought all women pure and saint-like, like my dear cousin. I never could attach an improper sentiment to any of the sex. I cannot now think them mean and deceitful, though I have strong proof of their being so. I am willing to be deceived in this respect. I hope I always may be. I make it a principle to think myself mistaken, when a woman of respectable standing in society appears to be in fault.
I suspected nothing wrong in this case. I was excited and happy, and I did not look to mar my own enjoyment. I was fascinated, although Miss Clair did not appear so well in a ball-room as in a simple dress at home—I mean not so loveable. Dressed in rich ornaments, she looked too unapproachable, too like a queen, an Indian queen, if you will; her high and commanding forehead, her glancing eye, her unshrinking gaze. And then she did not dance well. She often told me she hated the trouble. I think she was too intellectual to care much for dancing, or her ear was in fault. She never sang; though I believe she loved the music of the drum and fife. Do not infer, kind reader, that she was masculine—far from it. I have seen the tears roll out from her open eyes, when she was strongly affected by some pathetic tale, or some choice poetry; and when in our walks and rides we stopped to gaze upon some beautiful or grand scene of nature, she would weep from the very excess of her delight—perhaps from some association she did not confide to me. When at home, in a natural state of mind, surrounded by her family, and engaged in her duties, she was all delicate attention to the wants of others.
I had hardly become acquainted with her, when she suddenly left the village for an absence of three months. I cannot describe the pain I underwent during that time. I could not study or read, even novels. She promised to correspond with me, and all I did was to write letters to her. I wrote every day, and at night threw them into the fire. They did not suit me. Sometimes they were too warm. What I had written in the morning, seemed a different thing in the afternoon. I was now angry, now penitent, and in that conflictingstate of mind which lovers, particularly young ones, know so well; and which I will venture to say they all agree is the most unenviable state of feeling in the world.
At last she returned. She would not see me for a week, for some cause or other—I never could discover what. When I did see her, at last, she received me with stately coldness. I did not know what to make of it. It made me feel very unhappy, and I recollect I did not think of blaming her, but supposed the fault lay in myself.
This fickleness of hers did not cool my passion, but rather inflamed it. During these formal visits, there was always a look given, or a flower, or some appeal to me in a matter of literature, from which I drew encouragement that she was not indifferent to me—something I always carried away to dwell upon with pleasure; that kept her in my thoughts, and kept me from giving up the pursuit of such a charming object.
Things went on in this way for weeks. At last, if my calls were not frequent, she would ridicule my apathy to society; if I walked with another lady, I could see her eyes flash with indignation when she met me. She evidently considered me as her property, and I was doomed to submit patiently to all her caprices.
I now understand her. She did love me, as the sequel will show; but she dared hardly confess it to herself. She had seen very few young men from cities, or of much rank. Her idea of young men of fortune was drawn chiefly from novels. She feared I was fickle, and only bent upon a little amusement. She acted on the defensive. She only wished to be assured of my true affection for her, to pour out upon me all the repressed tenderness of her nature. Her coldness was assumed to conceal her feelings; for she was a creature of extremes. Her only safety, she thought, was to shield herself in frowns. Easy politeness would have been torture to her. Before I left her, she usually gave me one kind word, enough, if I loved her, she thought, to anchor my heart to hers. She knew the nature of the passion. Her absence was to try me. She has told me that she loved me at first sight, as I certainly did her.
Her father was an open-hearted man, of profuse hospitality. He liked me, and invited me to his house whenever we met. He was an easy man, who had married, himself, from prudent motives; he could not imagine how there could be any romance in his family, if he understood the true meaning of the word. I rode, walked, and sat with his daughter a good deal of the time. We were happy; he saw we were, and supposed it was the happiness of youth and prosperity.
He had been gay himself, when young, and loved the girls. He had no Byron to read—no Moore to ponder over—no stories of Petrarch and Laura to inflame his imagination. He did not see our danger. And this, by-the-by, is a fault of no small magnitude in the education of the young; that parents do not enough know the reading of their children. Books change with time. The novel of the present day is no more the novel of our father's day, than the fashion of a dandy now-a-days is the fashion of the exquisite of the last century.
Parents do not know the minds of their children, or the effects oftheir reading. Not knowing their books, how can they judge? Children are always reserved before their parents; and as a general remark, applicable to children, we may say, that parents know less of their own children than they do of their neighbors'. They, good easy souls! suppose all is right. Like geese, who hide their heads, and think (if geese do think) their bodies are safe, so parents shut their eyes, and hope for the best. 'Well,' they say, 'we can't tell what is to become of him,' looking at the child some one is praising to his face; 'he may make a man: heaven, I hope, will take care of him.' And so this pious, conscientious father attends to his business, and the child is left to the chance of being ruined.
The effect of the books young ladies read is immense, upon their principles. They are so much alone; taking and plausible sentiments sink so deep into their hearts; they have so little to disturb or counteract the impressions of injudicious books. Nay, society oftentimes rivets the chains of a bad impression around their very necks, and custom gives it a place in their hearts. Educate young ladies as you will; that is, send them to what school you please; give them the advantages of accomplishments in the arts and society, and at the same time let them have the range of a circulating library, and they will inevitably very often imbibe matter and notions for severe struggles, and heart-burnings, and shame, if not of crime. The books young people of both sexes read, is not considered a matter of sufficient consequence. It is left to chance—to superficial advice—to fashionable cant.
In those oil-fed hours we steal from sleep to pore over the exciting tale, or tragic story, we do more to fix our characters, to plant the seeds of some kind of principle, either good or bad, in our hearts, than in all our school hours, trebly counted.
The character of this high and impetuous young lady was the effect of books acting upon a very susceptible temperament. My own character was quite as impetuous as her own, though not so high and disinterested. Having been, as I thought, in love before, I had a certain familiarity of acquaintance with emotion. ''Twas love I loved.' She loved me. She acted from strong feeling, and so did I; but I am ashamed to record, that my movements were tempered with a vein of calculation, that detracted from my enjoyment.
But how much we did enjoy! Here for the first time did I fold a woman in my arms, and impress upon her lips—giving all that lips can give—burning kisses! I played with the rich black hair upon her forehead. I kissed her white hand, and encircled her waist. I laid my head upon her bosom, and felt, the heavings of her heart.
Oh God! what scenes of agonizing bliss! I never can know you again! Age, care, and want, have come upon me, and I am dying in a foreign land, without one tear to water my grave!
When Alice Clair first confessed her love for me, it was with weeping, and an excess of emotion, which alarmed me. Her whole frame was shaken, as if by an ague. I had endeavored, for a long time, to wring the secret from her. I wished her to say the words, 'I do love you!' I wished her promise. I now can easily see her hesitation. She knew me better than I did myself. She saw I was capable of any thing, and yet insensible to every thing, but pleasure.She was ambitious. She wished her lover—her serious and true lover—the man she expected to marry—to possess strength. Perhaps she felt her own weakness, and saw her need of some strong staff to lean upon. She saw that I had not much determination in any course that interfered with my pleasure. Hence her unwillingness to acknowledge me as her lover, to the world. She wished to keep me in her chains—to hold me from others—and, although she loved me, I am convinced, still at times there was a taint of coquetry in her manner to me in public, that made me appear ridiculous. I could not, would not, bear this, and I determined to offer myself to her, and in case of refusal to go—I knew not where.
I know of nothing so laughable as feigned passion. It must put people to a world of trouble, to play extatics, to weep tears, to kiss passionately, to embrace, while the heart is ice, and the temper clouded; to be playing lover, while one is thinking how long it is before dinner.
I had worked myself up into quite a passion. I thought my whole soul was absorbed in this affair. I wished to be married forthwith. I could not think of delay; and in these moods used to press my suit with a mad earnestness, and ask her acknowledged love, with all my heart, and with a temporary sincerity.
One night, we were walking late on the banks of a river, in a beautiful meadow. The town was far above us. Every sound of labor was hushed, and we were alone, in the stillness of a moonlight night, with no witnesses except the stars, and the long shadows of our figures, as we alternately walked and sat by the way. The scene was a bewitching one; the river was calm, and reflected the heavens; the night was balmy with new-mown hay. We were alive with health, and youth, and love. I had been singing low, plaintive airs to her, expressive of ill-requited affection, as we walked along. She said but little. Her face looked pale and thoughtful, as ever and anon she turned her large eyes full upon me, as if to search my very inmost soul. She was deliberating upon my proposal. I was unsuspecting, but free and open to tell her all. Suddenly she threw her arms about my neck, and seemed fainting, by the weight that pressed upon me. I seated her upon the bank of the river, and still she wept, and spoke not a word, while her tears flowed, and her frame trembled. I cried out for help, but she stopped me; and as no one came, I waited till she recovered herself. That night we sat long by the bank of the river, and she gave me her heart, and the compact was sealed by the first kiss I had ever given to pure lips. She then confessed to me all her doubts, and in a dignified manner, which confused while it charmed me, told me the risks she incurred in yielding to her feelings. I had nothing to boast of in the conquest, for while it displayed to me the weakness and tenderness of woman, it told me how weak and inferior I was, in all the essentials of a useful man. It certainly was the most singular confession and compact that ever took place between man and woman, since the time Adam took Eve to wife, in the garden of Paradise.
After this, her manner changed toward me entirely. There was no reserve. She pointed out my faults; she endeavored to excite meto honorable exertion. Often has she ran away from me, to force me to go and study; and if, when I returned, I bore the marks of mental fatigue, how happy it used to make her! She was aware that I might rise to respectability in my profession; but she did not know the cruel negligence of my early life; she did not know the long-riveted habits of idleness I had indulged; she did not know how hopeless and blank my prospects really were.
If I appear indifferent and cold-blooded to the reader, he knows nothing of human nature. There is a point to which a man sometimes arrives, which to all intents amounts to a kind of fatality. Does the drunkard lose his moral agency? Yes! when his faculties are deadened. Is there a man who could resist food, if placed before his eyes just as he was dying of starvation? Is there not a moral deadness of the faculties, produced by habits of idleness and pleasure, equally binding, equally calling for indulgence? Nothing is impossible to God; but man's powers, even in his own favor, are limited; and I am disposed to think, that the vicious man is punished, partly, in this world. He sees, by the examples around him, his certain destiny. He is ever, in his solitary moments, looking over the abyss into which he knows he must fall. He makes effort after effort to escape. It is all fruitless, unless the power of God assist him, as it sometimes does. He is like the sailor standing upon the shattered wreck of his good ship, and looking at the mountain wave approaching, that he knows will engulf him in the deep. Added to this, there are the stings of an upbraiding conscience, and the fear of everlasting punishment.
But there were times when we forgot all unpleasant reflections; when we talked of our prospects of happiness. I was to inherit a fortune—to distinguish myself at the bar. We were to travel over Europe together; perhaps find some delightful retreat in the classic south, and there (I loving only her) we were to spend a life of love and blessedness.
I can hardly believe that she yielded as implicitly to these illusions as I did. I had got myself worked up into a perfect madman; and though at times I knew how false and fleeting were all these plans, yet in her presence, and after talking upon such subjects, my imagination took the reins of my reason, and I made these fanciful excursions with sincerity, and took a pleasure in the anticipation more than equal, I am convinced, to any they could have afforded in reality. I do not think she felt with me here. As I remember her, with her strong sense, her conception of the ridiculous, and exaggeration in others, her keen wit and cutting sarcasm, it seems impossible that she should. Nevertheless, every one is conscious of strange inconsistencies of feeling. A scene strikes us to-day with awe and pathetic effect, which to-morrow we pass coldly by. Every thing depends upon the state of the nervous temperament, the attending circumstances, our previous reading, the chain of events. And by the way, this is the chief use of philosophy, that it enables us to look at every thing with an investigating eye, and never to yield to impulse. The mind is taken up in sound reflection, and it has no time to lose itself in the mazes of the imagination. Age, necessity, torpor of the blood, experience, produce the same effects;while youth, and romantic ardor, and the poetical parts of life, run wild, solely from a want of habits of reflection.
It seems, no doubt, a strange inconsistency, that I did not exert myself, if I so loved this noble girl. We must distinguish between passion and affection. The very nature of the first admits of no reflection. The last is all reflection, and quiet yielding of its own convenience for the happiness of the loved object. Passion is the lava of the volcano, which covers up and ruins all things under it; affection is the refreshing shower, the gentle dew, making the pastures green, and the earth glad. A good, well-regulated mind would have done otherwise than I did, but it would likewise have loved otherwise than I did.
I yielded to nature and my temperament. I had not two wills, one to oppose the other; there was not in my nature any thing to oppose my nature. I have all along described myself as a foolish creature of impulse; and I was, and am, and never shall be any thing else.
One night, after some irregularity caused by lovers' quarrel, and the consequent restlessness, which sought relief in pleasure, she was representing to me the consequences of such habits of dissipation, as tenderly as she could, and I was moved by her earnestness to tears. She followed up her advantage, and throwing herself upon her knees before me, she wept, herself, in sobs, for some moments. Then raising her tearful eyes, she begged, she implored, she entreated me, to change my course of life; not to bring ruin upon us both; not to blight our prospects, by such cruel neglect of every honorable pursuit. She seemed to feel that every thing depended upon me; she saw me on the brink of a precipice; she exerted eloquence that might have drawn tears from a statue; and I was earnest, that night, in my resolutions, as I laid my head upon my pillow. But I did not ask assistance from God; and herein lay my error.
I have since found, that all resolutions are futile and useless, unless we confirm and strengthen them by prayer. The very exercise of prayer is its own answer. Prostration of ourselves before God produces a calm and dispassionate frame of mind, and a sense of our accountability. As our thoughts, in such seasons, dwell upon the truth of an eternal existence, the world and its vanities recede, and appear in their true insignificance. We then are prepared to take the first steps in goodness. Who that has passed out of a life of vice into a life of virtue, ever turns back? The first step is the important one. Let that be taken, in good faith, and each succeeding one opens wider and wider the peace of the path of virtue.