HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.

Henry Scott Riddell, one of the most powerful and pleasing of the living

national song-writers, was born on the 23d September 1798, at Sorbie, in

the Vale of Ewes--a valley remarkable for its pastoral beauty, lying in

the south-east of Dumfriesshire. His father was a shepherd, well

acquainted with the duties of his profession, and a man of strong though

uneducated mind. "My father, while I was yet a child," writes Mr

Riddell, in a MS. autobiography, "left Sorbie; but when I had become

able to traverse both _burn_ and _brae_, hill and glen, I frequently

returned to, and spent many weeks together in, the vale of my nativity.

We had gone, under the same employer, to what pastoral phraseology terms

'_an out-bye herding_,' in the wilds of Eskdalemuir, called

Langshawburn. Here we continued for a number of years, and had, in this

remote, but most friendly and hospitable district, many visitors,

ranging from Sir Pulteney Malcolm down to Jock Gray, whom Sir Walter

Scott, through one of his strange mistakes, called Davy Gellatly....

Among others who constituted a part of the company of these days, was

one whom I have good reason to remember--the Ettrick Shepherd. Nor can I

forbear observing that his seemed one of those hearts that do not become

older in proportion as the head grows gray. Cheerful as the splendour of

heaven, he carried the feelings, and, it may be said, the simplicity and

pursuits of youth, into his maturer years; and if few of the sons of men

naturally possessed such generous influence in promoting, so likewise

few enjoyed so much pleasure in participating in the expedients of

recreation, and the harmless glee of those who meet under the rural

roof--the shepherd's _bien_ and happy home. This was about the time when

Hogg began to write, or at least to publish: as I can remember from the

circumstance of my being able to repeat the most part of the pieces in

his first publication by hearing them read by others before I could read

them myself. It may, perhaps, be worth while to state that at these

meetings the sons of farmers, and even of lairds, did not disdain to

make their appearance, and mingle delightedly with the lads that wore

the crook and plaid. Where pride does not come to chill nor foppery to

deform homely and open-hearted kindness, yet where native modesty and

self-respect induce propriety of conduct, society possesses its own

attractions, and can subsist on its own resources.

"At these happy meetings I treasured up a goodly store of old Border

ballads, as well as modern songs; for in those years of unencumbered and

careless existence, I could, on hearing a song, or even a ballad, sung

twice, have fixed it on my mind word for word. My father, with his

family, leaving Langshawburn, went to Capplefoot, on the Water of Milk,

and there for one year occupied a farm belonging to Thomas Beattie, Esq.

of Muckledale, and who, when my father was in Ewes, had been his

friend. My employment here was, along with a younger brother, to tend

the cows. In the winter season we entered the Corrie school, but had

only attended a short while when we both took fever, and our attendance

was not resumed. At Langshawburn, my father for several winters hired a

person into his house, who taught his family and that of a neighbouring

shepherd. In consequence of our distance from any place of regular

education, I had also been boarded at several schools--at Devington in

Eskdale, Roberton on Borthwick Water, and Newmill on the Teviot, at each

of which, however, I only remained a short time, making, I suppose, such

progress as do other boys who love the football better than the

spelling-book.

"At the Whitsunday term my father relinquished his farm, and returned to

his former employment in the Forest of Ettrick, under Mr Scott of

Deloraine, to whom he had been a shepherd in his younger days. With this

family, indeed, and that of Mr Borthwick, then of Sorbie, and late of

Hopesrigg, all his years since he could wear the plaid were passed, with

the exception of the one just mentioned. It was at Deloraine that I

commenced the shepherd's life in good earnest. Through the friendly

partiality of our employer, I was made principal shepherd at an age

considerably younger than it is usual for most others to be intrusted

with so extensive a _hirsel_[1] as was committed to my care. I had by

this time, however, served what might be regarded as a regular

apprenticeship to the employment, which almost all sons of shepherds do,

whether they adhere to herding sheep in after-life or not. Seasons and

emergencies not seldom occur when the aid which the little boy can lend

often proves not much less availing than that of the grown-up man.

Education in this line consequently commences early. A knowledge of the

habits, together with the proper treatment of sheep, and therefore of

pastoral affairs in general, 'grows with the growth' of the individual,

and becomes, as it were, a portion of his nature. I had thus assisted my

father more or less all along; and when a little older, though still a

mere boy, I went for a year to a friend at Glencotha, in Holmswater, as

assistant shepherd or lamb-herd. Another year in the same capacity I was

with a shepherd in Wester Buccleuch. It was at Glencotha that I first

made a sustained attempt to compose in rhyme. When in Wester Buccleuch

my life was much more lonely, and became more tinged with thoughts and

feelings of a romantic cast. Owing to the nature of the stock kept on

the farm, it was my destiny day after day to be out among the mountains

during the whole summer season from early morn till the fall of even.

But the long summer days, whether clear or cloudy, never seemed long to

me--I never wearied among the wilds. My flocks being _hirsled_, as it is

expressed, required vigilance: but, if this was judiciously maintained,

the task was for the most part an easy and pleasant one. I know not if

it be worth while to mention that the hills and glens on which my charge

pastured at this period formed a portion of what in ancient times was

termed the Forest of Rankleburn. The names of places in the district,

though there were no other more intelligible traditions, might serve to

shew that it is a range of country to which both kings and nobles had

resorted. If from morning to night I was away far from the homes of

living men, I was not so in regard to those of the dead. Where a lesser

stream from the wild uplands comes down and meets the Rankleburn, a

church or chapel once stood, surrounded, like most other consecrated

places of the kind, by a burial-ground. There tradition says that five

dukes, some say kings, lie buried under a marble stone. I had heard that

Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, had, a number of years previously, made a

pilgrimage to this place, for the purpose of discovering the sepulchres

of the great and nearly forgotten dead, but without success. This,

however, tended, in my estimation, to confirm the truth of the

tradition; and having enough of time and opportunity, I made many a

toilsome effort of a similar nature, with the same result. With hills

around, wild and rarely trodden, and the ceaseless yet ever-varying

tinkling of its streams, together with the mysterious echoes which the

least stir seemed to awaken, the place was not only lonely, but also

creative of strange apprehensions, even in the hours of open day. It is

strange that the heart will fear the dead, which, perhaps, never feared

the living. Though I could muster and maintain courage to dig

perseveringly among the dust of the long-departed when the sun shone in

the sky, yet when the shadow of night was coming, or had come down upon

the earth, the scene was sacredly secure from all inroad on my part: and

to make the matter sufficiently intelligible, I may further mention

that, some years afterwards, when I took a fancy one evening to travel

eight miles to meet some friends in a shepherd's lone muirland dwelling,

I made the way somewhat longer for the sake of evading the impressive

loneliness of this locality. I had no belief that I should meet accusing

spirits of the dead; but I disliked to be troubled in waging war with

those _eery_ feelings which are the offspring of superstitious

associations.

"While a lamb-herd at Buccleuch, I read when I could get a book which

was not already threadbare. I had a few chisels, and files, and other

tools, with which I took pleasure in constructing, of wood or bone,

pieces of mechanism; and I kept a diary in which I wrote many minute and

trivial matters, as well, no doubt as I then thought, many a sage

observation. In this, likewise, I wrote rude rhymes on local

occurrences. But I have anticipated a little. On returning home from

Glencotha, and two years before I went to Buccleuch, a younger brother

and I had still another round at herding cattle, which pastured in a

park near by my father's cottage. Our part was to protect a meadow which

formed a portion of it; and the task being easy to protect that for

which the cattle did not much care, nor yet could skaithe greatly though

they should trespass upon it, we were far too idle not to enter upon and

prosecute many a wayward and unprofitable ploy. Our predilections for

taming wild birds--the wilder by nature the better--seemed boundless;

and our family of hawks, and owls, and ravens was too large not to cost

us much toil, anxiety, and even sorrow. We fished in the Ettrick and the

lesser streams. These last suited our way of it best, since we generally

fished with staves and plough-spades--thus far, at least, honourably

giving the objects of our pursuit a fair chance of escape. When the hay

had been won, we went to Ettrick school, at which we continued

throughout the winter, travelling to and from it daily, though it lay at

the distance of five miles. This we, in good weather, accomplished

conveniently enough; but it proved occasionally a serious and toilsome

task through wind and rain, or keen frost and deep snow, when winter

days and the mountain blasts came on.

"My father after being three years in Stanhopefoot, on the banks of the

Ettrick, went to Deloraineshiels, an _out-bye herding_, under the same

employer. In the winter season either I or some other of the family

assisted him; but so often as the weather was fine, we went to a school

instituted by a farmer in the neighbourhood for behoof of his own

family. When by and by I went to herd the _hirsel_ which my father

formerly tended, like most other regular shepherds I delighted in and

was proud of the employment. A considerable portion of another _hirsel_

lying contiguous, and which my elder brother herded, was for the summer

season of the year added to mine, so that this already large was made

larger; but exempted as I was from attending to aught else but my flock,

I had pleasant days, for I loved the wilds among which it had become

alike my destiny and duty to walk at will, and 'view the sheep thrive

bonnie.' The hills of Ettrick are generally wild and green, and those of

them on which I daily wandered, musing much and writing often, were as

high, green, and wild, as any of them all.... It may be the partiality

arising from early habit which induces me to think that a man gets the

most comprehensive and distinct view of any subject which may occupy

thought when he is walking, provided fatigue has not overtaken him.

Mental confidence awake amid the stir seems increased by the exercise of

bodily power, and becomes free and fearless as the step rejoicing in the

ample scope afforded by the broad green earth and circumambient sky. On

the same grounds, I have sometimes marvelled if it might not be the

majesty of motion, as one may say, reigning around the seaman's soul,

that made his heart so frank in communication, and in action his arm so

vigorously energetic. At all events, there was in these days always

enough around one to keep interest more or less ardent awake--

"'Prompting the heart to pour the impassion'd strain

Afar 'mid solitude's eternal reign,

In numbers fearless all as unconfined,

And wild as wailings of the desert wind.'

"According to my ability I studied while wandering among the mountains,

and at intervals, adopting my knee for my desk, wrote down the results

of my musing. Let not the shepherd ever forget his dog--his constant

companion and best friend, and without which all his efforts would

little avail! Mine knew well the places where in my rounds I was wont to

pause, and especially the majestic seat which I occupied so often on the

loftiest peak of Stanhopelaw. It had also an adopted spot of rest the

while, and, confident of my habits, would fold itself down upon it ere I

came forward; and would linger still, look wistful, and marvel why if at

any time I passed on without making my wonted delay. I did not follow

these practices only 'when summer days were fine.' The lines of an

epistle written subsequently will convey some idea of my habits:--

"'My early years were pass'd far on

The hills of Ettrick wild and lone;

Through summer sheen and winter shade

Tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd.

In bold enthusiastic glee

I sung rude strains of minstrelsy,

Which mingling with died o'er the dale,

Unheeded as the plover's wail.

Oft where the waving rushes shed

A shelter frail around my head,

Weening, though not through hopes of fame,

To fix on these more lasting claim,

I'd there secure in rustic scroll

The wayward fancies of the soul.

Even where yon lofty rocks arise,

Hoar as the clouds on wintry skies,

Wrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath

The colder cone of drifted wreath,

I noted them afar from ken,

Till ink would freeze within the pen;

So deep the spell which bound the heart

Unto the bard's undying art--

So rapt the charm that still beguiled

The minstrel of the mountains wild.'

"The ancients had a maxim--'Revenge is sweet.' In rural, as well as in

other life, there are things said and done which are more or less

ungenerous. These, if at any time they came my way, I repelled as best I

might. But I did not stop here; whether such matters, when occurring,

might concern myself as an individual or not, I took it upon me, as if I

had been a 'learned judge,' to write satires upon such persons as I knew

or conceived to have spoken or acted in aught contrary to good manners.

These squibs were written through the impulse of offended feeling, or

the stirrings of that injudicious spirit which sometimes prompts a man

to exercise a power merely because he possesses it. They were still,

after all, only as things of private experiment, and not intended ever

to go forth to the world--though it happened otherwise. I usually

carried a lot of these writings in my hat, and by and by, unlike most

other young authors, I got a publisher unsought for. This was the wind,

which, on a wild day, swept my hat from my head, and tattering its

contents asunder from their fold, sent them away over hill and dale like

a flock of wild fowl. I recovered some where they had halted in bieldy

places; others of them went further, and fell into other hands, and

particularly into those of a neighbour, who, a short while previously,

had played an unmanly part relating to a sheep and the march which ran

between us. He found his unworthy proceeding boldly discussed, in an

epistle which, I daresay, no other carrier would ever have conveyed to

him but the unblushing mountain blast. He complained to others, whom he

found more or less involved in his own predicament, and the thing went

disagreeably abroad. My master, through good taste and feeling, was

vexed, as I understood, that I should have done anything that gave

ground for accusation, though he did not mention the subject to myself;

but my father, some days after the mischief had commenced, came to me

upon the hill, and not in very good humour, disapproved of my imprudent

conduct. As for the consequences of this untoward event, it proved the

mean of revealing what I had hitherto concealed--procuring for me a sort

of local popularity little to be envied. I made the best improvement of

it, as I then thought, that lay in my power--by writing a satire upon

myself.

"I continued shepherd at Deloraine two years, and then went in the same

capacity to the late Mr Knox of Todrigg; and if at the former place I

had been well and happy, here I was still more so. His son William, the

poet of 'The Lonely Hearth,' paid me much friendly attention. He

commended my verses, and augured my success as one of the song-writers

of my native land. In those days, I did not write with the most remote

view to publication. My aim did not extend beyond the gratification of

hearing my mountain strains sung by lad or lass, as time and place might

favour. And when, in the dewy gloaming of a summer eve, returning home

from the hill, and 'the kye were in the loan,' I did hear this much, I

thought, no doubt, that

"'The swell and fall of these wild tones

Were worth the pomp of a thousand thrones.'

"William Crozier, author of 'The Cottage Muse,' was also my neighbour

and friend at Todrigg, during the summer part of the year; and even at

this hour I feel delight in recalling to memory the happy harmony of

thought and feeling that blended with and enhanced the genial sunshine

of those departed days. I rejoice to dwell upon those remote and

rarely-trodden pastoral solitudes, among which my lot in the early years

of life was so continually cast; few may well conceive how distinctly I

can recall them. Memory, which seems often to constitute the mind

itself, more, perhaps, than any other faculty, can set them so brightly

before me, as if they were painted on a dark midnight sky with brushes

dipped in the essence of living light. To appreciate thoroughly the

grandeur of the mountain solitudes, it is necessary to have dwelt among

the scenes, and to have looked upon them at every season of the

ever-changing year. They are fresh with solemn beauty, when bathed in

the deep dews of a summer morning; or in autumn, if you have attained to

the border of the mystery which has overhung your path, and therefore to

a station high enough for the survey, all that meets the eye shall be as

a dream of poetry itself. The deep folds of white vapour fill up glen

and hollow, till the summit of the mountains, near and far away--far as

sight itself can penetrate--are only seen tinged with the early radiance

of the sun, the whole so combined as to appear a limitless plain of

variegated marble, peaceful as heaven, and solemnly serene as eternity.

What Winter writes with his frozen finger I need not state. When the

venerable old man, Gladstanes, perished among the stormy blasts of these

wilds, I was one of about threescore of men who for three days traversed

them in search of the dead. Then was the scenery of the mountains

impressive, much beyond what can well be spoken. The bridal that loses

the bride through some wayward freak of the fair may be sad enough; so

also the train, in its dark array, that conveys the familiar friend to

the chamber where the light of nature cannot come. But in this latter

case, the hearts that still beat, necessarily know that their part is

resignation, and suspense and anxiety mingle not in the mood of the

living, as it relates to the dead; but otherwise is it with those who

seem already constituting the funeral train of one who should have

been--yet who is not there to be buried.

"'The feeling is nameless that makes us unglad,

And a strange, wild dismayment it brings;

Which yet hath no match in the solemn and sad

Desolation of men and of things.

* * * * *

"'The hill-foxes howl'd round the wanderer's way,

When his aim and his pathway were lost;

And effort has then oft too much of dismay

To pay well the toil it may cost.

If fate has its privilege, death has its power,

And is fearful where'er it may fall,

But worse it may seem 'mong the blasts of the moor,

Where all that approaches portends to devour,

Nor fixes till first it appal.

"'No mercy obtains in the tempests that rave,

By the sky-frozen elements fed,

And there comes no hand that is willing to save,

And soothe, till the spirit be fled;

But the storms round the thrones of the wilderness break

O'er the frail in the solitude cast,

And howl in their strength and impatience to take

Their course to commix with the roar of the lake

Where it flings forth its foam on the blast.

"'Lo! 'neath where the heath hangs so dark o'er yon peak,

Another of Adam lay lone,

Where the bield could not shelter the weary and weak,

By the strife of the tempest o'erthrown.

No raven had fed, and the hill-fox had fled,

If there he had yet come abroad,

And the stillness reign'd deep o'er his cold moorland bed,

Which came down in the power of the sleep of the dead

When the spirit return'd to its God.'

* * * * *

These are a few out of many more lines written on this subject, which at

the time was so deeply interesting to mind and heart."

Mr Riddell here states that his poetical style of composition about this

period underwent a considerable change. He laid aside his wayward wit

for serious sentiment, an improvement which he ascribes to his

admiration of the elegant strains of his friend, young Knox.

"My fortune in life," he proceeds, "had not placed me within the reach

of a library, and I had read almost none; and although I had attempted

to write, I merely followed the course which instinct pointed out. Need

I state further, that if in these days I employed my mind and pen among

the mountains as much as possible, my thoughts also often continued to

pursue the same practice, even when among others, by the 'farmer's

ingle.' I retired to rest when others retired, but if not outworn by

matters of extra toil, the ardour of thought, through love of the poet's

undying art, would, night after night for many hours, debar the inroads

of sleep. The number of schools which I have particularised as having

attended may occasion some surprise at the deficiency of my scholarship.

For this, various reasons are assignable, all of which, however, hinge

upon these two formidable obstacles--the inconveniency of local

position, and the thoughtless inattention of youth. In remote country

places, long and rough ways, conjoined not unfrequently with wild

weather, require that children, before they can enter school, be pretty

well grown up; consequently, they quit it the sooner. They are often

useful at home in the summer season, or circumstances may destine them

to hire away. Among these inconveniences, one serious drawback is, that

the little education they do get is rarely obtained continuously, and

regular progress is interrupted. Much of what has been gained is lost

during the intervals of non-attendance, and every new return to the book

is little else than a new beginning. So was it with me. At the time when

my father hired a teacher into his house, it was for what is termed the

winter quarter, and I was then somewhat too young to be tied down to the

regular routine of school discipline; and if older when boarded away,

the other obstruction to salutary progress began to operate grievously

against me. I acquired bit by bit the common education--reading,

writing, and arithmetic. So far as I remember, grammar was not much

taught at any of these schools, and the spelling of words was very

nearly as little attended to as the meaning which they are appointed to

convey was explained or sought after.

"But the non-understanding of words is less to be marvelled at than that

a man should not understand himself. At this hour I cannot conceive how

I should have been so recklessly careless about learning and books when

at school, and yet so soon after leaving it seriously inclined towards

them. I see little else for it than to suppose that boys who are bred

where they have no companions are prone to make the most of

companionship when once attained to. And then, in regard to books, as of

these I rarely got more than what might serve as a whet to the appetite,

I might have the desire of those whose longings after what they would

obtain are increased by the difficulties which interpose between them

and the possession. One book which in school I sometimes got a glance

of, I would have given anything to possess: this was a small volume

entitled, 'The Three Hundred Animals.'

"I cannot forbear mentioning that, when at Deloraine, I was greatly

advantaged by an old woman, called Mary Hogg, whose cottage stood on an

isolated corner of the lands on which my flock pastured. Her husband had

been a shepherd, who, many years previous to this period, perished in a

snow-storm. In her youth she had opportunities of reading history, and

other literature, and she did not only remember well what she had read,

but could give a distinct and interesting account of it. In going my

wonted rounds, few days there were on which I did not call and listen to

her intelligent conversation. She was a singularly good woman--a sincere

Christian; and the books which she lent me were generally of a religious

kind, such as the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the 'Holy War;' but here I

also discovered a romance, the first which I had ever seen. It was

printed in the Gothic letter, and entitled 'Prissimus, the Renowned

Prince of Bohemia.' Particular scenes and characters in 'Ivanhoe'

reminded me strikingly of those which I had formerly met with in this

old book of black print. And I must mention that few books interested me

more than 'Bailey's Dictionary.' Day after day I bore it to the

mountains, and I have an impression that it was a more comprehensive

edition of the work than I have ever since been able to meet with.

"At Todrigg my reading was extended; and having begun more correctly to

appreciate what I did read, the intention which I had sometimes

entertained gathered strength: this was to make an effort to obtain a

regular education. The consideration of the inadequacy of my means had

hitherto bridled my ambition; but having herded as a regular shepherd

nearly three years, during which I had no occasion to spend much of my

income, my prospects behoved to be a little more favourable. It was in

this year that the severest trial which had yet crossed my path had to

be sustained. The death of my father overthrew my happier mood; at the

same time, instead of subduing my secret aim, the event rather

strengthened my determination. My portion of my father's worldly effects

added something considerable to my own gainings; and, resigning my

situation, I bade farewell to the crook and plaid. I went to Biggar, in

Clydesdale, where I knew the schoolmaster was an approved classical

scholar. Besides, my Glencotha reminiscences tended to render me partial

to this part of the world, and in the village I had friends with whom I

could suitably reside. The better to insure attention to what I was

undertaking, I judged it best to attend school during the usual hours. A

learner was already there as old in years, and nearly as stout in form,

as myself, so that I escaped from the wonderment which usually attaches

to singularity much more comfortably than I anticipated. There were also

two others in the school, who had formerly gone a considerable way in

the path of classic lore, and had turned aside, but who, now repenting

of their apostasy, returned to their former faith. These were likewise

well grown up, and I may state that they are now both eminent as

scholars and public men. The individual first mentioned and I sat in the

master's desk, which he rarely, if ever, occupied himself; and although

we were diligent upon the whole, yet occasionally our industry and

conduct as learners were far from deserving approbation. To me the

confinement was frequently irksome and oppressive, especially when the

days were bright with the beauty of sunshine. There were ways, woods,

and even wilds, not far apart from the village, which seemed eternally

wooing the step to retirement, and the mind to solitary contemplation.

Some verses written in this school have been preserved, which will

convey an idea of the cast of feeling which produced them:--

"Discontented and uncheery,

Of this noise and learning weary,

Half my mind, to madness driven,

Woos the lore by nature given;

'Mong fair fields and flowing fountains,

Lonely glens and lofty mountains,

Charm'd with nature's wildest grandeur,

Lately wont was I to wander,

Wheresoever fancy led me,

Came no barrier to impede me;

Still from early morn till even,

In the light of earth and heaven,

Musing on whatever graces,

Livelier scenes or lonelier places,

Till a nameless pleasure found me

Living, like a dream, around me,--

How, then, may I be contented,

Thus confined and thus tormented!

"'Still, oh! still 'twere lovelier rather

To be roaming through the heather;

And where flow'd the stream so glassy,

'Mong its flowers and margins mossy,

Where the flocks at noon their path on

Came to feed by birk and hawthorn;

Or upon the mountain lofty,

Seated where the wind blew softly,

With my faithful friend beside me,

And my plaid from sun to hide me,

And the volume oped before me,

I would trace the minstrel's story,

Or mine own wild harp awaken,

'Mid the deep green glens of braken,

Free and fearlessly revealing

All the soul of native feeling.

"''Stead of that eternal humming,

To the ear for ever coming--

Humming of these thoughtless beings,

In their restless pranks and pleaings;

And the sore-provoked preceptor

Roaring, "Silence!"--O'er each quarter

Silence comes, as o'er the valley,

Where all rioted so gaily,

When the sudden bursting thunder

Overpowers with awe and wonder--

Till again begins the fuss--

'Master, Jock's aye nippin' us!'

I could hear the fountains flowing,

Where the light hill-breeze was blowing,

And the wild-wing'd plover wailing,

Round the brow of heaven sailing;

Bleating flocks and skylarks singing,

Echo still to echo ringing--

Sounds still, still so wont to waken

That no note of them is taken,

Yet which seem to lend assistance

To the blessing of existence.

"'Who shall trow thee wise or witty,

Lore of "the Eternal City,"

Or derive delight and pleasure

From the blood-stain'd deeds of Cæsar,

Thus bewildering his senses

'Mong these cases, moods, and tenses?

Still the wrong-placed words arranging,

Ever in their finals changing;

Out and in with hic and hockings,

Like a loom for working stockings.

Latin lords and Grecian heroes--

Oh, ye gods, in mercy spare us!

How may mortals be contented,

Thus confined and thus tormented!'

"My teacher, the late Richard Scott, was an accurate classical scholar,

which perhaps accounts for his being, unlike some others of his

profession, free from pedantry. He was kind-hearted and somewhat

disposed to indolence, loving more to converse with one of my years than

to instruct him in languages. He had seen a good deal of the world and

its ways, and I learned much from him besides Greek and Latin. We were

great friends and companions, and rarely separate when both of us were

unengaged otherwise.

"I bore aloof from making many acquaintances; yet, ere long, I became

pretty extensively acquainted with the people of the place. It went

abroad that I was a bard from the mountains, and the rumour affixed to

me a popularity which I did not enjoy. A party of young men in the

village had prepared themselves to act 'the Douglas Tragedy,' and wished

a song, which was to be sung between this and the farce. The air was of

their own fixing, and which, in itself, was wild and beautiful; but,

unfortunately, like many others of our national airs possessed of these

qualities, it was of a measure such as rendered it difficult to write

words for. Since precluded from introducing poetic sentiment, I

substituted a dramatic plot, and being well sung by alternate voices,

the song was well received, and so my fame was enhanced.

"It was about this time that I wrote 'The Crook and Plaid'--not by

request, but with the intention of supplanting a song, I think of

English origin, called 'The Plough-boy,' and of a somewhat questionable

character. 'The Crook and Plaid' accomplished the end intended, and soon

became popular throughout the land. So soon as I got a glimpse of the

Roman language, I began to make satisfactory progress in its

acquisition. But I daily wrote more or less in my old way--now also

embracing in my attempts prose as well as verse. I wrote a Border

Romance. This was more strongly than correctly expressed. Hogg, who took

the trouble of reading it, gave me his opinion, by saying that there

were more rawness and more genius in it than in any work he had seen.

It, sometime afterwards, had also the honour of being read--for I never

offered it for publication--by one who felt much interest in the

characters and plot--Professor Wilson's lady--who, alas! went too early

to where he himself also now is; lost, though not to fond recollection,

yet to love and life below. I contributed some papers to the _Clydesdale

Magazine_, and I sent a sort of poetic tale to the editor, telling him

to do with it whatever he might think proper. He published it

anonymously, and it was sold about Clydesdale.

"My intention had been to qualify myself for the University, and,

perhaps in regard to Latin and Greek acquirements, I might have

proceeded thither earlier than I ventured to do; but having now made

myself master of my more immediate tasks, I took more liberty. A

gentleman, who, on coming home after having made his fortune abroad,

took up his residence at Biggar. I had, in these days, an aversion to

coming into contact with rich strangers, and although he lived with a

family which I was accustomed to visit, I bore aloof from being

introduced to him. But he came to me one day on the hill of

Bizzie-berry, and frankly told me that he wished to be acquainted with

me, and therefore had taken the liberty of introducing himself. I found

excuse for not dining with him on that day, but not so the next, nor for

many days afterwards. He was intellectual--and his intelligence was only

surpassed by his generosity. He gave me to understand that his horse was

as much at my service as his own; and one learned, by and by, to keep

all wishes and wants as much out of view as possible, in case that they

should be attended to when you yourself had forgotten them. When he

began to rally me about my limited knowledge of the world, I knew that

some excursion was in contemplation. We, on one occasion, rode down the

Clyde, finding out, so far as we might, all things, both natural and

artificial, worthy of being seen; and when at Greenock, he was anxious

that we should have gone into the Highlands, but I resisted; for

although not so much as a shade of the expenses was allowed to fall on

me, I felt only the more ashamed of the extent of them.

"I had become acquainted with a number of people whom I delighted to

visit occasionally; one family in particular, who lived amid the beauty

of 'the wild glen sae green.' The song now widely known by this name I

wrote for a member of this delightful family, who at that time herded

one of the _hirsels_ of his father's flocks on 'the heathy hill.' With

the greater number of persons in the district possessing literary tastes

I became more or less intimate. The schoolmasters I found friendly and

obliging; one of these, in particular (now holding a higher office in

the same locality), I often visited. His high poetic taste convinced me

more and more of the value of mental culture, and tended to subdue me

from those more rugged modes of expression in which I took a pride in

conveying my conceptions. With this interesting friend I sometimes took

excursions into rural regions more or less remote, and once we journeyed

to the south, when I had the pleasure of introducing him to the Ettrick

Shepherd. But of my acquaintances, I valued few more than my modest and

poetic friend, the late James Brown of Symington.[2] Though humble in

station, he was high in virtuous worth. His mind, imbued with and

regulated by sound religious and moral principle, was as ingenious and

powerful as his heart was 'leal, warm, and kind.'

"Entering the University of Edinburgh, I took for the first session the

Greek and Latin classes. Attending them regularly, I performed the

incumbent exercises much after the manner that others did--only, as I

have always understood it to be a rare thing with the late Mr Dunbar,

the Greek Professor, to give much praise to anything in the shape of

poetry, I may mention that marked merit was ascribed to me in his class

for a poetical translation of one of the odes of Anacreon. I had laid

the translation on his desk, in an anonymous state, one day before the

assembling of the class. He read it and praised it, expressing at the

same time his anxiety to know who was the translator; but the translator

having intended not to acknowledge it, kept quiet. He returned to it,

and praising it anew, expressed still more earnestly his desire to know

the author; and so I made myself known, as all _great unknowns_ I think,

with the exception of Junius, are sooner or later destined to do.

"Of the philosophical classes, those that I liked best were the Logic

and Moral Philosophy--particularly the latter. I have often thought that

it is desirable, could it be possibly found practicable, to have all the

teachers of the higher departments of education not merely of high

scholastic acquirements, but of acknowledged genius. Youth reveres

genius, and delights to be influenced by it; heart and spirit are kept

awake and refreshed by it, and everything connected with its

forthgivings is rendered doubly memorable. It fixes, in a certain sense,

the limit of expectation, and the prevailing sentiment is--we are under

the tuition of the highest among those on earth who teach; if we do not

profit here, we may not hope to do so elsewhere. These remarks I make

with a particular reference to the late Professor Wilson, under the

influence of whose genius and generous warmth of heart many have felt as

I was wont to feel. If it brings hope and gladness to love and esteem

the living, it also yields a satisfaction, though mingled with regret,

to venerate the dead; and now that he is no more, I cannot forbear

recording how he treated a man from the mountains who possessed no

previous claim upon his attention. I had no introduction to him, but he

said that he had heard of me, and would accept of no fee for his class

when I joined it; at least he would not do so, he said, till I should be

able to inform him whether or not I had been pleased with his lectures.

But it proved all the same in this respect at the close as it was at the

commencement of the session. He invited me frequently to his house as a

friend, when other friends were to meet him there, besides requesting me

to come and see him and his family whenever I could make it convenient.

He said that his servant John was very perverse, and would be sure to

drive me by like all others, if he possibly could; so he gave me a

watchword, which he thought John, perverse as he was, would not venture

to resist. I thus became possessed of a privilege of which I did not

fail to avail myself frequently--a privilege which might well have been

gratifying to such as were much less enthusiastic with regard to

literary men and things than I was. To share in the conversation of

those possessed of high literary taste and talent, and, above all, of

poetic genius, is the highest enjoyment afforded by society; and if it

be thus gratifying, it is almost unnecessary to add that it is also

advantageous in no ordinary degree, if, indeed, properly appreciated

and improved. Any one who ever met the late Professor in the midst of

his own happy family, constituted as it was when I had this pleasure,

was not likely soon to forget a scene wherein so much genius, kindness,

loveliness, and worth were blended. If the world does not think with a

deep and undying regret of what once adorned it, and it has now lost,

through the intervention of those shadows which no morning but the

eternal one can remove, I am one, at least, who in this respect cannot

follow its example.

"Edinburgh, with its 'palaces and towers,' and its many crowded ways,

was at first strangely new to me, being as different, in almost all

respects, to what I had been accustomed as it might seem possible for

contrariety to make earthly things. Though I had friends in it, and

therefore was not solitary, yet its tendency, like that of the noisy and

restless sea, was to render me melancholy. Some features which the

congregated condition of mankind exhibited penetrated my heart with

something like actual dismay. I had seen nothing of the sort, nor yet

even so much as a semblance of it, and therefore I had no idea that

there existed such a miserable shred of degradation, for example, as a

cinder-woman--desolate and dirty as her employment--bowed down--a shadow

among shadows--busily prone, beneath the sheety night sky, to find out

and fasten upon the crumb, whose pilgrimage certainly had not improved

it since falling from the rich man's table. Compassion, though not

naturally so, becomes painful when entertained towards those whom we

believe labouring under suffering which we fain would but cannot

alleviate.

"I had enough of curiosity for wishing to see all those things which

others spoke of, and characterised as worthy of being seen; but I

contented myself meanwhile with a survey of the city's external

attributes. In a week or two, however, my friend A. F. Harrower,

formerly mentioned, having come into town from Clydesdale, took pleasure

in finding out whatever could interest or gratify me, and of conveying

me thither. With very few exceptions, every forenoon he called at my

lodgings, leaving a note requesting me to meet him at some specified

time and place. I sometimes sent apologies, and at other times went

personally to apologise; but neither of these methods answered well.

Through his persevering attentions towards me, I met with much agreeable

society, and saw much above as well as somewhat below the earth, which I

might never otherwise have seen. In illustration of the latter fact, I

may state that, having gone to London, he returned with two Englishmen,

when he invited me to assist them in exploring the battle-field of

Pinkie. We terminated our excursion by descending one of Sir John Hope's

coal-pits. These humorous and frank English associates amused themselves

by bantering my friend and myself about the chastisement which Scotland

received from the sister kingdom at Pinkie. As did the young rustic

countryman--or, at least, was admonished to do--so did I. When going

away to reside in England, he asked his father if he had any advice to

give him. 'Nane, Jock, nane but this,' he said; 'dinna forget to avenge

the battle o' Pinkie on them.' Ere I slept I wrote, in support of our

native land, the song--'Ours is the land of gallant hearts;' and thus,

in my own way, 'avenged the battle of Pinkie.'

"One of two other friends with whom I delighted to associate was R. B.,

an early school companion, who, having left the mountains earlier than I

did, had now been a number of years in Edinburgh. Of excellent head and

generous heart, he loved the wild, green, and deep solitudes of nature.

The other--G. M'D.--was of powerful and bold intellect, and remarkable

for a retentive memory. Each of us, partial to those regions where

nature strives to maintain her own undisturbed dominion, on all holidays

hied away from the city, to the woodland and mountainous haunts, or the

loneliness of the least frequented shores of the sea. The spirit of our

philosophy varied much--sometimes profound and solemn, and sometimes

humorous; but still we philosophised, wandering on. They were members of

a literary society which met once a week, and which I joined. My

propensity to study character and note its varieties was here afforded a

field opening close upon me; but I was also much profited by performing

my part in carrying forward the business of the institution. During all

the sessions that I attended the University, but especially as these

advanced toward their termination, I entered into society beyond that

which might be regarded as professionally literary. I had an idea then,

as I still have, that, in every process of improvement, care should be

taken that one department of our nature is not cultivated to the neglect

of another. There are two departments--the intellectual and the

moral;--the one implying all that is rational, the other comprising

whatever pertains to feeling and passion, or, more simply, there are the

head and the heart; and if the intellect is to be cultivated, the heart

is not to be allowed to run into wild waste, nor to sink into systematic

apathy. Lore-lighted pages and unremitting abstract studies will make a

man learned; but knowledge is not wisdom; and to know much is not so

desirable, because it is not so beneficial, either to ourselves or

others, as to understand, through the more generous and active

sympathies of our nature, how the information which we possess may be

best applied to useful purposes. This we shall not well know, if the

head be allowed or encouraged to leave the heart behind. If we forget

society it will forget us, and, through this estrangement, a sympathetic

knowledge of human nature may be lost. Thus, in the haunts of seclusion

and solitary thought our acquirements may only prove availing to

ourselves as matters of self-gratification. The benevolent affections,

which ought not merely to be allowed, but taught to expand, may thus not

only be permitted but encouraged to contract, and the exercise of that

studious ingenuity, which perhaps leads the world to admire the

achievements of learning, thus deceive us into a state of existence

little better than cold selfishness itself. Sir Isaac Newton, who soared

so high and travelled so far on the wing of abstract thought, gathering

light from the stars that he might convey it in intelligible shape to

the world, seems to have thought, high as the employment was, that it

was not good, either for the heart or mind of man, to be always away

from that intercourse with humanity and its affairs which is calculated

to awaken and sustain the sympathies of life; and therefore turned to

the contemplation of Him who was _meek and lowly_. And no countenance

has been afforded to monks and hermits who retired from the world,

though it even was to spend their lives in meditation and prayer; for

Heaven had warned man, at an early date, not to withhold the

compassionate feelings of the heart, and the helping-hand, from any in

whom he recognised the attributes of a common nature, saying to him,

'See that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh.'

"My last year's attendance at the College Philosophical Classes was at

St Andrews. I had a craving to acquaint myself with a city noted in

story, and I could not, under the canopy of my native sky, have planted

the step among scenes more closely interwoven with past national

transactions, or fraught with more interesting associations. In

attending the Natural Philosophy Class, not being proficient in

mathematic lore, I derived less advantage than had otherwise been the

case with me. Yet I did not sit wholly in the shade, notwithstanding

that the light which shone upon me did not come from that which Campbell

says yielded 'the lyre of Heaven another string.' A man almost always

finds some excuse for deficiency; and I have one involving a philosophy

which I think few will be disposed to do otherwise than acquiesce

in--namely, that it is a happy arrangement in the creation and history

of man, that all minds are not so constituted as to have the same

predilections, or to follow the same bent. Considering that I had

started at a rather late hour of life to travel in the paths of

learning, and having so many things, interesting and important, to

attend to by the way, it was perhaps less remarkable that I should be

one who 'neither kenn'd nor cared' much about lines that had no breadth,

and points which were without either breadth or length, than that I

should have felt gratified to find on my arrival some of my simple

strains sung in a city famed for its scientific acquirements.

"The ruins which intermingle with the scenery and happy homes of St

Andrews, like gray hairs among those of another hue, rendered venerable

the general aspect of the place. But I did not feel only the city

interesting, but the whole of Fifeshire. By excursions made on the

monthly holidays then as well as subsequently, when in after-years I

returned to visit friends in the royal realm, I acquainted myself with a

goodly number of those haunts and scenes which history and tradition

have rendered attractive. A land, however, or any department of it,

whatever may be its other advantages, is most to be valued in respect of

the intelligence or worth of its inhabitants. And if so, then I am proud

to aver that in Fife I came to possess many intelligent and excellent

friends. Many of these have gone to another land--'the land o' the

leal,' leaving the places which now know them no more, the more

regretfully endeared to recollection. Of those friends who survive, I

cannot forbear an especial mention of one, who is now a professor in the

college in which he was then only a student. A man cannot be truly great

unless he also be good, and I do not alone value him on the colder and

statelier eminence of high intellectual powers and scientific

acquirements, but also, if not much rather, for his generous worth and

his benevolent feeling. My friend is one in whom these qualities are

combined, and as I sincerely think, I will likewise freely say, that

those will assuredly find a time, sooner or later, greatly to rejoice,

whose fate has been so favourable as to place them under the range and

influence of his tuition.

"I studied at St Andrews College under the late Dr Jackson, who was an

eminent philosopher and friendly man; also under Mr Duncan, of the

Mathematical Chair, whom I regarded as a personification of unworldly

simplicity, clothed in high and pure thought; and I regularly attended,

though not enrolled as a regular student, the Moral Philosophy Class of

Dr Chalmers. Returning to Edinburgh and its university, I became

acquainted, through my friend and countryman, Robert Hogg, with R. A.

Smith, who was desirous that I should assist him with the works in which

he was engaged, particularly 'The Irish Minstrel,' and 'Select

Melodies.' Smith was a man of modest worth and superior intelligence;

peculiarly delicate in his taste and feeling in everything pertaining to

lyric poetry as well as music; his criticisms were strict, and, as some

thought, unnecessarily minute. Diffident and retiring, he was not got

acquainted with at once, but when he gave his confidence, he was found a

pleasant companion and warm-hearted friend. If, as he had sought my

acquaintance, I might have expected more frankness on our meeting, I

soon became convinced that his shyer cast arose alone from excess of

modesty, combined with a remarkable sensitiveness of feeling. Proudly

honourable, he seemed more susceptible of the influences of all sorts

that affect life than any man I ever knew; and, indeed, a little

acquaintance with him was only required to shew that his harp was strung

too delicately for standing long the tear and wear of this world. He had

done much for Scottish melody, both by fixing the old airs in as pure a

state as possible, and by adding to the vast number of these national

treasures some exquisite airs of his own. For a number of the airs in

the works just mentioned, but particularly in the 'Select Melodies,' he

had experienced difficulty in procuring suitable words, owing chiefly to

the crampness of the measures--a serious drawback which appears to

pervade, more or less, the sweetest melodies of other nations as well as

those of our own. A number of these I supplied as well as I could.

"About this time the native taste for Scottish song in city society

seemed nearly, if not altogether lost, and a kind of songs, such as

'I've been roaming,' 'I'd be a butterfly,' 'Buy a broom,' 'Cherry-ripe,'

&c. (in which if the head contrived to find a meaning, it was still such

as the heart could understand nothing about), seemed alone to be

popular, and to prevail. R. A. Smith disliked this state of things, but,

perhaps, few more so than Mr P. M'Leod, who gave a most splendid

evidence of his taste in his 'Original National Melodies.' Both Smith

and M'Leod were very particular about the quality of the poetry which

they honoured with their music. M'Leod was especially careful in this

respect. He loved the lay of lofty and undaunted feeling as well as of

love and friendship; for his genius is of a manly tone, and has a bold

and liberal flow. And popular as some of the effusions in his work have

become, such as 'Oh! why left I my hame?' and 'Scotland yet!' many

others of them, I am convinced, will yet be popular likewise. When the

intelligence of due appreciation draws towards them, it will take them

up and delight to fling them upon the breezes that blow over the hills

and glens, and among the haunts and homes of the isle of unconquerable

men. To Mr M'Leod's 'National Melodies' I contributed a number of songs.

In the composition of these I found it desirable to lay aside, in some

considerable degree, my pastoral phraseology, for, as conveyed in such

productions, I observed that city society cared little about rural

scenery and sentiment. It was different with my kind and gifted friend

Professor Wilson. He was wont to say that he would not have given the

education, as he was pleased to term it, which I had received afar in

the green bosom of mountain solitude, and among the haunts and homes of

the shepherd--meaning the thing as applicable to poetry--for all that he

had received at colleges. Wilson had introduced my song, 'When the glen

all is still,' into the _Noctes_, and La Sapio composed music for it;

and not only was it sung in Drury-lane, but published in a sheet as the

production of a real shepherd; yet it did not become popular in city

life. In the country it had been popular previous to this, where it is

so still, and where no effort whatever had been made to introduce it.

"About the time when I had concluded the whole of my college course, the

'Songs of the Ark,'[3] were published by Blackwood. These, as published,

are not what they were at first, and were intended only to be short

songs of a sacred nature, unconnected by intervening narrative, for

which R. A. Smith wished to compose music. Unfortunately, his other

manifold engagements never permitted him to carry his intention into

practice; and seeing no likelihood of any decrease of these engagements,

I gave scope to my thoughts on the subject, and the work became what it

now is. But I ought to mention that this was not my first poetic

publication in palpable shape. Some years previously I published

stanzas, or a monody, on the death of Lord Byron. I had all along

thought much, and with something like mysterious awe, upon the eccentric

temperament, character and history of that great poet, and the tidings

which told the event of his demise impressed me deeply. Being in the

country, and remote from those who could exchange thoughts with me on

the occurrence, I resorted to writing. That which I advanced was much

mixed up with the result, if I may not say of former experience, yet of

former reflection, for I had entertained many conjectures concerning

what this powerful personage would or might yet do; and, indeed, his

wilful waywardness, together with the misery which he represented as

continually haunting him, constituted an impressive advertisement to the

world, and served to keep human attention awake towards him.

"Those who write because it brings a relief to feeling, will write

rapidly: likely, too, they will write with energy, because not only the

head but also the heart is engaged. 'The Monody,' which is of a goodly

length, I finished in a few days; and though I felt a desire of having

it published, yet it lay over for a time, till, being in Edinburgh, a

friend shewed it to Dr Robert Anderson. I had been well satisfied with

the result, had the production accomplished nothing more than procured

me, as it did, the friendly acquaintance of this excellent, venerable

man. He knew more of the minutiæ of literature, together with the

character and habits of the literary men of his day, and of other days

also, than any I had then or have since met with; and he seemed to take

great pleasure in communicating his knowledge to others. He thought well

of 'The Monody,' and warmly advised me to publish it. It was published

accordingly by Mr John Anderson, bookseller, North Bridge, Edinburgh.

"Some of the reviewers, in regard to the 'Songs of the Ark,' seemed to

think that a sufficiency of eastern scenery did not obtain in them.

Doubtless this was correct; but I remark, that if my object in the

undertaking had been to delineate scenery, I would not have turned my

attention to the East, the scenes of which I never saw. Human nature

being radically the same everywhere, a man, through the sympathies of

that nature, can know to a certain extent what are likely to be the

thoughts and feelings of his fellow-kind in any particular

circumstances--therefore he has data upon which he can venture to give a

representation of them; but it is very different from this in regard to

topographical phenomena. It was therefore not the natural, but, if I may

so call it, the moral scenery in which I was interested, more

particularly since the whole scene of nature here below was, shortly

after the period at which the poem commences, to become a blank of

desolate uniformity, as overwhelmed beneath a waste of waters.

"At the risk of incurring the charge of vanity, I would venture to

adduce one or two of the favourable opinions entertained in regard to

some of the miscellaneous pieces which went to make up the volume of the

'Songs of the Ark.' Of the piece entitled 'Apathy,' Allan Cunningham

thus wrote:--'Although sufficiently distressful, it is a very bold and

original poem, such as few men, except Byron, would have conceived or

could have written.' Motherwell said of the 'Sea-gray Man,' that it was

'the best of all modern ballads.' This ballad, shortly after I had

composed it, I repeated to the Ettrick Shepherd walking on the banks of

the Yarrow, and he was fully more pleased with it than with anything of

mine I had made him acquainted with. He was wont to call me his

'assistant and successor;' and although this was done humorously, it yet

seemed to furnish him with a privilege on which he proceeded to approve

or disapprove very frankly, that in either case I might profit by his

remarks. He was pleased especially with the half mysterious way in which

I contrived to get quit of the poor old man at last. This, indeed, was a

contrivance; but the idea of the rest of the ballad was taken from an

old man, who had once been a sailor, and who was wont to come to my

mother's, in the rounds which he took in pursuit of charity at regular

periods of the year, so that we called him her pensioner.

"The summer vacations of college years I passed in the country,

sometimes residing with my mother, and eldest brother, at a small farm

which he had taken at the foot of the Lammermuir hills, in East-Lothian,

called Brookside, and sometimes, when I wished a variety, with another

brother, at Dryden, in Selkirkshire. At both places I had enough of

time, not only for study, but also for what I may call amusement. The

latter consisted in various literary projects which I entered upon, but

particularly those of a poetic kind, and the writing of letters to

friends with whom I regularly, and I may say also copiously

corresponded; for in these we did not merely express immediate thoughts

and feelings of a more personal nature, but remarked with vigorous

frankness upon many standard affairs of this scene of things. To this

general rule of the manner of my life at this time, however, I must

mention an exception. A college companion and I, thinking to advantage

ourselves, and perhaps others, took a school at Fisherrow. The

speculation in the end, as to money matters, served us nothing. It was

easier to get scholars than to get much if anything for teaching them.

Yet neither was the former, in some respects, so easy as might have been

expected. The offspring of man, in that locality, may be regarded as in

some measure amphibious. Boys and girls equally, if not already in the

sea, were, like young turtles, sure to be pointing towards it with an

instinct too intense to err. I never met, indeed, with a race of beings

believed, or even suspected to be rational, that, provided immediate

impulses and inclinations could be gratified, cared so thoroughly little

for consequences. On warm summer days, when we caused the school door to

stand open, it is not easy to say how much of intense interest this

simple circumstance drew towards it. The squint of the unsettled eye was

on the door, out at which the heart and all its inheritance was off and

away long previously, and the more than ordinarily propitious moment for

the limbs following was only as yet not arrived. When that moment came,

off went one, followed by another; and down the narrow and dark lanes

of sooty houses. As well might the steps have proposed to pursue meteors

playing at hide-and-seek among the clouds of a midnight sky that the

tempest was troubling. Nevertheless, Colin Bell, who by virtue of his

ceaseless stir in the exercise of his heathen-god-like abilities, had

constituted himself captain of the detective band, would be up and at

hand immediately, and would say 'Master--sir, Young an' me will bring

them, sir, if ye'll let's.' It was just as good to 'let' as to hinder,

for, for others to be out thus, and he in, seemed to be an advantage

gained over Colin to which he could never be rightly reconciled. He was

bold and frank, and full of expedients in cases of emergency; especially

he appeared capable of rendering more reasons for an error in his

conduct than one could well have imagined could have been rendered for

anything done in life below. Another drawback in the case was, that one

could never be very seriously angry with him. If more real than

pretended at any time, his broad bright eye and bluff face,

magnificently lifted up, like the sun on frost-work, melted down

displeasure and threatened to betray all the policy depending on it; for

in the main never a bit of ill heart had Colin, though doubtlessly he

had in him, deeply established, a trim of rebellion against education

that seemed ever on the alert, and which repulsed even its portended

approach with a vigour resembling the electric energy of the torpedo.

"As we did not much like this place, we did not remain long in it. I had

meanwhile, however, resources which brought relief. Those friends whose

society I most enjoyed occasionally paid us a visit from Edinburgh; and

in leisure hours I haunted the banks of the Esk, which, with wood, and

especially with wild-roses, are very beautiful around the church of

Inveresk. This beauty was heightened by contrast--for I have ever hated

the scenery of, and the effect produced by, sunny days and dirty

streets. Nor do the scenes where mankind congregate to create bustle,

'dirdum and deray,' often fail of making me more or less melancholy. In

the week of the Musselburgh Races, I only went out one day to toss about

for a few hours in the complicated and unmeaning crowd. I insert the

protest which I entered against it on my return:--

"'What boots this turmoil

Of uproar and folly--

That renders the smile

Of creation unholy?

If that which we love

Is life's best assistant,

The thought still must rove

To the dear and the distant.

Would, then, that I were

'Mid nature's wild grandeur--

From this folly afar,

As I wont was to wander;

Where the pale cloudlets fly,

By the soft breezes driven,

And the mountains on high

Kiss the azure of heaven.

Where down the deep glen

The rivulet is rolling,

And few, few of men

Through the solitudes strolling.

Oh! bliss I could reap,

When day was returning;

O'er the wild-flowers asleep,

'Mong the dews of the morning;

And there were it joy,

When the shades of the gloaming,

With the night's lullaby,

O'er the world were coming--

To roam through the brake,

In the paths long forsaken;

My hill-harp retake,

And its warblings awaken.

The heart is in pain,

And the mind is in sadness--

And when comes, oh! when,

The return of its gladness?

The forest shall fade

At the winter's returning,

And the voice of the shade

Shall be sorrow and mourning.

Man's vigour shall fail

As his locks shall grow hoary,

And where is the tale

Of his youth and his glory?

My life is a dream--

My fate darkly furl'd;

I a hermit would seem

'Mid the crowd of the world.

Oh! let me be free

Of these scenes that encumber,

And enjoy what may be

Of my days yet to number!'

"I have dwelt at the greater length on these matters, trivial though

they be, in consequence of my non-intention of tracing minutely the

steps and stages of my probationary career. These, with me, I suppose,

were much like what they are and have been with others. My acquaintance

was a little extended with those that inhabit the land, and in some

cases a closer intimacy than mere acquaintance took place, and more

lasting friendships were formed.

"My brother having taken a farm near Teviothead, I left Brookside, and

as all the members of the family were wont to account that in which my

mother lived their home, it of course was mine. But, notwithstanding

that the change brought me almost to the very border of the vale of my

nativity, I regretted to leave Brookside. It was a beautiful and

interesting place, and the remembrance of it is like what Ossian says of

joys that are past--'sweet and mournful to the soul.' I loved the place,

was partial to the peacefulness of its retirement, its solitude, and the

intelligence of its society. I was near the laird's library, and I had a

garden in the glen. The latter was formed that I might gather home to

it, when in musing moods among the mountains, the wild-flowers, in order

to their cultivation, and my having something more of a possessory right

over them. It formed a contrast to the scenery around, and lured to

relaxation. Occasionally 'the lovely of the land' brought, with

industrious delight, plants and flowers, that they might have a share in

adorning it. Even when I was from home it was, upon the whole, well

attended to; for although, according to taste or caprice, changes were

made, yet I readily forgave the annoyances that might attend alteration,

and especially those by the hands that sometimes printed me pleasing

compliments on the clay with the little stones lifted from the walks. If

the things which I have written and given to the world, or may yet give,

continue to be cared for, these details may not be wholly without use,

inasmuch as they will serve to explain frequent allusions which might

otherwise seem introduced at capricious random, or made without a

meaning.

"Shortly after becoming a probationer, I came to reside in this

district, and, not long after, the preacher who officiated in the

preaching-station here died. The people connected with it wished me to

become his successor, which, after some difficulties on their part had

been surmounted, I became. I had other views at the time which were

promising and important; but as there had been untoward disturbances in

the place, owing to the lack of defined rights and privileges, I had it

in my power to become a peacemaker, and, besides, I felt it my duty to

comply with a call which was both cordial and unanimous. I now laid

wholly aside those things which pertain to the pursuits of romantic

literature, and devoted myself to the performance of incumbent duties.

In consequence of no house having been provided for the preacher, and no

one to be obtained but at a very inconvenient distance, I was in this

respect very inconveniently situated. Travelling nine miles to the scene

of my official duties, it was frequently my hap to preach in a very

uncomfortable condition, when, indeed, the wet would be pouring from my

arms on the Bible before me, and oozing over my shoes when the foot was

stirred on the pulpit floor. But, by and by, the Duke of Buccleuch built

a dwelling-house for me, the same which I still occupy."

To the ministerial charge of the then preaching station of Teviothead Mr

Riddell was about to receive ordination, at the united solicitation of

his hearers, when he was suddenly visited with severe affliction. Unable

to discharge pulpit duty for a period of years, the pastoral

superintendence of the district was devolved on another; and on his

recovery, with commendable forbearance, he did not seek to interfere

with the new ecclesiastical arrangement. This procedure was generously

approved of by the Duke of Buccleuch, who conferred upon him the right

to occupy the manse cottage, along with a grant of land, and a small

annuity.

Mr Riddell's autobiography proceeds:--"In the hope of soon obtaining a

permanent and comfortable settlement at Teviothead, I had ventured to

make my own, by marriage, her who had in heart been mine through all my

college years, and who for my sake had, in the course of these, rejected

wealth and high standing in life. The heart that, for the sake of leal

faith and love, could despise wealth and its concomitants, and brave the

risk of embracing comparative poverty, even at its best estate, was not

one likely overmuch to fear that poverty when it appeared, nor flinch

with an altered tone from the position which it had adopted, when it

actually came. This, much rather, fell to my part. It preyed upon my

mind too deeply not to prove injurious in its effects; and it did this

all the more, that the voice of love, true to its own law, had the words

of hope and consolation in it, but never those of complaint. It appeared

the _acmé_ of the severity of fate itself to have lived to be the mean

of placing a heart and mind so rich in disinterested affection on so

wild and waste a scene of trial.

"From an experience of fourteen years, in which there were changes in

almost all things except in the affection which bound two hearts in one,

before the hands were united, it might be expected that I should give

some eminent admonitions concerning the imprudence of men, and

particularly of students, allowing their hearts to become interested in,

and the remembrance of their minds more fraught with the rich beauty of

auburn ringlets than in the untoward confusion, for example, of

irregular Greek verbs; yet I much fear that admonition would be of no

use. If their fate be woven of a texture similar to that of mine, how

can they help it? A man may have an idea that to cling to the shelter

which he has found, and indulge in the sleep that has overtaken him amid

the stormy blasts of the waste mountains, may be little else than

opening for himself the gates of death, yet the toils of the way through

which he has already passed may also have rendered him incapable of

resisting the dangerous rest and repose of his immediate accommodation.

In regard to my own love affairs, I, throughout all these long years

which I have specified, might well have adopted, as the motto of both

mind and heart, these lines--

"'Oh, poortith cauld and restless love,

Ye wreck my peace between ye.'

I had, as has already been hinted, a rival, who, if not so devotedly

attached as I, nevertheless was by far too much so for any one who is

destined to love without encouragement. He was as rich in proportion as

I was poor. The gifts of love, called the gifts of friendship, which he

contrived to bestow were costly; mine, as fashioned forth by a higher

hand than that of art, might be equally rich and beautiful in the main,

yet wild-flowers, though yellow as the gold, and though wrapped in

rhymes, are light ware when weighed against the solid material. He, in

personal appearance, manners, and generosity of heart, was one with whom

it was impossible to be acquainted and not to esteem; and another

feature of this affair was, that we were friends, and almost constant

companions for some years. When in the country I had to be with him as

continually as possible; and when I went to the city, it was his wont to

follow me. Here, then, was a web strangely woven by the fingers of a

wayward fate. Feelings were brought into daily exercise which might seem

the least compatible with being brought into contact and maintained in

harmony. And these things, which are strictly true, if set forth in the

contrivances of romance might, or in all likelihood would, be pronounced

unnatural or overstrained. The worth and truth of the heart to which

these fond anxieties related left me no ground to fear for losing that

regard which I valued as 'light and life' itself; but in another way

there reached me a matchless misery, and which haunted me almost as

constantly as my own shadow when the sun shone. Considering the dark

uncertainty of my future prospects in life, that regard I felt it

fearful almost beyond measure even to seek to retain, incurring the

responsibility of marring the fortune of one whom nevertheless I could

not bear the thought of another than myself having the bliss of

rendering blessed. If selfishness be thus seen to exist even in love

itself, I would fain hope that it is of an elevated and peculiar kind,

and not that which grovels, dragging downwards, and therefore justly

deserving of the name. I am the more anxious in regard to this on

account of its being in my own case felt so deeply. It maintained its

ground with more or less firmness at all times, and ultimately

triumphed, in despite of all efforts made to the contrary over the

suggestions of prudence and even the sterner reasonings of the sense of

justice. In times of sadness and melancholy, which, like the preacher's

days of darkness, were many, when hope scarcely lit the gloom of the

heart on which it sat though the band of love was about its brow, I

busied myself in endeavouring to form resolutions to resign my

pretensions to the warmer regard of her who was the object of all this

serious solicitude; but neither she herself, nor time and place seemed,

so far as I could see, disposed in the least to aid me in these efforts

of self-control and denial; and, indeed, even at best, I much suspect

that the resolutions of lovers in such cases are only like the little

dams which the rivulet forms in itself by the frail material of stray

grass-piles, and wild-rose leaves, easily overturned by the next slight

impulse that the wave receives. In a ballad called 'Lanazine,' written

somewhat in the old irregular style, sentiments relating to this matter,

a little--and only a little--disguised, are set forth. The following is

a portion of these records, written from time to time for the sake of

preserving to the memory what might once be deeply interesting to the

heart:--

"'O who may love with warm true heart,

And then from love refrain?

Who say 'tis fit we now should part

And never meet again?

"'The heart once broken bleeds no more,

And a deep sound sleep it hath,

Where the stir of pain ne'er travels o'er

The solitude of death.

"'The moon is set, and the star is gone,

And the cure, though cruel, cures,

But the heart left lone must sorrow on,

While the tie of life endures.

"'He had nor gold nor land, and trow'd

Himself unworthy all,

And sternly in his soul had vow'd

His fond love to recall.

"'For her he loved he would not wrong,

Since fate would ne'er agree,

And went to part with a sore, sore heart,

In the bower of the greenwood tree.

"'The dews were deep, and the leaves were green,

And the eve was soft and still;

But strife may reach the vale I ween,

Though no blasts be on the hill.

"'The leaves were green, and the dews were deep,

And the foot was light upon

The grass and flowers, round the bower asleep;

But parting there could be none.

"'He spoke the word with a struggle hard,

And the fair one forward sprung,

Nor ever wist, till like one too blest,

Her arms were round him flung.

"'For the fair one whom he'd woo'd before,

While the chill night breezes sigh'd,

Could wot not why she loved him more

Than ere she thus was tried.

"'A red--not weak--came o'er her cheek,

And she turn'd away anon;

But since nor he nor she could speak,

Still parting there could be none.

"'I could have lived alone for thee,'

He said; 'So lived could I,'

She answer'd, while it seem'd as she

Had wish'd even then to die.

"'For pale, pale grew her cheek I ween,

While his arms, around her thrown,

Left space no plea to come between,

So parting there could be none.

"'She cool'd his brow with the heart's own drop,

While the brain seem'd burning there,

And her whisper reach'd the realm of hope

Through the darkness of despair.

"'She bade his soul be still and free,

In the light of love to live,

And soothed it with the sympathy

Which a woman's heart can give.

"'And it seem'd more than all before

E'er given to mortal man,

The radiance came, and with it bore

The angel of the dawn.

"'For ever since Eve her love-bower would weave,

As the first of all her line,

No one on earth had had more of worth

Than the lovely Lanazine.

"'And if Fortune's frown would o'er him come down,

Less marvel it may be,

Since he woo'd all while to make his own

A lovelier far than she.'

* * * * *

"Notwithstanding the ever-living solicitude and sad suffering

constituting the keen and trying experience of many years, as arising in

consequence of this attachment and untoward circumstances, it has

brought more than a sufficient compensation; and were it possible, and

the choice given, I would assuredly follow the same course, and suffer

it all over again, rather than be without 'that treasure of departed

sorrow' that is even now at my right hand as I write these lines.

"'The Christian Politician'[4] was published during the time of my

indisposition. This work I had written at leisure hours, with the hopes

of its being beneficial to the people placed under my care, by giving

them a general and connected view of the principles and philosophical

bearing of the Christian religion. In exhorting them privately, I

discovered that many of them understood that religion better in itself,

than they appeared to comprehend the manner in which it stood in

connexion with the surrounding circumstances of this life. In other

words, they were acquainted with doctrines and principles whose

application and use, whether in regard to thought, or feeling, or daily

practice, they did not so clearly recognise. To remedy this state of

things, I wrote 'The Christian Politician' in a style as simple as the

subjects treated of in it would well admit of, giving it a

conversational cast, instead of systematic arrangement, that it might

be the less forbidding to those for whom it was principally intended.

Being published, however, at the time when, through my indisposition, I

could take no interest in it, it was sent forth in a somewhat more

costly shape than rightly suited the original design; and although

extensively introduced and well received, it was in society of a higher

order than that which it was its object chiefly to benefit.

"My latest publication is a volume of 'Poems and Songs,'[5] published by

Messrs Sutherland and Knox of Edinburgh. 'The Cottagers of Glendale,'

the 'Lay of Life,' and some others of the compositions in this volume,

were written during the period of my convalescence; the songs are, for

the greater part, the production of 'the days of other years.' Many of

the latter had been already sung in every district of the kingdom, but

had been much corrupted in the course of oral transmission. These

wanderers of the hill-harp are now secured in a permanent form."

To this autobiographical sketch it remains to be added, that Mr Riddell

is possessed of nearly all the qualities of a great master of the

Scottish lyre. He has viewed the national character where it is to be

seen in its most unsophisticated aspects, and in circumstances the most

favourable to its development. He has lived, too, among scenes the best

calculated to foster the poetic temperament. "He has got," wrote

Professor Wilson, "a poet's education: he has lived the greater part of

his days amidst pastoral scenes, and tended sheep among the green and

beautiful solitudes of nature." Sufficiently imaginative, he does not,

like his minstrel predecessor the Ettrick Shepherd, soar into the

regions of the supernatural, or roam among the scenes of the viewless

world. He sings of the mountain wilds and picturesque valleys of

Caledonia, and of the simple joys and habits of rural or pastoral life.

His style is essentially lyrical, and his songs are altogether true to

nature. Several of his songs, such as "Scotland Yet," "The Wild Glen sae

Green," "The Land of Gallant Hearts," and "The Crook and Plaid," will

find admirers while Scottish lyric poetry is read or sung.

In 1855, Mr Riddell executed a translation of the Gospel of Matthew into

the Scottish language by command of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a

performance of which only a limited number of copies have been printed

under the Prince's auspices. At present, he is engaged in preparing a

romance connected with Border history.