beautiful foam, need we steer straight for the breakers? Not every
tempting morsel is the enemy's bait, though we should be careful how we
nibble;--he is no blunderer (a proof positive that he is not Irish),
never leaves his trap sprung--and we may get caught.
This is a synopsis of the arguments, or rather assertions, with which I
opposed those of the blues; but, finding they were getting the better of
me, I started out for a walk. It was a chilly afternoon; the whole sky,
except a clear place just above the western horizon, was covered with
those heavy, diluted India-ink clouds; the setting sun throwing a dreary
red light on the northern and eastern mountains, adding sullenness to
the gloom, instead of dispelling it. But why describe this gloomy
sunset, there are so many beautiful ones?--when, as the grand, old,
dying Humboldt said, the 'glorious rays seem to beckon earth to heaven?'
Well, I walked so fast that I left my blue tormentors far in the rear.
On the way I met a friend, who invited me to go to the astronomical
lecture. Here you have it, after many digressions. My thoughts never
strike a plane surface, but always a spherical, and fly off in a
tangent.
Sydney Smith says, 'Remember the flood and be brief.' You know I belong
to a very old family; and from an ancestor, who lived before the flood,
has been transmitted through a long line of O'Mollys a disposition to
spin out. Unfortunately an antediluvian length of time was not an
_heir-loom_ to
Your humble servant,
MOLLY O'MOLLY.
* * * * *
SKETCHES OF EDINBURGH LITERATI.
BY A FORMER MEMBER OF ITS PRESS.
There was a time when the little hamlet of Cockpaine, ten miles from
Edinburgh, in addition to the charms of its scenery, was also socially
attractive from the high literary talent of several of its residents. It
was situated on the banks of the Esk, whose rapid flow affords a
valuable water-power. This had been improved under the enterprise of Mr.
Craig, an extensive manufacturer, who became at last proprietor not only
of the mills, but of the entire village. Mr. Craig was successful for
several years; but the revulsions of trade during the Crimean war swept
away his previous profits, and in 1854 he sank in utter bankruptcy.
The extensive domain of the Earl of Dalhousie lay next to Cockpaine, and
the village site seemed all that was necessary to its completeness. As
soon as the latter was offered for sale, the earl made the long-desired
purchase, and then began the immediate eviction of its population. I saw
four hundred operatives, of all ages, driven off on one sad occasion--a
scene which reminded me most painfully of Goldsmith's lines in the
'Deserted Village:'--
'Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day
That called them from their native walks away,
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.'
A subsequent visit to what was once the thriving village, with its
embowered cottages reflected from the waters of the Esk, its groups of
romping children, its Sabbath melodies and its secular din, now changed
to a nobleman's preserves, recalled the following truthful sketch from
the same poem:--
'Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed,
In Nature's simplest charms arrayed;
But verging to decline, its splendors rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
_The country blooms, a garden and a grave._'
Among those whom Mr. Craig had numbered with the friends of his better
days, the first rank might have been conceded to that most eccentric and
interesting child of genius, Thomas DeQuincey.
Mr. Craig had thrown open to his use a lovely cottage and grounds,
commonly known as 'the Paddock,' which DeQuincey and his family occupied
for several years as privileged guests. 'The Opium-eater,' as he was
universally called by the villagers, was not more remarkable in
character than in appearance. His attenuated form, though but five feet
six in height, seemed singularly tall; and his sharply aquiline
countenance was strongly indicative of reflection. This aspect was
increased by a downward cast of the eyes, which were invariably fixed
upon the ground; and in his solitary walks he seemed like one rapt in a
dream. Such a character could not but be quite a marvel to the literary
coterie of Cockpaine, which found in him an inexhaustible subject of
discussion; while the more common class of the community viewed him with
solemn wonderment--'aye, there he gaes aff to th' brae--he'll kill
himsell wi' ower thinkin'--glowrin all the day lang--ah, there's na gude
in that black stuff; it's worse nor whiskey and baccy forbye.' Such were
some of the ordinary comments on the weird form which was seen emerging
from 'the Paddock' and moving in solitude towards the hills. Taciturnity
was a striking feature in DeQuincey's character, and was, no doubt,
owing to intense mental action. The inner life, aroused to extreme
activity by continued stimulus, excluded all perceptions beyond its own
limits, and the world in which he dwelt was sufficiently large without
the intrusion of external things. In his walks I would often follow in
his track, with that fondness of imitation peculiar to childhood, but
was never the object of his notice, and never heard him converse but
once. Overcome by such recluse habits, DeQuincey showed no desire to
court the patronage of the great, and had but little intercourse with
the lordly family of the Dalhousies. Indeed, his only intimacy was with
Mr. Craig, whose hospitality had won his heart. He was at this time
still consuming enormous quantities of opium, having never abated its
use, notwithstanding his allusions to reform in the 'Confessions.' His
two daughters, like those of Milton, cheered the domestic scenes of 'the
Paddock,' and the trio formed a circle whose interest pervaded the
literary world.
DeQuincey was at that time writing for Hogg's _Instructor_, a popular
Edinburgh periodical, in which his articles were a leading attraction.
The _Instructor_ was published weekly, and in addition to the pen of the
'Opium-eater,' could boast the editorship of the brilliant George
Gilfillan. The former of these devoted himself to a series of
interesting miscellanies, in which he brought out many pen-and-ink
portraits of striking power. At times, indeed, he was almost considered
joint editor; but his use of opium was so little abated, that it
forbade dependence upon his pen. The quantity of the drug consumed by
him, according to report, was astonishing. In his daily walk along the
Esk, his form was easily distinguished, even at a distance, by the prim
black surtout, whose priestly aspect was somewhat in contrast with his
'shocking-bad' hat. DeQuincey had by this time escaped from the poverty
of his early days, of which he speaks so bitterly in his 'Confessions,'
and was, if not a man of wealth, at least in easy circumstances. He was
reputed to own a snug little estate, called 'Lasswade;' but he abandoned
it to a tenant, and gave preference to Cockpaine, which charmed him by
its romantic scenery. His pay for contributions to the _Instructor_
could not have been less than a guinea per page; and Hogg, its publisher
(who was no relation to the Ettrick shepherd), would have given him more
had it been demanded. The _Instructor_ was subsequently merged into the
_Titan_, and its place of publication changed to London.
Removing from Cockpaine, my initiation into Edinburgh life was through
an acquaintance with the noted publishing house of the Messrs. Black,
who were then getting out their splendid edition of the _Encyclopedia
Brittanica_.
This vast enterprise, which cost L25,000, was highly profitable, through
the energy and cleverness of Robert Black, who conducted it. Among other
distinguished contributors, I frequently met in its office Mr.,
subsequently Lord, Macaulay, who furnished the articles on 'Pitt,'
'Canning,' and other distinguished statesmen. Although at that time a
man of slender means, Mr. Macaulay refused compensation for these
papers, on the score of strong personal friendship. However, he received
an indirect reward, more valuable than mere gold, since Robert Black was
his strong political supporter, and frequently presided at public
meetings held to further Macaulay's interests. I have often seen Music
Hall crowded by an enthusiastic mass while the bookseller filled the
chair, and the great reviewer appeared as a public orator. Macaulay's
person was very striking and impressive. He was tall, and of noble build
and full development. Although one of the most diligent of readers and
hard working of students of any age, his ruddy countenance did not
indicate close application, and his appearance was anything but that of
a book-worm. Indeed, at first glance, one would have taken him for a
fine specimen of the wealthy English farmer; and to have observed his
habits of good living at the social dining parties, would have added to
the impression that in him the animal nature was far in advance of the
intellectual. Macaulay, on all festive occasions, proved himself as
elegant a conversationist as he was a writer; his tone was thoroughly
English, and his pronunciation, like that of Washington Irving, was
singularly correct. As a speaker, he at times rose to splendid flights
of oratory, although his delivery from memory was less effective than
the extemporaneous style. Macaulay never married, but was always happy
in the social circle of his friends.
The Blacks were likewise publishers of Scott's novels, the demand for
which was so great that they were seldom 'off the press.' Three standard
editions were issued,--one of forty-eight volumes, at a low rate,
another of twenty-five volumes, at higher cost, and an additional
library edition, of still greater price. Of these, one thousand 'sets'
per year were the average of sale.
Shortly after this, I was in connection with the Ballantynes, who
published Blackwood's Magazine, one of the most profitable periodicals
in the United Kingdom. This connection led to an acquaintance with John
Wilson, better known as 'Christopher North,' of 'Old Ebony.' When the
printers were in haste, I have frequently walked down to his residence
in Gloucester Place, and sat by his side, waiting patiently, hour after
hour, for copy. The professor always wrote in the night, and would
frequently dash off one of his splendid articles between supper and
daybreak. His study was a small room, containing a table littered with
paper, the walls garnished with a few pictures, while heaps of books
were scattered wherever chance might direct. At this table might have
been seen the famous professor of moral philosophy, stripped to his
shirt and pantaloons, the former open in front, and displaying a vast,
hirsute chest, while a slovenly necktie kept the limp collar from utter
loss of place. This was his favorite state for composition, and was in
true keeping with the character and productions of his genius. When in
public, the professor was still a sloven; but his heavy form and
majestic head and countenance--though he was not a tall man--at once
commanded respect. He never appeared anything but the philosopher, and
I, who saw him in the dishabille of his study, never lost my awe for his
greatness. He had a worthy family, and maintained an excellent
establishment. Aytoun, who is now editor of Blackwood, married one of
his daughters, and has proved, by his stirring ballads, that he was
worthy of such an alliance. In writing, the professor eschewed gas
light, and made use of the more classic lamp. A bottle of wine was his
companion, and stood at his elbow until exhausted. This will perhaps
explain much of the convivial character of the 'Notes.' The
old-fashioned quill pen was his preference; and as the hours advanced,
and mental excitement waxed in activity, the profuse spattering of ink
rattled like rain. As a matter of course, his pay was of the highest
rate, and his articles were read with avidity. One reason of this may be
found in the boldness with which he drags into the imaginary colloquies
of _Noctes Ambrosianae_ the literati of both kingdoms. This liberty was
sometimes felt keenly, and sharply resented. Poor James Hogg, the
'Ettrick Shepherd,' who was just then getting a position in the literary
world, sometimes found himself figuring unexpectedly in the scenes, as
the victim of relentless wit. As a retaliation, Hogg attacked Wilson in
a sheet which he was then publishing in the Cowgate, under the aid and
patronage of a hatter.
It was one of John Wilson's fancies to affect a love of boxing, and it
was a favorite theme in the 'Ambrosial Discussions.' From this some have
imagined that he was of a pugilistic turn, whereas he knew nothing of
the 'science,' and only affected the knowledge in jest.
Next to old 'Kit North,' the most truly beloved contributor to Blackwood
was 'Delta,' whose poetry was for years expected, almost of course, in
every number. As Wilson's identity was well-nigh lost in his imaginary
character, so plain Dr. Moir was, in the literary world, merged in
'Delta' of Blackwood. But to the inhabitants of Musselburg he sustained
a character altogether different, and the gentle _Delta_ was only known
as one worthy of the title of 'the good physician.' I lived at
Musselburg two years, and had ample opportunities of personal
acquaintance. Dr. Moir was a man of highly benevolent countenance, and
of quiet and retiring manners. His practice was very extensive, and at
almost all hours he could have been seen driving an old gray horse
through the streets and suburbs of the town. The ancient character of
Musselburg seemed to have been as congenial to his temperament as
Nuremberg was to that of Hans Sachs. Indeed, in antiquity it can glory
over 'Auld Reekie,' according to the quaint couplet,--
'Musselboro' was a boro' when Edinburgh was nane;
Musselboro'll be a boro' when Edinburgh is gane.'
Moir was buried at Inveresk, where his remains are honored by a noble
monument; the memory of his genius will be cherished by all readers of
Blackwood. He died in 1854.
While engaged on the Encyclopedia to which we have made reference, I
made the acquaintance of McCulloch, the distinguished writer of
finances, who furnished the article on 'Banking.'
However distinguished may have been the position of this man in point of
talent, he failed utterly to command respect; and I chiefly remember his
coarse, overbearing tone of boastful superiority, and his abusive
language to the compositors who set up his MSS. That they found the
latter difficult of deciphering is not surprising, since the sheet
looked less like human calligraphy than a row of bayonets. McCulloch had
edited the '_Scotsman_' with decided ability, and having attracted the
attention of Lord Brougham, had received an appointment in the
stationer's office. But in his promotion he quickly forgot his humble
origin, and displayed his native vulgarity by lording it over the
craftsmen who gave form and life to his thoughts.
Among the giants of Scotland at that time, Thomas Chalmers ranked chief,
and the death of Sir Walter Scott had left him without a peer. I used to
meet him as he took his early walks, and in his loving way of greeting
youth he often bade me a cheerful good-morning. He was then living at
Kinghorn, about eight miles from Edinburgh. Dr. Chalmers' robust stature
was in keeping with the power of his intellect. He was of massive frame,
and displayed a breadth of shoulder which seemed borrowed from the
Farnese Hercules. Though so distinguished as a divine, there was nothing
clerical in his appearance--nothing of that air of 'the cloth' which at
once proclaims the preacher. His noble features were generally
overspread with a benevolent smile, which seemed to shed an illumination
as though from the ignition of the soul; while at other times he was
possessed with a spirit of abstraction as if walking in a dream.
As a theologian, Chalmers was great beyond any of his contemporaries;
and yet, strictly speaking, his genius was mathematical, rather than
theological. In this respect he resembled that famed American of whom he
professed himself a disciple--Jonathan Edwards. Of the latter it is
stated by no less a critic than the author of the _Eclipse of Faith_
(Henry Rogers), that he was born a mathematician. Chalmers, however, was
a master of all science, and it would have been difficult for even a
specialist to have taken him at an advantage. As greatness is always set
off by simplicity, the latter feature was one of the chief beauties in
what we may call the Chalmerian Colossus. I have often seen him leaning
upon the half open door of a smithy, conversing with the intelligent
workmen, as they rested from the use of the sledge. Having referred to
his love of children, I may add, in respect to myself, that when I, in
my childhood, spoke to him in the street, I was generally favored with
an apple. He was indeed an ardent lover of the young, and his genius
seemed to gather freshness from his intercourse with childhood.
Edinburgh will not soon forget his interest in the welfare of the poor,
in which he has been so ably seconded by the present Dr. Guthrie. I well
remember beholding the two Christian reformers, standing above the slums
of the city, contemplating the fields which the latter had assumed.
Suddenly Chalmers clapped his friend upon the back, and exclaimed, in
rude pleasantry, 'Wow, Tummus Guthrie, but ye ha a bonnie parish.'
Chalmers' pronunciation was singularly broad, and not easily understood
by many. Stopping once, during a tour in England, at a place where there
was a seminary, a gentleman inquired of him how many Scotch boys were in
attendance. 'Saxtain or savantain,' was the reply. 'Enough,' says the
gentleman, _sotto voce_, to corrupt a whole school.' As regards
calligraphy, Chalmers wrote the most illegible hand in Scotland. He
could not even read it himself, and was frequently obliged to call his
wife and daughters to his aid. Many of his discourses, when intended for
the press, were copied by them. His manuscript, when fresh from his
hand, looked as though a fly had fallen into the ink-stand, and then
crawled over the page. When his letters were received at his paternal
home, the language of the father was, 'A letter from Tummus, eh; weel,
when he comes hame, he maun read it himsel.' There was something
Homeric in Chalmers' mind; and Hugh Miller always considered him the
bard of the Free Church, as well as its great theologian and still
greater benefactor; and this, too, notwithstanding the fact that he
never wrote a line of verse in his life. The simplest truths, when
announced by him, took a poetic shape, and moved along with all the
majesty of his towering genius. Speaking of Hugh Miller brings him
before us at the time that he was writing for the _Caledonia Mercury_.
He was then editor of _The Witness_, but gave to the former paper such
moments as he could abstract from his more serious duties. His
department in the _Mercury_ was the reviewing new publications. Besides
his engagement with these two journals, he was pursuing those studies
which made him the prince of British geologists. Geology was his
passion. Indeed, while writing leaders for the _Witness_, or turning
over the leaves of hot-pressed volumes, his mind was wandering among
such scenes as the 'Lake of Stromness,' and the 'Old Red Sandstone' of
his native Cromarty. His geological sketches in the _Witness_ were a new
feature in journalism, and formed the basis of that work which so
admirably refuted the 'Vestiges of Creation.' I met Miller daily for
several years. He was tall, and of a well-built and massive frame, and
evidently capable of great endurance, both of mind and body. Considered
as one of the distinguished instances of self-made men, Hugh Miller
finds his only parallel in Horace Greeley, although the path to
greatness was in the first instance even more laborious than in the
latter. Let any one read Miller's experiences and adventures, as
described in 'My Schools and my Schoolmasters,' and he will find a
renewed suggestion of the thought which Johnson so pathetically breathes
in his 'London:'--
'The mournful truth is everywhere confessed,
Slow rises worth by poverty depressed.'