That was nourish'd by dead kinsmen, and their bones were at its root;
With a sigh he took the blossom, and he strode unto the strand,
Where his Danish crew awaited with a motley fisher band;
Brief the parley, swift his sailing, with the tide, and ne'er again
Saw the Moray Firth the stranger or the schooner of the Dane."
"Eilan Mohr" and the "Vow of Ian Lom," the renowned Seannachie of the
Highlands, are both fine poems, but rather too long for extract; and
as we do not doubt that this volume will erelong be found in the
boudoir and drawing-room of many of our fair countrywomen, we have
less hesitation in leaving them to a more leisurely perusal.
The young authoress will, we trust, forgive us if we tender one word
of advice before parting with her on the heights of Urrard--a spot
which was once--and we hope will be again--the home of more worth,
beauty, and excellence, than is often to be found within the circle of
a single family. She ought to be very cautious in her attempts to
write in the Scottish dialect. Few, even of those who have habitually
heard it spoken from their childhood, can discern the almost
indefinable line which exists between the older and purer phraseology,
and that which is more corrupt. The very spelling of the words is a
matter of considerable difficulty, and when not correctly written, the
effect is any thing but pleasing. With this hint and another extract
we shall return the volume to better keeping than our own, with our
sincere approval of its contents, and our admiration for the genius of
the writer.
"THE OLD HOUSE OF URRARD.
"Dost fear the grim brown twilight?
Dost care to walk alone,
When the firs upon the hill-top
With human voices moan?
When the river twineth restless
Through deep and jagged linn,
Like one who cannot sleep o' nights
For evil thoughts within?
When the hooting owls grow silent,
The ghostly sounds to hark,
In the ancient house of Urrard,
When the night is still and dark.
"There are graves about old Urrard,
Huge mounds by rock and tree;
And they who lie beneath them
Died fighting by Dundee.
Far down along the valley,
And up along the hill,
The fight of Killicrankie
Has left a story still.
But thickest show the traces
And thickest throng the sprites,
In the woods about old Urrard,
On the gloomy winter nights.
"In the garden of old Urrard,
Among the bosky yews,
A turfen hillock riseth
Where latest lie the dews;
Here sank the warrior stricken
By charmèd silver ball,
And all the hope of victory
Fell with him in his fall.
Last stay of exiled Stuart,
Last heir of chivalrie,
In the garden of old Urrard
He died, the brave Dundee!
"In the ancient house of Urrard,
There's many a hiding den;
The very walls are hollow,
To cover dying men;
For not e'en lady's chamber
Barr'd out the fierce affray;
And couch and damask curtain
Were stain'd with blood that day
And there's a secret passage,
Whence sword, and skull, and bone,
Were brought to light in Urrard,
When years had pass'd and gone.
"If thou sleep alone in Urrard,
Perchance in midnight gloom
Thou'lt hear behind the wainscot
Of that old haunted room,
A fleshless hand that knocketh,
A wail that cries on thee;
And rattling limbs that struggle
To break out and be free.
It is a thought of horror!--
I would not sleep alone
In the haunted rooms of Urrard,
Where evil deeds were done.
"Amidst the dust of garrets
That stretch along the roof,
Stand chests of ancient garments
Of gold and silken woof.
When men are lock'd in slumber,
The rustling sounds are heard
Of dainty ladies' dresses,
Of laugh and whisper'd word,
Of waving wind of feathers,
And steps of dancing feet,
In the haunted halls of Urrard,
When the winds of winter beat."
We cannot altogether dismiss the book without bearing testimony to the
merits of M'Ian, a rising artist and thorough Highlander, already
favourably known to the public by his Sketches of the Clans, and other
admirable works. Few pictures have ever affected us more than his
Highland prisoner, exhibited last year in the Royal Academy, into
which he has thrown a far deeper feeling, both of poetry and romance,
than is at the command of many of his brethren, whose names are more
widely bruited than his own. We send him across the Border our cordial
greeting, and our best wishes for his continued success and
prosperity.
And here we should have concluded this article in peace and amity with
all men--haunted by no other thoughts save those of sweet
recollection--and as innocent of blood as our terrier pup, who, we are
gratified to observe, is at this moment vainly attempting to enlarge a
casual fracture in our slipper. But our eye has accidentally lighted
upon a fugitive volume, half smothered beneath a heap of share-lists;
and mindful of our duty, however painful, we drag forth the impostor
to his doom. _Morning and other Poems, by a Member of the Scotch Bar!_
Why, the very name of the book is enough to betray its spurious
origin. The unfortunate person who has rashly attempted to give
currency to his verses by assuming a high and honourable position, to
which, we believe from the bottom of our soul, he has not the remotest
pretension--has not even taken the pains to ascertain the corporate
name of the body with which he claims affiliation, and bungles even in
the title-page. With the members of the SCOTTISH BAR we have some
acquaintance--nay, we think that--from habitual attendance at the
Parliament House, being unfortunately implicated in a law-plea as
interminable as that of Peebles against Plainstanes--we know almost
every one of them by headmark, from the Pet of the Stove, whose
snuff-box is as open as his heart, to the saturnine gentleman who is
never seen beyond the precincts of the First Division. We acquit every
one of them of participation in this dreary drivel.
It may be that the gods have not made all of them poetical--and, for
the sake of the judges, we opine that it is better so--yet some rank
amongst our dearest and most choice contributors; nor, we believe, is
there one out of the whole genuine fraternity of educated and
accomplished gentlemen who could not, if required, versify a summons,
or turn out a Lay of the Multiplepoinding, equal, if not superior, to
Schiller's Song of the Bell. It is rather too much that the literary
character of the bar of Scotland is to be jeopardied by the dulness of
the author of _Morning and other Poems_. Why has he not the courage,
instead of sheltering himself under a legal denomination common to
some three hundred gentlemen, to place his own name upon the
title-page, and stand or fall by the bantlings of his own creation?
Does he think, forsooth, that it is beneath the dignity of a barrister
to publish verses, or to hold at any time a brief in the court of
Apollo? If so, why does he attempt to thrust forward his vocation so
wantonly? But he knows that it is no disgrace. The literary reputation
of the bar is so high, that he actually assumes the title for the
sake of obtaining a hearing, and yet merges his own individuality, so
that he may be enabled to slink away in silence and obscurity from the
ridicule which is sure to overwhelm him.
Morning, and other Poems! It was impossible for the author to have
stumbled upon a more unfortunate subject in support of his
pretensions. Of all imaginable themes, that of morning is least likely
to inspire with enthusiasm the soul of a Scottish barrister. Few are
the associations of delight which that word awakens in his mind. It
recalls to him the memory of many a winter, throughout which he has
been roused from his comfortable nap at half-past seven, by the shrill
unquellable voice of Girzy, herself malignant and sullen as the
bespoken warning of the watchman. He recollects the misery of shaving
with tepid water and a blunt razor by the light of a feeble dip--the
fireless study--the disordered papers--the hasty and uncomfortable
breakfast, and the bolting of the slippery eggs. Blash comes a sheet,
half hail half slush, against the window--the wind is howling without
like a hurricane, and threatens to carry off that poor shivering
lamplighter, whose matutinal duty it is to extinguish the few
straggling remnants of gas now waning sickly and dim, in the dawn of a
bad December morning. What would he not give if this were a Monday
when he might remain in peace at home! But there is no help for it. He
is down for three early motions on the roll of the most punctual
Ordinary that ever cursed a persecuted bar; so he buttons his
trot-cosey around him, and, without taking leave of the wife of his
bosom--who, like a sensible woman as she is, never thinks of moving
until ten--he dashes out, ankle-deep in mud and melting snow, works
his way up a continuous hill of a mile and a half in length, with a
snell wind smiting him in the face, his nose bluemigating like a plum,
and his linen as thoroughly damped as though it had been drawn through
the wash-tub. Just as he begins to discern through the haze the
steeple of Knox's kirk, nine strokes upon the bell warn him that his
watch is too slow. He rushes on through gutter and dub, and arrives in
the robing-room simultaneously with ten other brethren, who are all
clamorously demanding their wigs and gowns from the two distracted
functionaries. Accomodated at last, he hurries up the stairs, and
when, through the yellow haze of the house, he has groped his way to
the den where early Æacus is dispensing judgment by candle-light, he
finds that the roll has been already called without the appearance of
a single counsel. Such, for half the year--the other half being varied
by a baking--are the joys which morning brings to the member of the
Scottish bar. Few, we think, in their senses would be inclined to sing
them, nor, indeed, to do our author justice, does he attempt it. His
notions of morning occupations are very different. Let us see what
sort of employment he advises in an apostrophe, which, though
ostensibly addressed to Sleep, (a goddess with two mothers, for he
calls her "Daughter of Jove and Night, by Lethe born,") must, we
presume, have been intended for the edification of his fellow-mortals.
"Nor then, thy knees
Vex with long orisons. The morning task,
The morning meal, or healthful morning walk
Demand attention next. Thy hungry feed,
Among thy stall, if lowing herds be thine;
Drain the vex'd udders, set the pail apart
For the wean'd kid; the doggish sentinel
Supply, nor let him miss the usual hand
He loves. Then, having seen all full and glad,
Body and soul with food thyself sustain.
If wedded bliss be yours, the fruitful vine
Greet lovingly, and greet the olive shoots,
The gifts of God!"
Here is a pretty fellow! What! First breakfast, then a walk, then the
byre, the ewe-bught, the pig-stye, and the kennel, and after all
that, without wiping the gowkspittle of the tares from your jacket,
or the stickiness of Cato's soss from your fingers, you would sit down
to a second breakfast, like a great snorting gormandizer, and never
say good-morning to your wife and children until you have finished
your third roll, and washed down that monstrous quantity of fried ham
with your fifth basin of bohea! But no--we turn over a couple of
pages, and find that we have done our friend injustice. He is a poet,
and, according to his idea of that race, they subsist entirely upon
porridge or on sowens.
"But what becomes the rustic, little suits
The poet and the high Æonian fire----
His toils I mean; sacred the morning prime
Is still to song, and sacred still the grove;
No fields he boasts, no herds to grace his stalls,
The muse has made him poor and happy too,
She robs him of much care and some dull coin,
Stints him in gay attire and costly books,
But gives a wealth and luxury all her own,
_And, on a little pulse, like gods they diet._"
Our theory is, that this man is a medical student. We have a high
regard for the healing faculty; nor do we think that, amongst its
ranks, there is to be found more than the ordinary proportion of
blockheads. But the smattering of diversified knowledge which the
young acolytes are sure to pick up in the classes, is apt to go to
their heads, and to lead them into literary and other extravagances,
which their more sober judgment would condemn. They are seldom able,
however, to disguise their actual calling; and even their most
powerful efforts are tinctured with the flavour of rhubarb or of
senna. This youth has been educated in obstetrics.
"Three months scarce had thrice increased
Ere the world with thee was blest."
He is an adept in the mysteries of gestation--an enthusiast so far in
his profession, and cannot even contemplate the approach of morning
without the feelings of a genuine Howdie. Mark his exordium--
"The splendid fault, solicitude of fame,
Which spurs so many, me not moves at all
To sing, but grateful sense of favours obtain'd
By many a green-spread tree and leafy hill:
The MORNING calls, escaped from dewy sleep
And Tithon's bed to celebrate her charms,
What sounds awake, what airs salute the dawn!
"That virgin darkness, loveliest imp of time,
Is, to an amorous vision, nightly wed,
And made the mother of a shining boy,
By mortals hight the day, let others tell,
In livelier strains, and to the Lydian flute
Suit the warm verse; but be it ours to wait
In the birth-chamber, and receive the babe,
All smiling, from the fair maternal side,
By pleasant musings only well repaid."
It is a great pity that one so highly gifted should ever have been
tempted to forsake the muse for any mere mundane occupation. But in
spite of his modest request that sundry celestial spirits--
"Will to a worthier give the bays to Phoebus dear,
And crown MY WORDSWORTH with the branch _I must not wear_"--
we are not altogether without hopes that he will reconsider the
matter, avoid too hard work, which, in his own elegant language, might
make him
"Wan as nun who takes the vows,
Or primrose pale, or _lips of cows_!"--
and not only delight us occasionally with a few Miltonic parodies as
delectable as these, but be persuaded in time to assume the laureat's
wreath. As for the pretext that he is getting into practice--whether
legal or medical--that is all fudge. He informs us that "the following
pages were written, during the author's leisure hours, some years ago,
before the superior claims of professional occupations interfered to
make such pursuits unlawful, and would probably have remained
unpublished, but for the accident of a talented friend's perusal."
Moreover, he says that "his conscience will not reproach him with the
hours which the preparation of these poems for the press has filched
from graver business--
'The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate.'"
We assure him that it need not do so. No man who has glanced at this
volume will accuse him of knowing the difference between a process of
Ranking and Sale and a Declarator of Legitimacy; and he may comfort
himself with the conviction that his literary pursuits are quite as
lawful at the present time as they were some years ago. No importunate
solicitor will ever interfere to divert him from them. The man who
cannot compass an ordinary distich will never shine in minutes of
debate; nor have we the slightest expectation that a three-guinea
fee--even were he entitled to receive it--would ever supply the place
of that unflinching principle of honour, which he thus modestly, and
not unprophetically acknowledges to be the mainspring of his
inspiration--
"'Tis this which strings, in time, my feeble harp,
And yet shall ravish long eternal years!"
The following imprecation, which we find in "Morning," inspires us
with something like hope of the continuance of his favours:--
"When I forget the dear enraptured lay,
May this right hand its wonted skill forego,
And never, never touch the lyre again!"
We dare not say Amen to such a wish. On the contrary, in the name of
the whole Outer-House, we demand a supplementary canto. Let him submit
it to the perusal of his "talented friend," and we dare answer for it
that the publishers will make no objection to stand sponsors for a new
volume on the same terms as before.
FOOTNOTE:
[53] _The Earl of Gowrie_; a Tragedy. By the Rev. JAMES WHITE. London:
1845.
_The King of the Commons_; a Drama. By the Same. 1846.
_A Book of Highland Minstrelsy._ By Mrs D. OGILVY. Illustrated by R.
R. M'IAN. London: 1846.
_Morning, and other Poems._ By a Member of the Scotch Bar. London:
1846.
ELINOR TRAVIS.
A TALE IN THREE CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
So far have I spoken of what I saw and witnessed. Much of what follows
came to me, years afterwards, authenticated by the chief performer in
the eventful drama which I write, and by others no less worthy of
belief. After what has been already narrated, it will not be supposed
that I suffered the life of my friend to pass away unnoticed. We
corresponded, but fitfully, and at long intervals. Here and there we
met, often strangely and by accident, and I became now the depositary
of his heart's dearest secrets, now the reluctant adviser, and now the
bold and earnest remonstrant. Our intimacy, however, ceased abruptly
and unhappily a year or two subsequently to his marriage. Sinclair, it
will be seen, then went abroad, and I returned to my duty at the
university. I recur to the memoranda of his history which lie before
me, and proceed with my text.
It would appear that General Travis overtook the fugitives, but, as
good or ill fortune would have it, not until the knot was tied, and
his presence profited nothing. I have been told that the desperate
father, at one period of the chase, was within an easy stage of the
runaways, and, had he been so disposed, might have laid hands on the
delinquents without ruinously bribing the postilions, who prudently
husbanded their strength in full expectation of additional largess.
But, at the very moment of victory, as it were, the general
unfortunately was seized with illness, and compelled to pass a day and
night under the hands of a village doctor in a roadside inn. He was
very angry and rebellious, you may be sure, and oftener than once
asserted with an oath--so that there could be no doubt whatever of his
sincerity--that he would give the world (if he had it) to be allowed
to proceed; at the same time that he unreasonably accused the
practitioner, whom he had never seen before, of conspiring with his
enemies to bring his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. The worthy
apothecary, guilty of nothing but the venial offence of making the
most of a visitation of Providence, merely shook his head dolefully at
every exclamation of his patient, hinted at gastric fever, and rubbed
his palms, intimating by that act that so he proposed to wash his
hands of all responsibility. Whereupon the general prudently gave in,
held out his massive fist, was prescribed for, went to bed and put out
his candle, just two minutes after he had put out the basket of physic
which had been sent to prolong his stay in the inn for at least a week
to come.
The interview between the disconsolate parent and the youthful
offenders is adverted to in the letter which I received from Rupert
Sinclair in London early in the honeymoon. It is many years since it
was written: the paper is discoloured, and the ink fading. It is the
effusion of a fond and enthusiastic youth; but it looks mournful and
dried up, more like the decaying writing on the rolls of a mummy than
the ardent outpourings of a recent passion. Alack for the mutability
of life! I have no apologies to make for giving the letter as it
stands. It speaks for itself: its publication cannot harm the dead.
"DEAREST WALTER--Congratulate me! wish me joy! But no greater
joy than I experience at this hour, with the sunny and smiling
heaven above, and in the possession of a treasure of which no
man living can rob me: of which I am prouder than Alexander
could have been of all his conquered worlds. She is mine! I
have ventured much for the prize; yet little--for I feel I
could have parted with every thing in life for her who is to
me--life, every thing. She is mine! Oh the comprehensiveness
of that one little word! Mine whilst existence lasts--mine to
cherish and uphold--mine for earth and heaven! We walked this
morning to the placid lake which lies hidden in the heart of
the mountains, to which we have retreated for a season away
from the envious eyes of men. The waters were as calm as at
the dawn of the first sabbath! The sky that overarched us
looked down upon them in unutterable love. The slightest
breath that crept amongst the trees was audible. Her arm was
upon mine. Nature had attuned my soul to the surrounding
harmony--the gentlest pressure of her confiding hand oppressed
me with joy and moved me to tears. Laugh at me if you will.
You answer to all this--that I dream. Be it so:--That I must
soon awake. It is possible. Nay, I grant you that this
foretaste of heaven, now vouchsafed to me, must pass away and
leave behind it only the remembrance of this golden epoch.
Still the remembrance is mine, the undying memory of a vision
unparalleled by all other dreams of life.
"I have written to my father, but he replies not. He has no
sympathy for attachments such as mine, and cannot understand
the bitterness of life caused by a blighted hope. But he will
relent. He has a noble nature, and will take no delight in my
unhappiness. My mother's influence is unbounded. She loves me,
and will plead my cause with him, when the first paroxysm of
anger has passed away, and has left him open to her sway. I
will take my Elinor to her; her innocence and beauty would
melt a stubborn heart to pity. Shall it not prevail with her
whose heart is ours already by the ties of holiest nature?
Believe me, I have no fear of Lord Railton's lasting anger.
"The general reached us the day after we were married. Happily
for me that he arrived not before. Elinor, as I have told you
often, reveres her father, and has a chivalric sense of filial
obligations. Had he commanded her to return to his roof whilst
the right to command remained with him, she would have deemed
it her paramount duty to obey him. His rage was terrible when
we met; I had never seen a man so plunged in grief before. He
accused me of treachery--of having betrayed his
confidence--and taken advantage of his daughter's simplicity
and warm affection. The world, he said, would reproach him for
an act which he would have moved heaven and earth to prevent,
and the reputation of the family would be blasted by the
conduct of one, who, but for his own base deed, should have
remained for ever a stranger to it. What could I reply to
this? For my dear Elinor's sake, I bore his cruel words, and
answered not. Her gentle spirit has already prevailed. He
quitted us this morning reconciled to our union, and resolved
to stand by us in all extremities. There was no resisting the
appeal of beauty such as hers. The old man wept like a child
upon her neck as he forgave and blest her. Urgent business
carries the general abroad for a season, but he returns to
England shortly, to make arrangements for the future.
Meanwhile, in obedience to his earnest request, I shall seek
an interview with my father, and in person entreat his
forgiveness and aid. My plans are unsettled, and necessarily
depend upon the conduct of Lord Railton. Let me hear from you,
dearest Wilson. Once more wish me joy. I ask no better fate
for you than happiness such as mine.
"Your faithful and devoted
"RUPERT SINCLAIR."
The honeymoon over, Rupert Sinclair repaired to his father's house.
Since his marriage he had received no tidings of his parents: he had
written to his father and mother, but from neither came one syllable
of acknowledgment or reply. It was strange, but he relied with
unshaken confidence upon his power over the fond mother's heart, and
upon the magic influence of that loveliness which he himself had found
resistless and invincible. The blissful dream was a short one; he was
about to be roused from it. Elinor and he were in town: upon the
morning of his visit to Grosvenor Square, they sat together in their
hotel and weaved their bright and airy plans in syllables more
unsubstantial than the gossamer.