As fair a maid shall ne'er behold,
As I do now--the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the water-fall,
And thou the spirit of them all.'
The boat took us to the head of the loch to see _Rob Roy's Cave_,
(which also once gave shelter to Robert Bruce,) and then reversed her
course toward Glasgow. As we proposed to see Inverary, and some of
the Western Islands, we landed at Tarbet, opposite Ben Lomond. The
sky looked too black to warrant an ascent; but with glasses we could
see several persons on the sugar-loaf summit. A tourist wrote on the
window of the inn here, in 1777, a chapter of metrical advice to those
'Whose taste for grandeur and the dread sublime
Prompt them Ben Lomond's dreadful height to climb.'
From Tarbet, we took a car and rode through the grand but dreary
pass of Glencroe, Ben Arthur frowning upon us for six miles, and
went round the head of Loch Long to Cairndow, on Loch Fine, where we
again took boat for Inverary, and had a charming moonlight sail. This
is a very neat and pretty little village, belonging almost entirely
to the Duke of Argyle. The houses are mostly white, and evidently
arranged for effect, being clearly reflected in the quiet lake,
like Isola Bella, in Italy. The duke's castle, near the village, is
an elegant modern edifice, of blue granite, with a circular tower
at each corner. We had a ride through the extensive parks and
pleasure-grounds, which are filled with every variety of valuable
exotic trees. The owner of this fine estate has not been here for
fifteen years--no great argument for his grace's good taste, or
justice to his tenants. Some of the most eminent British artists have
found ample employment for their pencils in this neighborhood. The
loch is celebrated for its fine herrings, which is the chief article
of trade of Inverary.
* * * * *
MONDAY MORNING.--At three o'clock we were awakened for the
steam-boat, and were not more than half dressed, when the steam
ceased from growling, and the bell from tolling; nevertheless, we
caught up what garments remained, leaving a few as wind-falls to the
chamber-maid, and fled to the dock. The steamer was off, sure enough,
but came to, and sent a boat for us, on seeing our signals. It is now
broad day-light, and was, indeed, at two o'clock! The sail down Loch
Fine is rather tedious. It is a salt-water lake, from thirty to forty
miles in length, and the shores are low and barren as the sea-coast.
We stopped at several places for passengers, and passing between the
isles of Bute and Arran, (celebrated in 'The Lord of the Isles,')
we entered the Kyles of Bute, where the shores are verdant and
interesting.
At the town of Rothsay, on the Isle of Bute, we saw the ruins of
the famous Rothsay Castle; and a few miles farther, we passed the
Castle of Dunoon, and several pretty summer-villas on the banks of
the water. Entering the Frith of Clyde, we stopped at the flourishing
ports of Greenock and Port Glasgow, and the strong fortress of
Dumbarton, built on a lofty and picturesque rock, at the mouth of the
river Clyde. From here, is a fine view of the Vale of Leven, and the
whole outline of Ben Lomond, about fifteen miles distant. The pretty
vale in the fore-ground is the scene of Smollet's beautiful ode:
'On Leven's banks when free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love.'
In sailing up the Clyde, the most remarkable sight was the immense
number of steam-boats which passed us in rapid succession. We met no
less than _twenty-one_, of a large class, on the river, all bound
out; and I was told that upward of eighty are owned in Glasgow alone.
We landed at Glasgow, after a voyage of twelve hours, during which
we had stopped at as many different places. I was surprised at the
extent and elegance of Glasgow, as much as at its evident importance
as a manufacturing and commercial city. It seems to be scarcely
second to Liverpool, and is certainly the third city in Great Britain
on the score of population and trade.
It is too far up the river for a seaport, so that Greenock is a
sharer in its prosperity. The buildings, like those of the _new_
town of Edinburgh, are nearly all of a handsome free-stone, which
is found in great abundance near the city, and is the cheapest as
well as the best material they can use. Loss by fire is especially
rare. Some of the private residences would do honor to the west end
of London. The streets fronting the Clyde, on both sides, are very
imposing, and are connected by four handsome stone bridges, while the
banks of the river are substantially walled with granite, surmounted
with iron railings. There is a public park, pleasure-ground, and
gymnasium, near the river. The streets, particularly the Broadway of
the town, Trongate-street, were literally thronged, quite as much
so as Cheap-side and Fleet-street in the Metropolis. In this street
I saw the remaining tower of the Tolbooth, where Rob Roy conducted
Frank, and met Baillie Nichol Jarvie. From thence I walked up
High-street to the venerable University, of which Campbell, the poet,
who is a native of Glasgow, was lately principal.[4] The structure is
very antique, and encloses three squares. I passed through college
after college, looking as learned as possible, and graduated in the
'green,' where Frank Osbaldistone encountered Rashleigh. Farther up
the street, I arrived at the old _cathedral_, one of the largest in
Britain. It is now divided into three churches for Presbyterians.
The pillars which support the great tower are immense. I measured my
umbrella twice on _one side_ of a single square pillar. The _crypt_
(basement) where Frank Osbaldistone attended church, and was warned
by Rob Roy, extends the whole length of the cathedral, and is the
most curious part of it. In the grave-yard I noticed monuments to
John and McGavin, author of the Protestant.
* * * The Merchants' Exchange is a splendid Corinthian edifice,
and contains a noble public hall, and an extensive reading-room,
where I was glad to find the _Knickerbocker_. I was surprised at
the extraordinary cheapness of rents, both here and in Edinburgh,
compared with those in our good city of Gotham. The very best
finished three-story houses, of stone, of the largest class, and
in desirable situations, may be had for four hundred and fifty
dollars per annum. Our New-York landlords would demand for a similar
residence, at least twelve hundred dollars. In Edinburgh, as it is
not a commercial place, rents are still lower. Very superior houses,
with large gardens, etc., are let for eighty pounds per year.
After seeing Langside, about two miles from Glasgow, where the cause
of the ill-fated Queen of Scots was finally overthrown, I rode to
Linlithgow, for the sake of a glance at her birth-place; the palace
once so famous and 'fair.'
'Of all the palaces so fair,
Built for the royal dwelling,
Above the rest, beyond compare,
Linlithgow is excelling.'
The walls remain nearly entire, but the interior was totally
destroyed by fire, during one of the civil feuds. The town, as well
as that of Falkirk, a few miles beyond, is dull and gloomy. Some of
the old houses in Falkirk were once occupied by the knights of St.
John, who had a preceptory near the place. The field where the great
battle was fought, in which Wallace was defeated, is a short distance
from the town. I reached Edinburgh at ten P. M., in the canal-boat
from Glasgow, which goes at the rate of nine miles an hour, and
landed under the batteries of the castle; having passed the most of
a week, of delightful weather, among the most interesting parts of
Scotland. I have been agreeably surprised at the evident marks of
industry and prosperity which are almost every where apparent. The
Scotch are notoriously shrewd, industrious, and thriving; but we
yankees, like other nations, are apt to think ourselves far before
the rest of the world in 'inventions and improvements;' and though a
foreigner would sneer at my presumption, I have really felt pleased
when I have seen any thing abroad 'pretty nearly' as good as _we_
can show at home. It is folly, at the same time, for us to flatter
ourselves that we can in no wise take profitable example from our
father-land!
FOOTNOTES:
[2] The 'Fairport' of the 'Antiquary.' Within the last twelve years,
it has doubled in size and importance.
[3]
'Father!' she cried: 'the rocks around
Love to prolong the gentle sound!'
[4] This office, as is well known, is now held by SIR ROBERT PEEL.
SONNETS: BY 'QUINCE.'
ADVERSITY.
WE sometimes strike the madman to the earth,
And mercy deals the pain-inflicting blow,
That body's suffering may give reason birth,
And with slight anguish mitigate much wo.
When 'neath the surgeon's hand the patient lies,
Whose mortifying limb requires the knife,
With fortitude he bears his agonies,
Nor heeds the torture that will save his life.
Thus heaven doth strike us with adversity,
Thus should we bow to its omniscient will;
Then through dark clouds bright sunshine we should see
And sweetest comfort draw from direst ill.
All is not sad, that to us seems to be,
Nor all adverse, we call adversity.
AGES.
AGES! to trace thy path, my curious eye
Pierces the vista of forgotten time:
Ye awe me with your vast sublimity,
Ye moving mysteries, that will consign
The breathing form that wonders at your might,
Like unto myriads o'er whom ye have swept,
To the dark lethe of impris'ning night;
Where I must sleep, and where they long have slept.
Like the majestic ocean's waves ye roll,
Which o'er the sweetest, fondest memories ride,
Slow journeying toward your destined goal,
With all of earth mysteriously allied.
Sweep on, Time's chroniclers! yourselves shall be
Engulphed at last in vast eternity!
ANGELS.
THE infant sleeping on its mother's breast,
Or seeking in her eye a sunny smile--
The heart that boasts as calm and pure a rest,
As spotless, and as free from earthly guile;
The eye that weeps calamity to see,
The hand that opens in its might to give;
The crushed and sinking heart, that yearns to be
Bathed in His blood who died that it might live;
The pure out-gushings of the fervent soul,
The God-like thoughts that raise our hearts to heaven,
Have each an Angel's spirit; and control
The sordid clay, to shrine our spirits given.
This is all felt--but Nature bids us trace
The Angel in earth's glory--woman's face.
WILSON CONWORTH.
CHAPTER XII.
I HAVE said, that owing to the aimless, reckless course of life
which I pursued, after leaving college, I lost my place in society,
and found myself without friends, and a marked man. This began
my education. I began to look about me, and to think. What! my
acquaintance slight me as unworthy their notice! What could be the
cause of this? Could I live under such a ban? I resolved to reform.
The effect upon me of this rule in society proves its excellence. I
was at first staggered. I knew not that ruin was so near at hand.
I was awakened from the trance of years. I determined to make a
desperate effort. I collected the amount of my debts, and gave
them in to my father, telling him, as coolly as I could, that I
had determined to leave the city--to retire upon the smallest sum
possible for the most secluded life. He paid my debts, enormous as
they were. Without bidding adieu to any one, for I did not think
myself of consequence enough to take leave formally, I, in a few days
after my determination, was on my way to N----.
I took with me a few books, and they were well chosen. I had Scott
and Byron, Mackenzie's works, the British Essayists, Sterne,
Shenstone's Essays, Bacon's Essays, Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living and
Dying, and Shakspeare. Yes! I took, too, Burns's poems and letters.
His letters more than his poems I admired, or loved too read, for
we feel more sympathy for Burns, on account of his hard struggles,
than because he wrote 'Tam O'Shanter,' or the 'Twa Dogs.' These
were all the books I took with me. I mention them with a feeling of
pride, that my taste was so pure at so early a day, and in spite of
my idleness and dissipated habits. If I were to select now from the
whole field of literature--throwing in the old English prose writers
by Young--I would not give up one of these books, supposing I could
have no more in number.
The pleasure I received in reading these works--the tears I always
shed over the Man of Feeling--prove to me that I was not so abandoned
as I thought myself at this time, or at least, that we all have some
good about us, however low we may stand in the estimation of the
world. I think there is a double lesson to be learned from this:
first, that all impressions, however trite and unimportant they may
appear at the time they are being made, never should be deemed of
small weight, because their effects are not seen immediately: and
second, that we should be careful lest we do the greatest injustice
to our fellow men, by looking on the surface of character only,
which, from some accidental cause, may appear rough and disgusting,
while the seeds of good feeling and honorable exertion lie hid from
our sight, and only want opportunity to command our applause.
With these few silent, voiceless friends, I took up my residence in
the village of N----, a village of New-England. The pleasantness of
the situation determined my location, for the advantages of study
can be had in any place. There was a quiet air about this village,
which enchanted me. It lay several miles from any other, on the
banks of a river, upon a table-land. One long street extended through
it, in a straight line. This street was very wide. The houses were
not crowded upon the dusty path, but placed several rods back, with
a green lawn in front, and painted white. It did not look like a
business place--this was another good point--but it seemed like the
residence of old and respectable families. There was fine scenery
about it, too; high hills, and deep valleys, watered by swift and
clear brooks. There was, and is, and ever will be, an air of easy
comfort about this place, to strike strangers and foreigners. There
is wealth without ostentation; hospitality without the appearance
of obligation; and kindness and benevolence, ever to be remembered.
Virtue is natural to a refined mind.
I entered my name in the office of a gentleman of rather retired
habits. He had an excellent library, both of law books and
miscellaneous reading, and read much himself; but he was considered
by the people as rather an oddity, and a book-worm. He rarely
appeared in court, and clients never came to his office; yet he had
made a fortune by his profession. I will venture to swear that he
made his money with clean hands and a quiet conscience. He was rarely
seen off of his own territory, and never attended a public meeting in
his life, except to hear a sermon. His history is somewhat singular.
He was a shoe-maker, until thirty years of age, and then studied
law, and supported himself, for the first years of his practice,
by making shoes in his garret, as it is said. A man of few words,
he never spoke first to any one, but always listened more than he
talked, even in the company of a fool. With the coarsest features
and roughest skin I ever saw, and the ugliest face, he had the most
benevolent smile in the world. He never killed a fly, or trod upon a
worm, though a lawyer. He was much respected by the older and better
sort of people, and by those of his profession, who were glad to find
their opinions supported by his.
Himself and wife constituted his family, and they lived as quietly
as two mice. Every thing was kept as neat as wax. The house, and
office contiguous, stood upon a slight elevation, opposite the
village church and tavern, shaded by umbrageous trees. A stray stick
or stone never remained long within ten rods of the place. He was
the pattern of order, and neatness, and regularity, in every thing
he did or possessed. I never saw an unpleasing expression upon the
face of this gentleman, except when some one of the choir got out of
key in church; and then his countenance would suddenly be drawn up
into knots, that, it would seem, could never be unravelled; for with
a coarse body, he possessed the most susceptible soul, and refined
tastes in the arts. Retirement and self-examination had made him
appear diffident; yet it was far from being an ungraceful kind of
bashfulness, but rather that drawing back, as if he mistrusted your
power fully to enter into his feelings. But to return.
I commenced the task of study, and stuck to it for a short time;
but the feeling that follows the discharge of a duty soon became no
novelty, and I began to be quite sick of being so very good. Every
thing was too smooth. I always loved contrast; and here are some
verses that I wrote, the first week I spent in the country:
Tears are like showers, that wet the sun-burnt soil,
And freshen quick its verdure. After toil,
Sweet is the laborer's rest.
Affliction gives a zest
To joy, and tears are blest.
For tears, if not by guilty conscience shed,
Clear the dull channels of the brain and head;
Our smiles are brighter,
Our hearts are lighter;
For memory loves to contrast joy with sorrow;
We weep to-day, that we may laugh to-morrow.
This is the doctrine that has always swayed me; and if life at times
becomes too quiet, I set the imagination to work to conjure up some
wrong or injustice I suppose myself to have suffered, and work myself
into a state of superior wretchedness. The freak passes away, and I
am very pleased, and much excited, by what would be but sources of
common enjoyment to the equable and reasonable.
Beside, there was another obstacle to studious habits--woman. I was
among a new race of beings. Women in the country and in the city are
as different as the barn-door fowl is from the bright-plumaged bird
of the untrodden wild. In the first place, city girls are not so
handsome as those living in the country. The former excel in dress,
and the wavy lines of grace; they understand the art of showing off
their feet and ankles to better advantage; but they lack the one
thing needful--the nature. They walk upon the paved street, not the
grassy lawn, where every foot-step is in a line of poetry. They have
grown up surrounded by artificial refinements; in the sickly glare
of lamps, and a smoky atmosphere; their minds have not been tutored
by the goddess of nature. They do not so often see the setting sun,
the burnished clouds, the bright artillery of heaven. They feel not
the balmy air, the dewy freshness of the morning. They do not hear
the songs of birds; neither do they see the sparkling rivulet. How
then is it possible they can be equal to those in affections, tastes,
health, and beauty, who see, and hear, and feel all these things?
The daughters of people in moderate circumstances in the country
are well educated. They usually spend a winter in town, and acquire
all that can be learned of dress, although they depend little upon
the 'aid of ornament.' They usually understand music and drawing.
They read a great deal. The society they meet is pure; not varnished
rottenness. Their habits are simple, and their tastes elegant.
They are without doubt the most fascinating women in the world; and
are sought in matrimony by city merchants and lawyers, who have
amassed fortunes, and begin to look about for some domestic comfort,
while the city miss, who is never in public without being absorbed
in her appearance, and dress, and walk, and who is always under the
restraint of some forced prettiness, as she thinks it, is suffered to
dash the years away in idleness and folly, till her nerves are worn
out, and her health and beauty gone, beyond the arts of paint; or she
marries very young, and soon fades, and is laid on the shelf; or she
devotes herself to living her life over again in her daughter, her
counterpart.
I soon found myself, in the society of this village, visiting every
day. I could not withstand the temptation. It was all novelty.
Such fine healthy countenances, open air, engaging conversation,
offered in every house, that from law I turned to love. Blessed
exchange!--from baron and femme, and contingent remainders, to ponder
over the unwritten poetry of beauty, and the silver-tongued voices of
young, imaginative maids, who treat you as if you were their brother,
the moment their parents show, by their deportment, that they have
confidence that you are a gentleman.
How seldom is this confidence abused by an American? Who ever heard
a case of seduction, in one of our country villages, among the
better classes of society--among equals? These accidents, which our
city-calendars register in the city, are mostly the handiwork of
foreigners. Gallantry, conjugal infidelity, is not a vice of good
society here, as in France or England. Men and women can be elegant,
and happy, and contented, without the excitement of intrigue, to give
a dash of romance to the career of a fine Lady Anybody, or bewitching
Sir Nobody.
I defy the nicest art to circumvent one of our American girls,
brought up as young ladies are brought up in our opulent country
villages. Her very innocence protects her. She will not understand
your passion, if it verges to freedom; think you drunk or crazy; any
thing, but serious in your wild words and looks, and escape from you
as soon as she can, and probably go and tell her mother, who will
take care you do not see her very often. And this shall all be done,
and brought about, and no fuss be made, either.
I happened to make the acquaintance here of a fine intelligent girl
of my own age--twenty. She had found out a good deal about the world
in books, and somewhat by observation in society. Her reading had
been of a peculiar cast. She had read Byron from top to bottom, Tom
Moore, all the novels and poetry she could get hold of; and, without
any method or direction, she had studied philosophy, moral and
natural, skimmed metaphysics and logic, and knew a little Latin, and
some French. When quite young, she was called a 'smart girl;' every
body prophesied she would be a wonder of intelligence and beauty;
and she was. Her person was as remarkable as her mind. Of the medium
stature in woman, with a form finely proportioned and graceful, you
forgot every thing else about her, when you encountered her large
black eyes, of uncommon depth of expression. This kind of eye is
rare, though we sometimes find it among the inhabitants of the South.
It seems as if it reached far back into the head, and contained the
means of looking into your own heart, while the beholder is at a loss
to fix its own expression. There is passion, love, self-possession,
indifference, anger, scorn, dwelling in it; either to be called
out in an instant, as the mind varies. Her complexion was a dark
brunette; her nose and lips were nicely formed, and her teeth even
and regular; her forehead very high and broad, set off majestically
by a profusion of hair as black as the raven's wing.
The first time I ever saw her, was one evening when I called at
her father's. In the movement that followed my entrance into the
room, her hair by accident or design fell and enveloped her whole
bust. Her dark eyes gleamed through its folds, and all her striking
charms were the more enhanced, when half concealed by such rich
drapery. I was taken by surprise. I had never seen such a woman. She
reminded me of something I had read of in eastern tales--houris of
paradise--something very lovely, and passionate, and devoted.
My imagination was inflamed, and I loved her upon the instant, and
did for years after; and now I cannot say but I feel some regrets
that fate should have parted us. But we never could have been happy
together as man and wife. She had no system of thinking or acting,
and I certainly had none, and never shall have. We were then, both,
the creatures of impulse, and perhaps it is better as it is. She was
much my superior in self-control. Equally acted on by impulse, I
yielded to the whim of the moment in conduct; she felt the desire,
but sustained herself, and her feelings preyed upon her happiness.
I very soon after this first meeting saw her at a ball. We danced and
walked together. She had the reputation of being a coquette, in the
village, and I was marked as the next victim to be offered, in the
minds of all present.