Chapter 11

From handling the workman's tools, a sudden transition to the constant use of the pen of the _litterateur_ is, under the most favourable circumstances, not to be desired. It was the lot of Hugh Miller to engage in an intermediate employment, and to acquire, in a manner peculiarly appropriate, that knowledge of business, and acquaintance with the transactions of life, which are so necessary to those who, through the medium of the press, seek to direct public opinion. Shortly after the publication of his "Scenes and Legends," a branch of the Commercial Bank was opened at Cromarty, and the accountantship was offered to him by the agent. Entering on the duties, after a short preliminary training in the Bank's offices at Edinburgh and Linlithgow, he subsequently added to his domestic comfort by uniting himself in marriage with Miss Lydia Fraser, a young lady of literary tastes, to whom he had for some time borne an attachment. His official emoluments amounted to nearly a hundred pounds a-year; these were considerably augmented by his contributing legendary tales for _The Tales of the Border_, and writing occasional articles to _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_. The _veto_ controversy was now extensively agitating the Established Church, and, having long supported the popular view, he at length resolved to come forward more conspicuously as the advocate of what he strongly regarded as the rights of the people. He embodied his sentiments in the shape of a letter to Lord Brougham, and, having transmitted his MS. to Mr Robert Paul, the manager of the Commercial Bank, it was by that gentleman submitted to Dr Candlish. Perceiving the consummate ability of the writer, that able divine not only urged the publication of his letter, but recommended his immediate nomination as the editor of the _Witness_ newspaper, which had just been projected by some of the Edinburgh clergy. The offer of the editorship was accordingly made, and, being accepted, the first number of the newspaper was, early in 1840, issued under his superintendence.

As a controversial writer, and the able exponent of his peculiar views of ecclesiastical polity, Hugh Miller at once attained a first rank among contemporary editors. Many persons who were unconcerned about the Scottish Church question, or by whom his sentiments on that subject were disapproved, could not withhold an expressed admiration of the singular power with which his views were supported, and of the classic style in which they were conveyed. For some years prior to undertaking the editorship, he had devoted much of his spare time to the preparation of a geological work; and he now, in the columns of his newspaper, in a series of chapters, presented to the public that valuable contribution to geological science, since so well known as his work on "The Old Red Sandstone." To the scientific world, by opening up the fossil treasures of a formation hitherto understood to be peculiarly destitute of organic remains, this publication claimed an especial interest, which was enhanced by the elegance of the diction. His subsequent publications fully sustained his fame. A work on the physical and social aspects of the sister kingdom, entitled "First Impressions of England and its People," was followed by "The Footprints of the Creator," the latter being a powerful reply to the work entitled "Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation." In 1854 he published a most interesting narrative of his early struggles and experiences, with the title, "My Schools and Schoolmasters." "The Testimony of the Rocks," a work on which he bestowed intense labour, and which may be regarded as his masterpiece, was published in March 1857, about three months subsequent to his demise; but all the sheets had undergone his final revision.

For some years his health had been declining; in early manhood he suffered severely from a pulmonary affection, known as the "mason's disease," and he never thoroughly recovered. A singular apprehension of personal danger, inconsistent with the general manliness of his character, induced him for many years never to go abroad without fire-arms. He studied with pertinacious constancy, seldom enjoying the salutary relaxations of society. He complained latterly that his sleep was distracted by unpleasant dreams, while he was otherwise a prey to painful delusions. The eye of affection discovered that the system had been overtaxed; but eminent medical counsel deemed that cessation from literary toil would produce an effectual cure. The case was much more serious; a noble intellect was on the very brink of ruin. On the night of the 24th December 1856, he retired to rest sooner than was his usual, as the physician had prescribed. With redoubled vehemence he had experienced the distractions of disordered reason; he rose in a frenzy from his bed, and, having written a short affectionate letter to his wife, pointed his revolver pistol to his breast. He fired in the region of the heart, and his death must have been instantaneous. The melancholy event took place in his residence of Shrub Mount, Portobello, and his remains now rest in the Grange Cemetery, Edinburgh. As a geologist it is not our province to pronounce his eulogy; he was one of the most elegant and powerful prose-writers of the century, and he has some claims, as the following specimens attest, to a place among the national poets.

SISTER JEANIE, HASTE, WE 'LL GO.[11]

Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go To where the white-starr'd gowans grow, Wi' the puddock-flower, o' gowden hue, The snawdrap white, and the bonnie vi'let blue.

Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go To where the blossom'd lilacs grow, To where the pine-tree, dark an' high, Is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky.

Jeanie, mony a merry lay Is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day; Flits on light wing the dragon-flee, And hums on the flowerie the big red bee.

Down the burnie wirks its way Aneath the bending birken spray, An' wimples roun' the green moss-stane, An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane.

Jeanie, come! thy days o' play Wi' autumn tide shall pass away; Sune shall these scenes, in darkness cast, Be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast.

Though to thee a spring shall rise, An' scenes as fair salute thine eyes; An' though, through many a cloudless day, My winsome Jean shall be heartsome and gay;

He wha grasps thy little hand Nae langer at thy side shall stand, Nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae Lead thee the lounnest an' the bonniest way.

Dost thou see yon yard sae green, Speckled wi' mony a mossy stane? A few short weeks o' pain shall fly, An' asleep in that bed shall thy puir brother lie.

Then thy mither's tears awhile May chide thy joy an' damp thy smile; But soon ilk grief shall wear awa', And I 'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'.

Dinna think the thought is sad; Life vex'd me aft, but this maks glad; When cauld my heart and closed my e'e, Bonnie shall the dreams o' my slumbers be.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] These verses were composed when the author was suffering from a severe pulmonary complaint which he feared would bring him to an early grave. They were addressed to his sister, a girl of five years, who at this period was his companion in his walks.

OH, SOFTLY SIGHS THE WESTLIN' BREEZE.

Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze Through floweries pearl'd wi' dew; An' brightly lemes the gowden sky, That skirts the mountain blue. An' sweet the birken trees amang, Swells many a blithesome lay; An' loud the bratlin burnie's voice Comes soundin' up the brae.

But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' spring Can glad my wearied e'e; Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom Gies ought o' joy to me. Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers, An' sad the mavis sang, An' little heart hae I to roam These leafy groves amang.

She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid! An' wae o'erpress'd I pine; The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave! Ah! ance I ca'd her mine. What ither choice does fate afford, Than just to mourn and dee, Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky, The beam that bless'd my e'e?

At gloamin' hour alang the burn, Alane she lo'ed to stray, To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom, An' haw-flower purple gray. Their siller leaves the willows waved As pass'd that maiden by; An' sweeter burst the burdies' sang Frae poplar straight an' high.

Fu' aften have I watch'd at e'en These birken trees amang, To bless the bonnie face that turn'd To where the mavis sang; An' aft I 've cross'd that grassy path, To catch my Myra's e'e; Oh, soon this winding dell became A blissful haunt to me.

Nae mair a wasting form within, A wretched heart I bore; Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone, The warl' I wander'd o'er. Not then like now my life was wae, Not then this heart repined, Nor aught of coming ill I thought, Nor sigh'd to look behind.

Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray, An' warm'd wi' minstrel fire, Th' expected meed that maiden's smile, I strung my rustic lyre. That lyre a pitying Muse had given To me, for, wrought wi' toil, She bade, wi' its simple tones, The weary hours beguile.

Lang had it been my secret pride, Though nane its strains might hear; For ne'er till then trembled its chords To woo a list'ning ear. The forest echoes to its voice Fu' sad, had aft complain'd, Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain, Murmur'd the midnight wind.

Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praised The wild and artless strain; In pride I strung my lyre anew, An' waked its chords again. The sound was sad, the sparkling tear Arose in Myra's e'e, An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap, Than a' the warl' could gie.

To wean the heart frae warldly grief, Frae warldly moil an' care, Could maiden smile a lovelier smile, Or drap a tend'rer tear? But now she 's gane,--dark, dark an' drear, Her lang, lang sleep maun be; But, ah! mair drear the years o' life That still remain to me!

Whan o'er the raging ocean wave The gloom o' night is spread, If lemes the twinkling beacon-light, The sailor's heart is glad; In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm, If sinks the waning ray, Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul, O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae.

ALEXANDER MACANSH.

The author of "The Social Curse, and other Poems," Alexander Macansh, was born at Dunfermline in 1803. At the age of eleven apprenticed to a flaxdresser, he followed this occupation during a period of thirty-eight years, of which the greater portion was spent in Harribrae factory, in his native town. During the intervals of his occupation, which demanded his attention about fourteen hours daily, he contrived to become familiar with British and continental authors, and with the more esteemed Latin classics. He likewise formed an intimate acquaintance with mathematical science. Of decided poetical tastes, he contributed verses to _Tait's Magazine_, the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, and the _Scotsman_ newspaper. In 1850, he published, by subscription, his volume of poems, entitled "The Social Curse, and other Poems," which has secured him a local reputation. Continuing to reside in Dunfermline, he has, for several years, possessed a literary connexion with some of the provincial newspapers, and has delivered lectures on science to the district institutions. To Mr Joseph Paton, of Dunfermline, so well known for his antiquarian pursuits, he has been indebted for generous support and kindly encouragement. Mr Macansh labours under severe physical debility.

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

The mother, with her blooming child, Sat by the river pool, Deep in whose waters lay the sky, So stilly beautiful. She held her babe aloft, to see Its infant image look Up joyous, laughing, leaping from The bosom of the brook.

And as it gazed upon the stream, The wondering infant smiled, And stretched its little hands, and tried To clasp the shadow'd child, Which, in that silent underwold, With eager gesture strove To meet it with a brother-kiss, A brother-clasp of love.

Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, ('Twas thus the mother sung;) The shrew, Experience, has not yet With envious gesture flung Aside the enchanted veil which hides Life's pale and dreary look; An angel lurks in every stream, A heaven in every brook.

Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, Ere drop the tears of woe Upon that mirror, scattering all Those glorious shapes, and show A fleeting shadow, which thou think'st An angel, breathing, living-- A shallow pebbly brook which thou Hast fondly deem'd a heaven.

CHANGE.

Change! change! the mournful story Of all that 's been before; The wrecks of perish'd glory Bestrewing every shore: The shatter'd tower and palace, In every vale and glen, In broken language tell us Of the fleeting power of men.

Change! change! the plough is sweeping O'er some scene of household mirth, The sickle hand is reaping O'er some ancient rural hearth-- Where the mother and the daughter In the evenings used to spin, And where little feet went patter, Full often out and in.

Change! change! for all things human, Thrones, powers of amplest wing, Have their flight, and fall in common With the meanest mortal thing-- With beauty, love, and passion, With all of earthly trust, With life's tiniest wavelet dashing, Curling, breaking into dust.

Where arose in marble grandeur The wall'd cities of the past, The sullen winds now wander O'er a ruin-mounded waste. Low lies each lofty column; The owl in silence wings O'er floors, where, slow and solemn, Paced the sandal'd feet of kings.

Still change! Go thou and view it, All desolately sunk, The circle of the Druid, The cloister of the monk; The abbey boled and squalid, With its bush-maned, staggering wall; Ask by whom these were unhallow'd-- Change, change hath done it all.

THE TOMB OF THE BRUCE.

Yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes O'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base, O'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes, Of the noblest, the bravest, of Scotia's race. How hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying, Embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews, The lamb watching over the sleep of the lion, Religion enthroned on the tomb of the Bruce!

Far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him, Than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile, And sterner the music that storm'd around him, Than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle, When his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending, And, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose, His rough-footed warriors, to battle descending, Peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of Bruce.

I hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming-- Let our country be free, or with freedom expire; I see him again, with his great sword o'erflaming The plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire. Still onward it blazes, that red constellation, In its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce: Oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nation From shackles and chains, was the sword of the Bruce.

But now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunder Of battle to him is now silent and o'er, And the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder, Shall gleam in the vanguard of Scotland no more. Yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled, Though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse, Can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world-- Can freemen be mute at the Tomb of the Bruce?

JAMES PRINGLE.

James Pringle was born in the parish of Collessie, Fifeshire, on the 11th December 1803. At the parochial school of Kettle having received an ordinary education, he was in his seventeenth year apprenticed to a mill-wright. For many years he has prosecuted this occupation in the district of his nativity. His present residence is in the Den of Lindores, in the parish of Abdie. From his youth he has cherished an enthusiastic love of poetry, and composed verses. In 1853, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled "Poems and Songs on Various Subjects."

THE PLOUGHMAN.

Blithe be the mind of the ploughman, Unruffled by passion or guile; And fair be the face of the woman Who blesses his love with a smile.

His clothing, though russet and homely, With royalty's robe may compare; His cottage, though simple, is comely, For peace and contentment are there.

Let monarchs exult in their splendour, When courtiers obsequiously bow; But are not their greatness and grandeur Sustain'd by the toils of the plough?

The soldier may glory discover In havock which warfare hath made; For the shout of his fame rises over The vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead.

Though pride, in her trappings so dainty, May sneer with contemptuous air; Fertility, pleasure, and plenty, Still follow the track of the share.

And long may the heart of the ploughman In virtue and vigour beat high; His calling, though simple and common, Our wants and our comforts supply.

WILLIAM ANDERSON.

William Anderson, an accomplished biographical and genealogical writer, and author of "Landscape Lyrics," a volume of descriptive poetry, was born at Edinburgh on the 10th December 1805. His father, James Anderson, supervisor of Excise at Oban, Argyleshire, died there in 1812. His mother was the daughter of John Williams, author of "The Mineral Kingdom," a work much valued by geologists. His brother, Mr John Anderson, surgeon, Royal Lanarkshire Militia, was the author of the "Historical and Genealogical Memoirs of the House of Hamilton."

Mr Anderson received his education at Edinburgh, and in 1820 was apprenticed to a merchant in Leith; but not liking the employment, he was afterwards placed in the office of a writer in Edinburgh, with the view of studying the law. Having a strong bent towards literature, he began to write poetry, and in 1828 became a regular contributor to the press. In 1830 he published a volume of poems designated, "Poetical Aspirations," and soon after issued a thin volume of prose and verse, entitled, "Odd Sketches." Proceeding to London in 1831, he formed the acquaintance of Maginn, Allan Cunningham, and other eminent men of letters. Towards the close of that year he joined the _Aberdeen Journal_, and in 1835 edited for a short time the _Advertiser_, another newspaper published in that city. He returned to London in 1836, and resided there for several years, contributing to different periodicals. His "Landscape Lyrics" appeared in 1839, in a quarto volume. In 1840 he commenced writing the lives of distinguished Scotsmen, and the result of his researches appeared in 1842, in a valuable work, entitled, "The Popular Scottish Biography." Previous to the appearance of this volume, he published at London, "The Gift for All Seasons," an annual, which contained contributions from Campbell, Sheridan Knowles, the Countess of Blessington, Miss Pardoe, and other writers of reputation. In 1842 he returned to Scotland, to edit _The Western Watchman_, a weekly journal published at Ayr. In 1844 he became connected with the _Witness_ newspaper; but in the following year removed to Glasgow, to assist in the establishment of the first Scottish daily newspaper. With that journal, the _Daily Mail_, he continued two years, till severe nocturnal labour much affecting his health, obliged him temporarily to abandon literary pursuits. He has been a contributor to _Tait's Magazine_, and was intrusted with the literary superintendence of Major De Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations and Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," a work to which he contributed several poems. He has edited Lord Byron's works, in two octavo volumes, with numerous notes, and a copious Memoir of the poet. Besides a number of smaller works, he is the editor of five volumes, forming a series, entitled, "Treasury of Discovery, Enterprise, and Adventure;" "Treasury of the Animal World;" "Treasury of Ceremonies, Manners, and Customs;" "Treasury of Nature, Science, and Art;" and "Treasury of History and Biography." "The Young Voyager," a poem descriptive of the search after Franklin, with illustrations, intended for children, appeared in 1855. He contributed the greater number of the biographical notices of Scotsmen inserted in "The Men of the Time" for 1856. A large and important national work, devoted to the biography, history, and antiquities of Scotland, has engaged his attention for some years, and is in a forward state for publication.

As a writer of verses, Mr Anderson is possessed of considerable power of fancy, and a correct taste. His song, beginning "I'm naebody noo," has been translated into the German language.

WOODLAND SONG.

Will you go to the woodlands with me, with me, Will you go to the woodlands with me-- When the sun 's on the hill, and all nature is still, Save the sound of the far dashing sea?

For I love to lie lone on the hill, on the hill, I love to lie lone on the hill, When earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie, And all nature around me is still.

Then my fancy is ever awake, awake, My fancy is never asleep; Like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake, Like a ship far away on the deep.

And I love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie; I love 'neath the green boughs to lie; And see far above, like the smiling of love, A glimpse now and then of the sky.

When the hum of the forest I hear, I hear, When the hum of the forest I hear,-- 'Tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there, And its breathings I ever revere.

I kneel myself down on the sod, the sod, I kneel myself down on the sod, 'Mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breathe In lowliness up to my God.

Then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind, Then peace doth descend on my mind; And I gain greater scope to my spirit and hope, For both then become more refined.

Oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be, My spirit shall never repine, If a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea, If the hum of the forest be mine.

THE WELLS O' WEARY.

Down in the valley lone, Far in the wild wood, Bubble forth springs, each one Weeping like childhood; Bright on their rushy banks, Like joys among sadness, Little flowers bloom in ranks-- Glimpses of gladness.

Sweet 'tis to wander forth, Like pilgrims at even; Lifting our souls from earth To fix them on Heaven; Then in our transport deep, This world forsaking: Sleeping as angels sleep, Mortals awaking!

I 'M NAEBODY NOO.

I 'm naebody noo; though in days that are gane, When I 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain, Ther war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise-- And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!

Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang, Wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang, Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee; But, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me!