And what is it that lends this magic to so simple a music? — what is it but that which lends beauty to every thing — the fertile power of association? It is the connexion which subsists between it and the inward workings of the soul — the relation which it bears to the operations of life and of death, which renders it thus pleasing.
It is this principle of association which is the vivifying soul of matter, which gives interest and beauty to inanimate objects — which engages the soul through the medium of the senses — which is the spirit of poetry; — it is not the mere sentiment, conveyed by the words of the poet — it is the flood of sweet and gentle reminiscences which starts upon the reader, varied, as it must of necessity be, in different individuals, as their respective views, characters, situations, and mental organizations differ, from which is derived the highest pleasure of poetical compositions. I am not young; I am, indeed, approaching to the period when I shall cease to indite those dotings of age; but in these recurrences to the feelings of past days, consists my fondest pleasure — these, and a few other loved associations, linger in my memory, and shall sink with me to my peaceful bed.
It was a saying worthy of Pope, that he should not care to have an old stump pulled down which he had known in his childhood. I am deeply imbued, I might say saturated, with such feelings. I have a piece of an oak, which grew by the school where I was educated, and has long since fallen a prey to the axe of the spoiler. I remember, as well as I do any thing, the cutting down of the venerable tree; how we crowded about it, and how each busy discipulus was cutting off relics of their old-friend. The branches, which were left by the workmen as useless, were gathered up, and, in the evening, made into a bonfire; then, too, we had a feast, and we sat round the glowing embers, with every one his apple, his gingerbread, his nuts, and his glass of currant wine. Then tales of school heroism, and school mischief, were recounted; and still the wit became brighter as the fire decayed — the “mirth and fun grew fast and furious.” Ah! those were happy days.
I often visit this scene of my infant years; — the school is there, with the stone owl, with its goggle eyes, perched above it; there is the playground; the dark stone walls, with their soft and solemn brownness — but I will write an essay on the school and my school days: — there are many faces, too, but they are strange to me — those of my time, alas! where are they? — they are scattered over the world — those that survive, at least; there was Zouch; and C — , with his bright wit and clear judgment; and Phillips, with his lively sallies of good-humoured mirth; and dozens, whom I could mention. One of them I must mention; ’tis R — , the most singular, inoffensive mortal I ever met with. R — fell in love — a thing of common occurrence and slight moment with most men; but it was otherwise with him: his constitution was delicate, and his feelings sensitive beyond the conception of any but his intimates; to such a being, to love as he loved, was an exertion of energies almost alarming. He succeeded — the object of his adoration loved him — the day was fixed for their marriage — before it came, she died, and R —— — ‘s fond ties were broken. From that hour, all his time was spent in retracing the walks they had taken together. There was a rose tree, which she had planted, and R — watched over it with incessant care; for “he was the slave of sympathy.” I found it near him one day: he said to me— “You see that tree — I shall live as long as it; no longer!” He would not be persuaded that it was a mere whim of the imagination. Two months after this, he died. I passed through the garden — the tree was withered.
I am perfectly sensible not half my readers will believe this story. To those who do — who will look upon it as an instance of the strong power of the imagination over the mental and physical faculties — I relate this short notice of a gentle and innocent being. Poor R — ! it is an humble stone that covers his remains, in yonder church-yard: his name is unknown, save to a few, but by those it will be long honoured, loved, and wept over.
THE TEST OF AFFECTION.
— And therefore such was their post hast to be gone, and so great their feare in running awaye, that though to others they ran as harts, yeat to themselves they crept as snayles, thinking every threashoole a thicket, and every rish a ridge in their way.
WARNER’S SYRINX.
THE TEST OF AFFECTION.
Gardener. There you have it. He’s a fearful man. If I had as much learning as he, and I met the Ghost, I’d tell him his own. But, alack! what can one of us poor men do with a spirit, that can neither read nor write?
THE DRUMMER,
I AROSE early in the mornings and after taking a good breakfast, set out from home; I was furnished with an oaken cudgel, which I deemed might, towards the latter end of my journey, be useful. On the end of it was slung a small matter of provision, packed up in a handkerchief, and then hoisted over my left shoulder. A considerable quantity of rain had fallen in the night. It was, however, fair when I commenced my expedition, and I wished it so to remain; for it was no pleasure to anticipate a wet day, and a journey of thirty miles on foot before me.
The morning was still and beautiful; it was at the early hour of four; I could not yet distinguish the sun, though I was sensible he had left his ocean bed, from the beautiful streaks of colouring in the eastern sky. To express the softness, mildness, and calmness of the scenery, at that hour, I cannot find adequate words; those only can conceive it who have witnessed the same. I had not proceeded more than two miles, before a few drops alarmed me with apprehensions of a soaking shower from a heavy black cloud that was slowly sailing over my head, and my fears were soon realized by a very thick descent that followed, on which I betook myself with all speed to a thatched cottage, that I saw at some distance, for shelter. Its humble inhabitants were not yet risen, and the only shelter I could obtain, was that which the eaves of the dark brown thatch afforded. Partially screened, I there watched the progress of the shower, which alternately abated a little, then increased with redoubled fury, then slackened, until the dense cloud totally diminished; its heavy dark colour gradually changed to a livelier hue, the drops grew smaller, and fell at wider intervals, and the sun burst forth in all the glorious refulgence of unclouded splendour. I then pursued my journey; it was now lighter, and the feathered warblers were chanting melodiously among the dripping leaves and branches of the trees, and, flitting from spray to spray, seemed to rejoice at the approach of morning. I now and then met a solitary rustic just issuing from his cot, and hastening to his labour, which interrupted my meditations no longer than while I returned his friendly salutation. For two hours I proceeded on in this manner, when thinking it time for another breakfast, my former being pretty well digested, and my appetite being sharpened by the ‘caller air,’ I turned into a pot-house, hard by the way side, ‘keepit by Maggy Donaldson,’ noted for selling good auld Scotch drink, a tap o’ the right sort; a house where there had been many a good splore kicked up by the devotees of the above liquor. On entering, Patty, who had cleaned up the house, and who was now busy at the kirn, left her task, lowered the tone with which she was singing a song of Burns’, to attend to me — though while she placed an old three-legged worm-eaten oak table by the side of the settle, on which I had placed myself, and furnished it with a foaming jug of nut brown, I caught the following —
But warily tent, when you come to court me,
And come na unless the back yett be a jee,
Syne up the back stile and let naebody see,
And come as ye were nae cornin’ to me.
Oh whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad,
Oh whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad,
Tho’ father an’ mither an’ a’ should go mad,
Oh whistle and I’ll come to you, my lad.
At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flie,
But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me.’
Old Maggy, who sat by the ingle, with a pipe in
her mouth, now accosted me with “How far cam ye this morning, gude man?” When I had satisfied her in this particular, she inquired “where I was gaun:” and when I told her I was going to visit old Andrew Gillespie, my uncle, who was supposed to be near death, she broke out, “What, auld Andrew Gillespie, that dwells at Flinty Knowe, amang the muirs? Sure he’s nae ill; I should amaist greet up baith o’ my e’en if we were to lose him; there is nae a farrantlyer fallow in a’ the kintra, than honest auld Andrew Gillespie: I kent him lang syne, an’ a’ his kith an’ kin. He ne’er cam to the toun but he ca’t for a cog o’ my nappy, for he was a canty auld carl; shame fa’ the rogue that would injure him in word or deed; ana I hope the tale ye ha’ heard is na true, an that ye’ll find him hale an’ weel, an’ as canty as ever; but if ye are gaun to Andrew Gillespie’s the day, ye’ll find it a lang step till’t; an’ sae far’s I can see, ye’ll hae a wet day o’t.” I was much pleased with this eulogium on my relative, and I could have stayed with the auld hostess much longer very willingly, for I love auld Scotch songs anil Scotch tales, and auld Scotch drink, the one of which auld Maggy was well noted for singing, the other for telling, and the other for selling, but it was absolutely necessary I should proceed, which I did, after exhausting the last drops of the precious exhilarating nappy; gathering up the relics of my repast, and wishing my hostess a “gude mornin.”
Refreshed with my rest, I now travelled on with great vigour until another shower drove me for shelter into a blacksmith’s shed. After conversing awhile with honest Burnewin about the ‘wee dwarf Davie,’ or ‘canny Elshie,’ of Mucklestane Muir, who sat for his picture to the author of the popular novels, and seeing no signs of better weather, I again set forward.
Nothing further occurred on my journey for some time, nor was the scenery such as to tempt me to give a description of it. One reason, however, may be, I was anxious to arrive at my journey’s end, and the day was not such as would permit a minute examination of many a fine scene, my course of travel, I am sensible, displayed.
It was lowering dark, the whole atmosphere was loaded with immense watery clouds. The wind was wild and boisterous, and, with short intermissions, the rain descended in torrents, so that I was soon thoroughly drenched to the skin. I now stopped again for another refreshment, as I was arrived at the last inn before ascending the mountains, through which I had yet a long journey, and not one of the best roads. After leaving the inn, I began to ascend a very steep path, which led several miles through a wild range of heathy hills and barren moors; and while on this part of my journey, frequently these lines of Burns’ forcibly impressed my recollection; —
Admiring nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O’er many a winding dale, and painful steep,
Th’ abodes of covey’d grouse and timid sheep.
The scenery before me was majestic and sublime, not from extent of prospect, but the height of the black hills — the depth and gloominess of the valleys — the ruggedness, barrenness, and desert-like silence, — reigning all around. The whole country was rent and tossed into mountains sublime in barrenness, and that more particularly impressive under its present appearance; a thick mist or rain fog sat sullenly on the summit of every hill, and obscured, with its murky mantle, much of the heathy declivities..
The weather in a short time cleared up, and the sun broke out again in his meridian splendour; cheered with the aspect of the day, I quickened my pace, and soon gained the top of a hill, when I had a grand and extensive prospect of country before me for many miles.
Although in such haste to arrive at the end of my journey, I could not forbear stopping now and then to contemplate the charming scene, which was not, however, remarkable for fertility or luxuriant clothing; but chiefly for its bold outline, and natural though rather naked features. The cots of the peasantry were, in general, scattered at a good distance from each other, and defended in some degree from the rude mountain winds by a few trees, which towered high above the humble roof of faded thatch, and surrounded with the necessary appendages of a barn and byre. I proceeded on, and soon descended the steep hill. At the bottom was a small clachan or hamlet, containing a pothouse, where I devoured the remaining fragment of provision, and, after washing it down with another pot, again set forward with renewed vigour.
Crossing the narrow stone bridge at the extremity of the village, I entered a deep and most romantic glen, on the edge of which, at the distance of four miles, was the humble mansion of my uncle Andrew. The vale wound about in a serpentine direction, and from the various aspects of every turning point, which when at a distance it displayed, much was given for speculation as to the course it would take among the labyrinth of mountain vases, where other dells or glens opened from this. I, however, gained point after point, until I saw, with mingled sensations of pleasure and pain, the stepping stones over the brook, and the steep zigzag path by which I must leave the, valley. Passing through the little hamlet at, top, — mounting — another hill, — descending the other side of it, till I came to the level, — then clambering down another immense abyss, — gaining its opposite side, whence it was but a few fields length of a gentle ascent up to my uncle’s, I should cut my journey shorter a few furlongs. When I arrived at the hamlet, I inquired of a shepherd, the nearest way to the Flinty Knowe. “Ye maun gae back the gate ye cam again,” said he; “down the brae and ower the burn, an’ keep the left han’; an’ when ye are by th’ meikle stane, gae through the wee yett, and follow the burn till ye get to the mill, and then ye’ll be at the bottom of the Flinty Knowe.”
“Thank ye, friend,” replied I, “but I am nae for ganging that gate sae lang as I can fin’ a shorter way; ye ken there is a nearer way, gif ye wad tell. Come now, just show me the road.”
“Well,” answered he, “ye may gang through the stile, out o’er the ground, an’ by the thorn, an’ then ye’ll see it’s a thack house amang the trees, ye canna miss’t.”
“Thank ye,” said I, and away I went. In a quarter of an hour I found myself going up the field that led to the house, and a crowd of sensations rushed into my mind.
Many years had elapsed since I had wandered about this very meadow in careless infancy, and the pretty secluded cot to which I was advancing, had been my home. I looked around on the hills and dales, and could easily recognise them as my old acquaintance. “Ha!” said I, “ye change not your appearance; ye grow not old in the course of time; the feebleness of age cometh not upon you; ye still smile in the brightness of summer, and frown in the lowering winter. For ages you have reared your towering crests, and given food to the flocks and the herds that have chequered your dark surface; ye have given a direction to the murmuring brook that proceeds from you, till it seeks, far distant, the mighty ocean; and while generation after generation hath passed away, ye have preserved unvaried the features ye possessed in ages gone. Even now; as in years past, my eyes behold the still sunshine sleeping upon your gentle sloping declivities, interrupted only when the light cloud of spring for a moment casts over them its passing shadow.”
My cogitations were suddenly interrupted by the gate at the end of the pasture, which I opened. In another moment I was in the porch of the cottage; I lifted the latch, and went in. The house appeared just the same as I had left it ten years before. The furniture was the same, and each piece occupied the same position. The old clock stood ticking in the corner, as it had done for fourscore years; the oaken settee remained behind the door, and my uncle’s antique two-armed chair, by the fire-side; but I saw no living creature in the house, besides the cat on the hearthstone. I listened awhile, but could hear nothing. At this I rather wondered, as of yore, the house was seldom, scarcely ever, totally deserted. I then went forward into the spence, or country parlour, where I found several neighbours, cousins, and the servants, all standing, in deep silence, around the bed of my dying uncle.
It was plain that death was rapidly approaching. He had been speechless severa
l hours; consequently, we could hold no conversation. He, however, put out his hand, which I grasped with an affection redoubled by the prospect of soon losing him for ever. In my younger days I had lived with him, and he, having no children of his own, was then remarkably fond of me; subsequently that affection was strengthened between us, and, although providence had cast my lot in another country, yet we had kept up a friendly and affectionate intercourse. Some time previous to this indisposition, I had again removed to within thirty miles of his residence, which was the place from whence I set out on this sorrowful visit.
My uncle was a man of sound judgment, keen observation, and cheerful, social disposition, joined to a thorough knowledge of mankind, he possessed a good portion of eccentricity and humour. He loved a cheerful glass; he was kind to his servants and dependants, and though rather of a saving and frugal disposition, yet he was charitable to his poor neighbours. In his friendships he was rather capricious, but firm in his attachment to the kirk, and the government of his country. He was apt to be a little passionate and hasty in his temper; but his resentment, however, was seldom of long duration. On the whole, he was well beloved by those among whom he dwelt, and might be pronounced a good neighbour, and an excellent subject. By a long course of industry in his profession, he had amassed a pretty good property, the knowledge of which had drawn around him a host of needy relations, chiefly, however, consisting of nephews, who besieged him with flattery and professions, but whose attentions were chiefly drawn forth, by their hopes of inheriting the old man’s property: how he had willed that property, was not known. He was a man of prudence, and seldom blabbed out his private affairs, when there was no especial need of such promulgation.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 833