Recollections of a Lifetime, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (New York & Auburn: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856)

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LETTER XXXVIII.

My first Voyage across the Atlantic--England--London--My Tour on the Continent--Return to England--Visit to Barley Wood--Hannah More--Inquiries as to Books for Education--Ireland--Dublin--The Giant's Causeway--Scotland--Scenery of the Lady of the Lake--Glasgow--Edinburgh.

My dear C******

It was, as I have already told you, on the 16th of November, 1823, that I set sail in the Canada, Captain Macy, on my first visit to Europe. I have now before me four volumes of notes made during my tour; but be not alarmed--I shall not inflict them upon you. I might, perhaps, have ventured to publish them when they were fresh, but since that period the world has been inundated with tales of travels. I shall therefore only give you a rapid outline of my adventures, and a few sketches of men and things, which may perchance interest you.

Our voyage was--as usual at that season of the year--tempestuous. As we approached the British Islands, we were beset by a regular hurricane. On the 5th of December, the captain kindly informed us that we were almost precisely in the situation of the Albion,* the day before she was wrecked on the rocky

headland of Kinsale--at the southeast extremity of Ireland--an event which had spread general gloom throughout the United States. As night set in, we were struck with a squall, and with difficulty the vessel was brought round, so as to lie to. The storm was fearful, and the frequent concussions of the waves upon the ship, sounding like reports of artillery, made her reel and stagger like a drunken man. The morning came at last, and the weather was fair, but our deck was swept of its boats, bulwarks, and hen-coops. Our old cow in her hovel, the covering of the steerage, and that of the companion-way, were saved. We had, however, some gratis sea-bathing in our berths--terribly suggestive of the chill temperature of that abyss which might soon be our grave. The next morning we took a pilot, and on the 8th of December entered the dock at Liverpool.

As this was my first experience at sea, I beg you to forgive this brief description. I had suffered fearfully by sea-sickness, and had scarce strength to walk

ashore. I felt such horror--such disgust of the sea, that I could easily have pledged myself never to venture upon it again. Strange to say, this all passed away like a dream: my strength revived, and even my constitution, shattered by long suffering, seemed to be renovated. With the return of health and spirits, my journey to London seemed like a triumphal march. Though it was December, the landscape was intensely green, while the atmosphere was dark as twilight. The canopy of heaven seemed to have come half way down, as if the sky had actually begun to fall. Yet this was England! Oh, what emotions filled my breast as I looked on Kenilworth, Warwick, and Litchfield, and at last on London!

I remained at the latter place about a month, and then went to Paris. In April I departed, and visiting Switzerland, and a portion of Germany, followed the Rhine to Cologne. Thence I traveled through Flanders and Holland, and taking a sloop at Rotterdam, swung down the Maese, and in May reached London, by way of the Thames.

I soon after departed for Bristol--taking the renowned cathedral at Salisbury and the Druidical ruin of Stonehenge in my way. Having reached that city and seen its sights, I hired a post-coach, and went to Barley-wood--some ten miles distant. Hannah More was still there! The house consisted of a small thatched edifice--half cottage and half villa--tidily kept, and garnished with vines and trellices, giving it a

cheerful and even tasteful appearance. Its site was on a gentle hill, sloping to the southeast, and commanding a charming view over the undulating country around, including the adjacent village of Wrington, with a wide valley sloping to the Bay of Bristol--the latter sparkling in the distance, and bounded by the Welch mountains, in the far horizon. Behind the house, and on the crown of the hill, was a small copse, threaded with neat gravel walks, and at particular points embellished with objects of interest. In one place there was a little rustic temple, with this motto--Audi Hospes, contemnere opes; in another, there was a stone monument, erected to the memory of Bishop Porteus, who had been a particular friend of the proprietor of the place. A little further on, I found another monument, with this inscription: "To John Locke, born in this village, this monument is erected by Mrs. Montague, and presented to Hannah More." From this sequestered spot, an artificial opening was cut through the foliage of the trees, giving a view of the very house--about a mile distant--in which Locke was born! In another place was a small temple built, of roots, which might have served for the shrine of some untamed race of Dryads.

Mrs. More was now seventy-nine years of age,* and

was very infirm, having kept her room for two years. She was small, and wasted away. Her attire was of dark-red bombazine, made loose like a dressing-gown. Her eyes were black and penetrating, her face glowing with cheerfulness, through a lace-work of wrinkles. Her head-dress was a modification of the coiffure of her earlier days--the hair being slightly frizzed, and lightly powdered, yet the whole group of moderate dimensions.

She received me with great cordiality, and learning that I was from Hartford, immediately inquired about Mrs. Sigourney, Mr. Gallaudet, and Alice Coggswell: of the latter she spoke with great interest. She mentioned several Americans who had visited her, and others with whom she had held correspondence. Her mind and feelings were alive to every subject that was suggested. She spoke very freely of her writings and her career. I told her of the interest I had taken, when a child, in the story of the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain, upon which she recounted its history, remarking that the character of the hero was modeled from life, though the incidents were fictitious. Her tract, called "Village Politics, by Will Chip," was written at the request of the British Ministry,

and two million copies were sold the first year. She showed me copies of Cœlebs in Search of a Wife--the most successful of her works--in French and German, and a copy of one of her sacred dramas--"Moses in the Bullrushes"--on palm-leaves, in the Cingalese tongue--it having been translated into that language by the missionary school at Ceylon. She showed me also the knife with which the leaf had been prepared, and the scratches made in it to receive the ink. She expressed a warm interest in America, and stated that Wilberforce had always exerted himself to establish and maintain good relations between Great Britain and our country. I suggested to her that in the United States, the general impression--that of the great mass of the people--was that the English were unfriendly to us. She said it was not so. I replied that the Americans all read the English newspapers, and generally, the products of the British press; that feelings of dislike, disgust, animosity, certainly pervaded most of these publications, and it was natural to suppose that these were the reflections of public opinion in Great Britain. At all events, our people regarded them as such, and hence inferred that England was our enemy. She expressed great regret at this state of things, and said all good people should strive to keep peace between the two countries: to all which I warmly assented.

My interview with, this excellent lady was, on the whole, most gratifying. Regarding her as one of the

greatest benefactors of the age--as, indeed, one of the most remarkable women that had ever lived--I looked upon her not only with veneration but affection. She was one of the chief instruments by which the torrent of vice and licentiousness, emanating from the French Revolution and inundating the British Islands, was checked and driven back: she was even, to a great extent, the permanent reformer of British morals and manners, as well among the high as the humble. And besides, I felt that I owed her a special debt, and my visit to her was almost like a pilgrimage to the shrine of a divinity. When I left America, I had it in mind to render my travels subservient to a desire I had long entertained of making a reform--or at least an improvement--in books for youth. I had made researches in London, France, and Germany, for works that might aid my design. It is true I had little success, for while scientific and classical education was sedulously encouraged on the continent as well as in England, it seemed to be thought, either that popular education was not a subject worthy of attention, or that Dilworth and Mother Goose had done all that could be done. In this interview with the most successful and most efficient teacher of the age, I had the subject still in mind; and discerning by what she had accomplished, the vast field that was open, and actually inviting cultivation, I began from this time to think of attempting to realize the project I bad formed. It is true that, in some respects, the

example I had just contemplated was different from my own scheme. Hannah More had written chiefly for the grown-up masses; I had it in contemplation to begin further back--with the children. Her means, however, seemed adapted to my purpose: her success, to encourage my attempt. She had discovered that truth could be made attractive to simple minds. Fiction was, indeed, often her vehicle, but it was not her end. The great charm of these works which had captivated the million, was their verisimilitude. Was there not, then, a natural relish for truth in all minds, or at least was there not a way of presenting it, which made it even more interesting than romance? Did not children love truth? If so, was it necessary to feed them on fiction? Could not history, natural history, geography, biography, become the elements of juvenile works, in place of fairies and giants, and mere monsters of the imagination? These were the inquiries that from this time filled my mind.

Taking leave of Barley-wood and its interesting occupant, I traversed Wales, and embarking at Holyhead, passed over to Ireland. Having seen Dublin, with the extraordinary contrasts of sumptuousness in some of its streets and edifices, with the fearful squalidness and poverty in others--I passed on to the North. Having taken a wondering view of the Giants' Causeway, I returned to Belfast, embarked in a steamboat, and went over to Greenock. Thence I proceeded

toward Dumbarton, and in the early evening, as I approached the town in a small steamer, I actually realized, in the distance before me, the scene of the song--

"The sun has gone down behind lofty Ben Lomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene."

On the morrow I went to Loch Lomond, crossing the lake in a steamboat; thence on foot to Callender, and spent two days around scenery of the Lady of the Lake. With a copy of that poem in my hand, which I had bought of a peasant on the borders of Loch Lomond, I easily traced out the principal landmarks of the story: "Ellen's Isle," nearly in the middle of the lake; on the northern shore, "the Silver Strand," where the maiden met Fitz James; far to the east, Benain, rearing its "forehead fair" to the sky; to the south, the rocky pyramid called "Roderick's Watch-tower;" and still beyond, the "Goblin's Cave." Leaving the lake, I passed through the Trosachs, a wild rocky glen, and the scene of the most startling events in the poem. At last I came to Coilantogle Ford, where the deadly struggle took place between the two heroes of the poem--Roderick and Fitz James. Finally, I went to the borders of Loch Achray--a placid sheet of water--beautiful by nature, but still more enchanting through the delightful associations of poetic art.

"The minstrel came once more to view
The eastern ridge of Benvenue,

For ere he parted he would say,
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray.
Where shall he find, in foreign land,
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!"

But I must forbear. I have pledged myself not to weary you with descriptions of scenery, and especially with that which is familiar to you in twenty books of travels. Forgive me this instance of weakness, and I will try not to sin again--at least till I get out of Scotland. Having spent two days in this region, of poetry and romance, I left for Glasgow, and at last reached Edinburgh.

---+---

LETTER XXXIX.

Edinburgh--The Court of Sessions--Cranstoun, Cockburn, Moncrief-- Lockhart--Jeffrey--Sir Walter Scott.

My dear C******

Think of being in Edinburgh, and Scott, Jeffrey, Chalmers, Dugald Stuart, Lockhart, there! It was then decidedly the literary metropolis of the Three Kingdoms--not through the amount of its productions, but their superiority. The eloquent, sparkling, trenchant Edinburgh Review was the type of Scottish genius; the heavy Quarterly represented London. I had several letters of introduction--among

them one to Blackwood, another to Constable, another to Miss Y.... The latter proved fortunate. Her father was a Writer to the Signet--an elderly gentleman of excellent position, and exceedingly fond of showing off "Auld Reekie." Well indeed might he be, for of all the cities I have seen, it is, in many respects, the most interesting. I am told it is gloomy in winter, but now it was the zenith of spring. The twilight did not wholly disappear till twelve, and the dawn was visible at one. If nature, in these high latitudes, falls into a harsh and savage humor in winter, it makes ample amends in summer.

The very day after delivering my letters, Mr. Y.... called on me, and showed me the lions of the town. Many of them, all indeed, were interesting, but I pass them by, and shall only linger a short time at the Court of Sessions, which is the supreme civil court of Scotland. This, with the High Court of Justitiary--the supreme criminal court--forms the College of Justice, and constitutes the supreme judicial system of Scotland. Their sessions are held in the old Parliament House, situated in the center of the Old Town.

We entered a large Gothic hall, opening, as I observed, into various contiguous apartments. Here I saw a considerable number of persons, mostly lawyers and their clients--some sauntering, some meditating--some gathered in groups and conversing together. I noticed that many of the former, and

more especially the older members of the bar, wore gowns and wigs; others wore gowns only, and still others were in the ordinary dress. I afterward was told that it was wholly at the option of individuals to adopt this costume, or not; in general, it was regarded as going out of fashion. There was a large number of people distributed through the several apartments, and in the grand hall there was a pervading hum of voices which seemed to rise and rumble and die away amid the groinings of the roof above.

Among the persons in this hall, a man some thirty years of age, tall and handsome, dressed in a gown but without the wig, attracted my particular attention. He was walking apart, and there was a certain look of coldness and haughtiness about him. Nevertheless, for some undefinable reason, he excited in me a lively curiosity. I observed that his eye was dark and keen, his hair nearly black, and though cut short, slightly curled. He carried his head erect, its largely developed corners behind, giving him an air of self-appreciation. His features were small, but sharply defined; his lips were close, and slightly disdainful and sarcastic in their expression.

There was a striking combination of energy and elegance in the general aspect of this person; yet over all, I must repeat, there was something also of coldness and pride. Upon his face, expressive of vigor and activity--mental and physical--there was a visible tinge of discontent.

"Who is that gentleman?" said I, to my guide.

"That large, noble-looking person, with a gown and wig? That is Cranstoun, one of our first lawyers, and the brother-in-law of Dugald Stuart."

"No: that person beyond and to the left? He is without a wig."

"Oh, that's Cockburn--a fiery whig, and one of the keenest fellows we have at the bar."

"Yes: but I mean that younger person, near the corner."

"Oh, that small, red-faced, freckled man? Why that's Moncrief--a very sound lawyer. His father, Sir Harry Moncrief, is one of the most celebrated divines in Scotland."

"No, no: it is that tall, handsome, proud-looking person, walking by himself."

" Oh, I see: that's Lockhart--Sir Walter Scott's son-in-law. Would you like to know him?"

"Yes."

And so I was introduced to a man* who, at that time, was hardly less an object of interest to me than

Scott himself. Though a lawyer by profession, he devoted himself to literature, and was now in the height of his career. "Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk," "Valerius," and other works, had given him a prominent rank as a man of talent; and besides, in 1820, he had married the eldest daughter of the "Great Unknown." My conversation with him was brief at this time, but I afterward became well acquainted with him.

My guide now led me into one of side- rooms, where I saw a judge and jury, and a lawyer addressing them. The latter was a very small man, without gown or wig, apparently forty years of age, though he might be somewhat older. He was of dark complexion, with an eye of intense blackness, and almost painfully piercing expression. His motions were quick and energetic, his voice sharp and penetrating--his general aspect exciting curiosity rather than affection. He was speaking energetically, and, as we approached the bar, my conductor said to me in a whisper--"Jeffrey!"

We paused, and I listened intently. The case in itself seemed dry enough--something, I believe, about a stoppage in transitu. But Jeffrey's pleading was admirable--clear, progressive, logical. Occasionally, in fixing upon a weak point of his adversary, he displayed a leopard-like spring of energy, altogether startling. He seized upon a certain point in the history of the case, and insisted that the property in question rested

at that period in the hands of the defendant's agent, for at least a fortnight. This he claimed to be fatal to his adversary's plea. Having stated the facts, with a clearness which seemed to prove them, he said, turning with startling quickness upon his antagonist--"Now, I ask my learned brother to tell me, what was the state of the soul during that fortnight?" To a jury of Scotch Presbyterians, familiar with theological metaphysics, this allusion was exceedingly pertinent and effective.

We passed into another room. Three full-wigged judges were seated upon a lofty bench, and beneath them, at a little table in front, was a large man, bent down and writing laboriously. As I approached, I caught a side-view of his face. There was no mistaking him--it was Sir Walter himself!

Was it not curious to see the most renowned personage in the three kingdoms, sitting at the very feet of these men--they the court, and he the clerk? They were indeed all "lords," and their individual names were suggestive to the ear: one was Robertson, son of the historian of Charles V.; another was Gillies, brother of the renowned Grecian scholar of that name; another, Mackenzie, son of the author of the Man of Feeling. These are high titles--but what were they to the author of Waverley?

Mr. Y.... introduced me to him at once, breaking in upon his occupation with easy familiarity. As he arose from his seat, I was surprised at his robust, vig-

orous frame. He was very nearly six feet in height, full chested, and of a farmer-like aspect. His complexion seemed to have been originally sandy, but now his hair was gray. He had the rough, freckled, weather-beaten skin of a man who is much in the open air; his eye was small and gray, and peered out keenly and inquisitively from beneath, a heavy brow, edged with something like gray, twisted bristles--the whole expression of his face, however, being exceedingly agreeable. He wore a gown, but no wig. It would have been a sin to have covered up that wonderful head, towering, as we have all seen it in his portraits--the throne of the richest intellect in the world.*

He greeted me kindly--the tone of his voice being hearty, yet with a very decided Scotch accent. I told him I had been to the Highlands. "It is a little too early," said he; "I always wish my friends to wait till the middle of June, for then the ash is in its glory. Here in the north, summer, as you know, is a laggard. In America it visits you in better season?"

"I am from New England, and our forests are not in full leaf till June."

-----

Sir Walter Scott, as Clerk of the Court of Sessions. Vol 2, p. 176.

"Yes, your climate there is somewhat like ours. Are you from Boston?"

"I am from Hartford, in Connecticut--of which you have perhaps never heard."

"My American geography is not very minute; yet Connecticut is a familiar name to my ear. Do you know Mr. Irving?"

"I have never seen him but once."

"Mr. Cooper?"

"Yes, I know him well."

"Do you stay long in Edinburgh?"

"A few weeks."

"We shall meet again, then, and talk these matters over."

So I had seen the author of Waverley! I leave you to guess my emotions, for I could not describe them.

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LETTER XL.

Preparations for a Ride--Mr. Jeffrey in a Rough-and-tumble--A Glance at Edinburgh from the Braid Hills--A Shower--The Maids of the Mist--Durable Impressions.

My dear C******

I found a note--May 31st--at my hotel, from Miss Y...., inviting me to breakfast. I went at ten, and we had a pleasant chat. She then proposed a ride, and I accepted. She was already in her riding-habit,

and putting on a hat and collar--both of rather masculine gender, yet not uncomely--we went forth. We were in Queen-street, No. 48; passing along a short distance, we turned a corner to the left, mounted the steps of a fine house, and rang. We entered, and I was introduced to the proprietor, Mrs. Russell. She led us into another room, and there, on the floor, in a romp with her two boys, was a small, dark man. He arose, and behold, it was Francis Jeffrey!* Think of the first lawyer in Scotland--the lawgiver of the great Republic of Letters throughout Christendom--having a rough-and-tumble on the floor, as if he were himself a boy! Let others think as they will--I loved him from that moment; and ever after, as I read his criticisms--cutting and scorching as they often were--I fancied that I could still see a kind and genial spirit shining through them all. At least it is certain that, behind his editorial causticity, there was in private life a fund of gentleness and geniality

which endeared him to all who enjoyed his intimacy. I was now introduced to him, and he seemed a totally different being from the fierce and fiery gladiator of the legal arena, where I had before seen him. His manners were gentle and gentlemanly--polite to the ladies and gracious to me.

Jeffrey's house was some two miles from town. His custom was to come to the city on horseback--and Mrs. Russell being his friend, he frequently stopped at her house, leaving his horse in her stable. Some gossiping scandal arose from this intimacy, but it was, of course, not only idle, but absurd. We found Mrs. Russell in a riding-dress, and prepared to accompany us in our excursion. Taking leave of Mr. Jeffrey, we went to the stable, where were nearly a dozen horses, of various kinds and adapted to various uses. Miss Y.... chose a shaggy gray pony, half savage and half pet; Mrs. Russell mounted a long, lean, clean-limbed hunter; and I, at her suggestion, took Mr. Jeffrey's mare--a bay, rollicking cob, with a gait like a saw-mill--as I found to my cost.

We walked our steeds gently out of town, but on leaving the pavements the ladies struck into a vigorous trot. Up and down the hills we went, the turnpike gates flying open at our approach, the servant behind, paying the tolls. We passed out of the city by Holy Rood, and swept round to the east of Arthur's seat, leaving Portobello on the left. We rode

steadily, noting a few objects as we passed, until at last, reaching an elevated mound, we paused, and the ladies directed my attention to the scenes around. We were some two miles south of the town, upon one of the slopes of the Braid Hills. Ah, what a view was before us! The city, a vast, smoking hive, to the north; and to the right, Arthur's Seat, bald and blue, seeming to rise up and almost peep into its streets and chimneys. Over and beyond all, was the sea. The whole area between the point where we stood and that vast azure line, blending with the sky, was a series of abrupt hills and dimpling valleys, threaded by a network of highways and byways--honeycombed in spots by cities and villages, and elsewhere sprinkled with country-seats.

It is an unrivaled scene of varied beauty and interest. The natural site of Edinburgh is remarkable, consisting of three rocky ledges, steepling over deep ravines. These have all been modified by art; in one place a lake has been dried up, and is now covered with roads, bridges, tenements, gardens, and lawns. The sides of the cliffs are in some instances covered with masses of buildings, the edifices occasionally rising tier upon tier--in one place presenting a line of houses a dozen stories in height! The city is divided by a deep chasm into two distinct parts, the Old Town, dun and smoky, and justifying the popular appellation of "Auld Reekie," or Old Smoky; the other the New Town, with all the fresh

architecture and all the rich and elaborate embellishments of a modern city. Nearly from the center of the old town rises the Castle, three hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea--on one side looking down almost perpendicularly, two hundred feet into the vale beneath--on the other holding communication with the streets by means of a winding pathway. In the new town is Calton Hill, rich with monuments of art and memorials of history, and suggesting to the mind a resemblance to the Acropolis of Athens. From these two commanding positions, the scenes are unrivaled.

But I forget that I have taken you to the Braid Hills. The panorama, from this point, was not only beautiful to the eye, but a rich harvest to the mind. My amiable guides directed my attention to various objects--some far and some near, and all with names familiar to history or song or romance. Yonder mass of dun and dismal ruins was Craigmillar's Castle, once the residence of Queen Mary. Nearly in the same direction, and not remote, is the cliff, above whose bosky sides peer out the massive ruins of Roslin Castle; further south are glimpses of Dalkeith Palace, the sumptuous seat of the Duke of Buccleugh; there is the busy little village of Lasswade, which takes the name of "Grandercleugh" in the "Tales of my Landlord;" yonder winds the Esk and there the Galawater--both familiar in many a song; and there is the scenery of the "Gentle Shepherd," presenting

the very spot where that inimitable colloquy took place between Peggy and her companion, Jenny--

"Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's How,
Where a' the sweets o' spring an' summer grow:
Between twa birks, out o'er a little linn,
The water fa's and makes a singan din:
A pool, breast deep, beneath as clear as glass,
Kisses wi' easy whirls the bordering grass.
We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
And when the day grows hot, we'll to the pool,
There wash oursels--it's healthful now in May,
An' sweetly caller on sae warm a day."

While we were surveying these unrivaled scenes, the rain began to fall in a fine, insinuating mizzle: soon large drops pattered through the fog, and at last there was a drenching shower. I supposed the ladies would seek some shelter: not they--maids of the mist--accustomed to all the humors of this drizzly climate, and of course defying them. They pulled off their green vails, and stuffed them into their saddle-pockets; then chirruping to their steeds, they sped along the road, as if mounted on broomsticks. I was soon wet to the skin, and so, doubtless, were they--if one might suggest such a thing. However, they took to it as ducks to a pond. On we went, the water--accelerated by our speed--spouting in torrents from our stirrups. In all my days, I had never such an adventure. And the coolness with which the ladies took it--that was the most remarkable. Indeed,

it was provoking--for as they would not accept sympathy, of course they could not give it, though my reeking condition would have touched any other heart than theirs. On we went, till at last coming to the top of a hill, we suddenly cropped out into the sunshine--the shower still scudding along the valley beneath us. We continued our ride, getting once more soaked on our way, and again drying in the sun. At last we reached home, having made a circuit of fifteen miles. Scarcely a word was said of the rain. I saw my mermaid friends to their residences, and was thankful when I got back to the hotel. What with the shower, and a slight cold which ensued--I did not get the trot of Jeffrey's mare out of my bones for a fortnight. Indeed, long after, during rough weather, when the gust and rain dashed against my window, the beast sometimes visited me in sleep, coming in the shape of a nightmare, carrying me at a furious rate, with two charming witches before, beckoning me on to a race. As a just moral of this adventure--I suggest to all Americans, who ride with Scotch ladies around Edinburgh, not to go forth in their best dress-coat, and pantaloons having no straps beneath the boot.

LETTER XLI.

William Blackwood--The Magazine--A Dinner at Blackwood's--James Ballantyne--Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb--The General Assembly of Scotland--Dr. Chalmers.

My dear C******

One or two more selections from my journal, and we will leave Edinburgh. I had delivered my letter of introduction to Blackwood, and he had treated me very kindly. He was, professionally, a mere bookseller and publisher--a plain, short, stocky person, with a large head, bald and flat on the top. He spoke broad Scotch, or rather sang it, for although all spoken language, in every country, has its cadences, in Scotland it is a veritable song. This is more noticeable among the illiterate, and especially the old women. I sometimes thought they were mocking me, so emphatic were their inflexions and modulations. I have since observed similar intonations in other countries, especially in Italy, where the rising and falling of the voice is so marked as to appear like an affectation of musical cadenzas, even in conversation.

Nevertheless, Mr. Blackwood was an exceedingly intelligent and agreeable gentleman. The Magazine* which bears his name, was then in its glory,

and of course a part of its radiance shone on him. He was a man of excellent judgment, even in literary matters, and his taste, no doubt, contributed largely to the success of the Magazine. He was in familiar intercourse with the celebrities of the day--and a bright constellation they were. He spoke as familiarly of great names--Scott, Lockhart, Hogg, Wilson--sacred to me, as Appleton and Putnam and the Harpers do of Irving, Halleck, and Bryant, or Ticknor &

Fields of Prescott and Longfellow. Was not that a time to be remembered?

Of course I was gratified at receiving from him a note, inviting me to dine with him the next day. His house was on the south of the old town--nearly two miles distant. The persons present were such, as I should myself have selected: among them Lockhart and James Ballantyne. I sat next the latter, and found him exceedingly agreeable and gentlemanlike. He was a rather large man, handsome, smooth in person and manner, and very well dressed. You will remember that at this time, it was not acknowledged by Scott or his friends that he was the author of the Waverley novels. Perhaps the mystery was even promoted by them, for, no doubt, it added adventitious interest to his works. However, the vail was not closely preserved in the circle of intimacy. Ballantyne said to me, in the course of a conversation which turned upon the popularity of authors, as indicated by the sale of their works--"We have now in course of preparation forty thousand volumes of Scott's poems and the works of the author of Waverley"--evidently intimating the identity of their authorship.

There was nothing remarkable about our meal: it was like an English dinner, generally--ample, substantial, administered with hospitality, and discussed with relish. There was a certain seriousness and preparation about it, common in Europe, but un-

common in our country. We rush to the table as if eating was an affair to be dispatched in the shortest possible time: to linger over it would seem to be an indecency. The Englishman, on the contrary, arranges his business for his dinner; he prepares his mind for it; he sets himself to the table, and adjusts his legs beneath, for it; he unfolds his napkin and lays it in his lap, or tucks a corner within his waistcoat, for it; he finally qualifies himself the better to enjoy it, by taking a loving survey of the good things before him and the good friends around him. He begins leisurely, as if feeling that Providence smiles upon him, and he would acknowledge its bounties by prolonging the enjoyment of them. As he proceeds, he spices his gratification by sips of wine, exchanges of compliments with the ladies and convivial chat, right and left, with his neighbors. The host is attentive, the hostess lends a smiling countenance, the servants are ubiquitous, and put your wishes into deeds, without the trouble of your speaking to them.

The first half hour has a certain earnestness about it, apparently occupied in reducing the Malakoffs of beef, Mamelons of mutton, and Redans of poultry--that come one after another. The victory is, at last, substantially won: all that remains is to capture the pies, cakes, tarts, ices, creams, fruits, &c., which is usually done with a running artillery of light wit. Conversation ensues; now and then all listen to some good talker; perhaps a story-teller catches,

for a time, the attention of the company, and then again all around resolves itself into a joyous and jovial confusion of tongues. An hour is past, and the ladies retire. The gentlemen fill their glasses, and offer them a parting toast; then they drink "The Queen," and give themselves up to social enjoyment.

And so it was on this occasion--only that we drank the King, instead of the Queen, for George IV. was then upon the throne. Mr. Blackwood was living in a plain but comfortable style, and garnished his entertainment with a plain, simple hospitality--which lost nothing by his occasional interjections of very broad Scotch. It was delightful to see the easy intimacy of the persons present: they frequently called each other by their Christian names--using terms of endearment, which with us would seem affected, perhaps absurd. "Jammy, dear, tak some wine yoursel, and hand it to me!" said Blackwood to Ballantyne, and the latter answered in a similar tone of familiar kindness. The whole intercourse of the company seemed warmed and cheered by these simple, habitual courtesies. Our own manners, I think, under similar circumstances, must appear bald and chilling, in comparison.

Nor was there any thing remarkable in the conversations--save only what related to Byron. The news of his death at Missolonghi, on the 19th of April, had reached Scotland a few weeks before, and produced

a profound sensation. Even while I was there, the interest in the subject had not subsided. Mr. Lockhart had not known Byron, personally, but he was in London soon after his departure for the continent, and at several subsequent periods, and he gave us many interesting details respecting him. He was frequently at Lady Caroline Lamb's soirees, where he met the literary celebrities of London, and especially the younger and gayer portion of them. Her ladyship had flirted with the lordly poet in the heyday of his fame, and it was said, condescended to visit him in the guise of a page--her reputation being of that salamander quality, which could pass through such fire and suffer no damage. Her lover proved fickle, and at last ungrateful, and she retaliated in the novel of "Glenarvon"--venting her rage upon him by depicting him as "having an imagination of flame playing around a heart of ice."

At the time Lockhart thus mingled in Lady Caroline's circle, Byron was the frequent theme of comment. She had a drawer-full of his letters, and intimate friends were permitted to read them. She had also borrowed of Murray the poet's manuscript autobiography given to Moore, and had copied some of its passages. This was soon discovered, and she was obliged to suppress them--but still passages of them got into circulation. The work was written in a daring, reckless spirit, setting at defiance all the laws of propriety, and even of decency. One of the chapters

consisted of a rhyming list of his acquaintances, at the period of his highest fashionable success, in London--dashed off with amazing power--yet in such terms of profanity as to forbid repetition, at least in print. It was obvious, from what was said by Mr. Lockhart and others, that such were the gross personalities, the shameful outrages of decorum, and the general licentiousness of this production, that it was impossible for any respectable publisher to be concerned in giving it to the world. The consignment of it to the flames, by his friends, was as much dictated by regard to their own characters, as to the fame of the author, which was in a certain degree committed to their keeping.

We sat down to dinner at seven, and got up at eleven. After a short conversation with the ladies, we took our departure. As I was getting into my carriage, Mr. Lockhart proposed to me to walk back to town, a distance of a mile and a half. I gladly accepted this proposition, and we had a very interesting conversation. Upon intimacy, Lockhart's coldness wholly disappeared. He spoke in an easy, rattling way, very much in the manner of the freer portions of Peter's Letters. The good dinner had doubtless cheered him a little; but not only on this, but other occasions I had evidence of a more genial nature than might have been supposed to exist beneath the haughty armor which he seemed to wear toward the world.

The next day I went to St. Giles's Church,* to see the General Assembly, then holding its annual session there. This body consisted of nearly four hundred members, chosen by different parishes, boroughs, and universities. The sessions are attended by a Commissioner appointed by the crown, but he is seated outside of the area assigned to the assembly, and has no vote, and no right of debate. He sits under a pavilion, with the insignia of royalty, and a train of gaily-dressed pages. He opens the sessions in the name of the King, the Head of the Church: the moderator then opens it in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the only true Head of the Church! It appears, that the Scotch, in bargaining for a union with England, took good care to provide for their religious independence, and this they still jealously preserve: the Irish, on the contrary, were sold out, and treated like a conquered people. The commissioner, at this time, was Lord Morton--who, according to all the accounts I heard, was a disgrace to human nature.

The aspect of the Assembly was similar to that of the House of Commons--though somewhat graver. I observed that the debates were often stormy, with scraping of the floor, laughing aloud, and cries of "hear, hear!" The members were, in fact, quite disorderly, showing at least as little regard for decorum

as ordinary legislatures. Sir Walter Scott once remarked, in my hearing, that it had never yet been decided how many more than six members could speak at once!

The persons here pointed out to me as celebrities were Dr. Chalmers, the famous pulpit orator, Dr. Cook, the ecclesiastical historian, and Dr. Baird, principal of the University, and caricatured in the print-shops under a rude portrait of his large face, nearly covered with hair, the whole labeled, Principal Beard. The first of these was now at the height of his fame. He had already begun those reforms which, some years later, resulted in a disruption of the Scottish Church. At this period the Assembly was divided into two opposite parties, the Moderate, and the Sound--the former contending for the old doctrine, that presbyteries were bound to receive and accept every qualified preacher, presented by the crown, or others exercising the right of such preferment, and the latter opposing it. The importance of the question lay in the fact that a large number of the places in the Church were in the gift of the crown, and many others in the hands of lay-patrons, and these were frequently bestowed in such a manner as to accumulate two or more benefices in the hands of one person. The great point made by Chalmers was, that one church, one congregation, however small, was enough to occupy and absorb the attention of one minister; and that a plurality of benefices was both corrupting

to the Church, by making it subservient to patronage, and destructive of the apostolic spirit, which demands the devotion of the whole soul to the work of the ministry.

I had the good fortune to hear Chalmers speak for a few moments, but with great energy and power, so as to give me an idea of his appearance and manner. He was a large man, and as he rose he seemed rather heavy, slow, and awkward. His face was large, its outline being nearly circular. His lips, when closed, were thin, giving a certain sharpness and firmness to his countenance. His forehead was large and expansive, his brow finely arched, his eye gray, and its expression ordinarily heavy. Altogether his appearance, as he first rose to my view, was unpromising. His speech, his articulation, was even worse, at the outset, for he had the Fifeshire dialect--the harshest and most unintelligible in Scotland. He had, however, spoken but a few sentences, when the whole man was transformed. That heaviness which marked his appearance, had wholly passed away. Upon his countenance there was an animated yet lofty expression--firm and fearless, benevolent and winning--while his voice, pouring out a vast flow of thought, had in it a tone at once of love and command, of feeling and of authority, absolutely irresistible. I felt myself borne along in the torrent--compelled, yet lending myself gratefully to the movement. Sentence after sentence fell from his lips, thought accumulated upon thought,

illustration upon illustration, and yet the listener compassed every conception and treasured every word. There was something in his voice so musical, so touching, that the whole sank into the soul like a hymn. The general effect was aided by his gestures and movements, for though by no means graceful, they harmonized so well with the emotions of the speaker as at once to illustrate and enforce the general tenor of his address.

On another occasion I heard Dr. Chalmers preach, in one of the churches of the city. The crowd was so great, however, that I saw and heard very imperfectly. It seemed to me that he was rather calculated to produce an effect by his oratory, than his writings. He had evidently wonderful powers of amplification: he often started topics apparently barren and unsuggestive, but soon he called around them a crowd of thoughts and associations of the highest interest. The common labors of the minister of the Gospel--entering into the hearts and homes of the rich and the poor; now leading to the stately hall, and now to the squalid dens of vice, poverty, and crime; now to the administration of baptism, and now to the sacrament--this hackneyed routine, by force of his vivid imagination and ardent spirit, presented pictures to the mind and awoke emotions in the heart, quite overwhelming. He seemed, indeed, like a magician, capable of converting even the sand and stones of the desert into images of life and power; but it appeared

to me that in order to do this, the voice and gesture and presence of the sorcerer, were indispensable. I have never, in reading any thing he has written--noble as are his works--at all realized the emotions produced by the brief, but startling speech I heard from him in the Assembly.

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LETTER XLII.

A Dinner at Lockhart's--Conversation about Byron--Mrs. Lockhart--Irving--Professor Ticknor--Music--The Pibroch and Miss Edgeworth--Anecdotes of the Indians--Southey and Second Sight--Cooper's Pioneers--The Pilot--Paul Janes--Brockden Brown--Burns--Tricks of the Press--Charles Scott--The Welsh Parson--The Italian Base-viol Player--Personal Appearance of Sir Walter--Departure for London--Again in Edinburgh in 1832--Last Moments of Sir Walter--The Sympathy of Nature.

My dear C******

I hope you fully comprehend that, in these sketches I am only dipping into my journal here and there, and selecting such memoranda as I think may amuse you. Most of these passages refer to individuals who have now passed to their graves. It is mournful--to me it is suggestive of feelings inexpressibly sad and solemn--to reflect that of the long list of distinguished persons who, at the period I refer to, shed a peculiar glory upon Edinburgh, not one survives. Scott, Lockhart, Jeffrey, Chalmers--these, and others who stood beside them, either shar-

ing or reflecting the blushing honors of genius and fame, falling around them--all are gone from the high places which they then illumined with their presence. I am speaking only of the dead--yet I remember them, as living, and--though their history, their works, their fame, are familiar to you--it may still interest you to go back and participate in recollections of them--their persons, speech, manner--and thus, in some degree, see them as they were seen, and know them as they were known. I pray you to accept these passages from my journal, as glimpses only of what I saw, and not as pretending at all to a regular account of my travels and observations, at the time referred to.

On Wednesday, June 2, I dined with Mr. Lockhart--25 Northumberland-street. Besides the host and hostess, there were present Sir Walter Scott, his son, Charles Scott, Mr. Blackwood, Mr. Robinson, and three or four other persons. At dinner I sat next Sir Walter--an arrangement made, I believe, in compliment to myself. Every thing went off pleasantly--with the usual ease, hospitality, and heartiness of an English dinner. The house and furniture were plain and handsome--such as were common to people of good condition and good taste.

The meal was discussed with the usual relish, and with the usual garnish of wit and pleasantry. After the ladies had retired, the conversation became general and animated. Byron was the engrossing topic.

Sir Walter spoke of him with the deepest feeling of admiration and regret. A few weeks before, on the receipt of the news of his death, he had written an obituary notice of him, in which he compared him to the sun, withdrawn from the heavens at the very moment when every telescope was leveled to discover either his glory or his spots. He expressed the opinion that Byron was "dying of home-sickness"--that being his phrase. For a long time he had flouted England, and seemed to glory alike in his exile and his shame. Yet all this time his heart was devoured with "the fiend ennui." He went to Greece, in the hope of doing some gallant deed that would wipe out his disgrace, and create for him such sympathy in the breasts of his countrymen, as would enable him to return--his "faults forgiven and his sins forgot."

Lockhart and Blackwood both told stories, and we passed a pleasant half hour. The wine was at last rather low, and our host ordered the servant to bring more. Upon which Scott said--"No, no, Lokert"--such was his pronunciation of his son-in-law's name --"we have had enough: let us go and see the ladies." And so we gathered to the parlor.

Mrs. Lockhart was now apparently about two and twenty years old--small in person, and girl-like in manner. Her hair was light-brown, cut short, and curled in her neck and around her face. Her cheeks were blooming, and her countenance fall of cheerfulness. Her address was at once graceful and gracious

--indicating a lively, appreciative nature and the finest breeding. She had a son, four years old, and at my request, he was brought in. He was a fine boy, "very like his father," but alas, doomed to an early death.*

Mrs. Lockhart spoke with great interest of Mr. Irving, who had visited the family at Abbotsford. She said that he slept in a room which looked out on the Tweed. In the morning as he came down to breakfast, he was very pale, and being asked the reason, confessed that he had not been able to sleep. The sight of the Tweed from his window, and the consciousness of being at Abbotsford, so filled his imagination--so excited his feelings, as to deprive him of slumber. She also spoke of Professor Ticknor--laying the accent on the last syllable--as having been at Abbotsford, and leaving behind him the most agreeable impressions.

Our lively hostess was requested to give us some music, and instantly complied--the harp being her instrument. She sang Scotch airs, and played several pibrochs--all with taste and feeling. Her range of tunes seemed inexhaustible. Her father sat by, and entered heartily into the performances. He beat time vigorously with his lame leg, and frequently helped out a chorus, the heartiness of his tones making up for some delinquencies in tune and time.

Often he made remarks upon the songs, and told anecdotes respecting them. When a certain pibroch had. been played, he said it reminded him of the first time he ever saw Miss Edgeworth. There had come to Abbotsford, a wild Gaelic peasant from the neighborhood of Staffa, and it was proposed to him to sing, a pibroch, common in that region. He had consented, but required the whole party present, to sit in a circle on the floor, while he should sing the song, and perform a certain pantomimic accompaniment, in the center. All was accordingly arranged in the great hall, and the performer had just begun his wild chant, when in walked a tall, stately lady, and announced herself as Miss Edgeworth!

Mrs. Lockhart asked me about the American Indians--expressing great curiosity concerning them, I told the story of one who was tempted to go into the rapids of the Niagara river, just above the Falls, for a bottle of rum. This he took with him, and having swam out to the point agreed upon, he turned back and attempted to regain the land. For a long time the result was doubtful; he struggled powerfully, but in vain. Inch by inch, he receded from the shore, and at last, finding his doom sealed, he raised himself above the water, wrenched the cork from the bottle, and putting the latter to his lips, yielded to the current, and thus went down to his doom.

Mrs. Lockhart made some exclamations of mingled admiration and horror. Sir Walter then said that he

had read an account of an Indian, who was in a boat, approaching a cataract; by some accident, it was drawn into the current, and the savage saw that his escape was impossible. Upon this he arose, wrapped his robe of skins around him, seated himself erect, and with an air of imperturbable gravity, went over the falls.

"That is sublime," said Mrs. Lockhart; "as if he were preparing to meet the Great Spirit, and he thought it proper to enter his presence with dignity!"

"The most remarkable thing about the American Indians," said Blackwood, "is their being able to follow in the trail of their enemies, by their footprints left in the leaves, upon the grass, and even upon the moss of the rocks. The accounts given of this seem hardly credible."

"I can readily believe it, however," said Sir Walter. "You must remember that this is a part of their education. I have learned at Abbotsford to discriminate between the hoof-marks of all our neighbors' horses, and I taught the same thing to Mrs. Lockhart. It is, after all, not so difficult as you might think. Every horse's foot has some peculiar--either of size, shoeing, or manner of striking the earth. I was once walking with Southey--a mile or more from home--across the fields. At last we came to a bridlepath, leading toward Abbotsford, and here I noticed fresh hoof prints. Of this I said nothing; but pausing and looking up with an inspired expression, I

said to Southey--'I have a gift of second sight: we shall have a stranger to dinner!'

"'And what may be his name?' was the reply.

"'Scott,' said I.

"'Ah, it is some relation of yours,' he said; 'you have invited him, and you would pass off as an example of your Scottish gift of prophecy, a matter previously agreed upon!'

"'Not at all,' said I. 'I assure you that till this moment I never thought of such a thing.'

"When we got home, I was told that Mr. Scott, a farmer living some three or four miles distant, and a relative of mine, was waiting to see me. Southey looked astounded. The man remained to dinner, and he was asked if he had given any intimation of his coming. He replied in the negative: that indeed he had no idea of visiting Abbotsford when he left home. After enjoying Southey's wonder for some time, I told him that I saw the tracks of Mr. Scott's horse in the bridle-path, and inferring that he was going to Abbotsford, easily foresaw that we should have him to dinner."

Mrs. Lockhart confirmed her father's statement, and told how, in walking over the country together, they had often amused themselves in studying the hoof-prints along the roads.

Mr. Lockhart returned to the Indians. "I have lately been reading an exceedingly clever American novel, entitled the Pioneers, by Cooper. His descrip-

tive power is very great, and I think he has opened a new field of romance, especially in the hunters along the frontiers, who, in their intercourse with savages, have become half savage themselves. That border life is full of incident, adventure, poetry; the character of Leatherstocking is original and striking."

"I have not seen the Pioneers," said Scott; "but I have read the Pilot by the same author, which has just been published. It is very clever, and I think it will turn out that his strength lies in depicting sea life and adventure. We really have no good sea-tales, and here is a wide field, open to a man of true genius."

"But, papa," said our hostess, "I should think it rather a narrow field. Only a few persons go to sea, and the language of sailors is so technical as to be hardly understood by people generally. It seems to me that sea-tales can never excite the sympathy of the great mass of readers, because they have had no experience of its life and manners."

"It is no doubt a task of some difficulty," said Sir Walter, "to bring these home to the hearts of the reading million; nevertheless, to a man of genius for it, the materials are ample and interesting. All our minds are full of associations of danger, of daring, and adventure with the sea and those who have made that element their home. And besides, this book to which I refer--the Pilot--connects its story with the land. It is perhaps more interesting to me,

because I perfectly well recollect the time when Paul Jones--whose character is somewhat reflected in the hero of the story--came up the Solway in 1778 in the Ranger, though I was then less than ten years old. He kept the whole coast in a state of alarm for some time, and was in fact the great scarecrow of that age and generation."

"Mr. Cooper is a man of genius," said Lockhart: "no one can deny that; but it seems to me that Brockden Brown was the most remarkable writer of fiction that America has produced. There is a similarity in his style to that of the Radcliffe school, and in the tone of mind to Godwin's Caleb Williams; but in his machinery, he is highly original. In his display of the darker passions, he surpasses all his models."

"That may be true," said Sir Walter, "but it is neither a wholesome nor a popular species of literature. It is almost wholly ideal; it is not in nature; it is in fact contrary to it. Its scenes, incidents, characters, do not represent life: they are alien to common experience. They do not appeal to a wide circle of sympathy in the hearts of mankind. The chief emotion that it excites is terror or wonder. The suggestive manner of treating every subject, aims at keeping the mind constantly on the rack of uncertainty. This trick of art was long ago exhausted. Brown had wonderful powers, as many of his descriptions show; but I think he was led astray by falling under the influence of bad examples, prevalent at his time.

Had he written his own thoughts, he would have been, perhaps, immortal: in writing those of others, his fame was of course ephemeral."

The conversation turned upon Burns. Scott knew him well. He said that Tam O'Shanter was written to please a stonecutter, who had executed a monument for the poet's father, on condition that he should write him. a witch-story, in verse. He stated that Burns was accustomed, in his correspondence, more especially with ladies, to write an elaborate letter, and then send a copy of it to several persons--modifying local and personal passages to suit each individual. He said that of some of these letters, he had three or four copies thus addressed to different persons, and all in the poet's handwriting.

The tricks of the London newspapers were spoken of, and he mentioned the following instance. A popular preacher there, had caused a church to be built, in which he was to officiate. The time was fixed for its dedication; but two days before this, an article appeared in one of the city prints, describing the building, and speaking well of it, but suggesting that the pillars which supported the gallery were entirely too slight, and it must be exceedingly dangerous for any congregation to assemble there! This of course produced a general alarm, and to appease this, the proprietor found it necessary to have a survey made by an architect. This was done, and the architect declared, that, as the pillars were of iron,

there was not the slightest danger. The proprietor took this statement to the editor of the paper, and begged him to retract his false and injurious statement. The reply was--

"This is doubtless an important matter to you, but not of the slightest interest to me."

"But, sir," was the reply, "you have stated what is not true: will you not correct your own error?"

"Yes, but we must be paid for it."

"What, for telling the truth?"

"That depends upon circumstances: do you suppose we can tell every truth that everybody desires us to? No, sir; this is a matter of interest to you: you can afford to pay for it. Give us ten guineas, and we will set it all right."

The proprietor of the church had no other resource, and so he paid the money.

Charles Scott, Sir Walter's second son, a rosy-cheeked youth of about eighteen, was present. He had recently come from Wales, where he had been under the teaching of a Welch clergyman. This subject being mentioned, Blackwood asked Mr. Robinson--a very sober, clerical-looking gentleman--to give the company a sample of a Welch sermon. Two chairs were placed back to back: Blackwood sat in one--his bald, flat pate for a desk, and the performer mounted the other--taking one of Mrs. Lockhart's songs for his notes. It seems he was familiar with the Welch language, and an admirable mimic. His performance was

exceedingly amusing. When he became animated, he slapped the music down on Blackwood's bald pate, and in capping his climaxes, gave it two or three smart thumps with his fist. Blackwood must have had a substantial skull, or he could not have borne it. At last, even he had enough of it, and when he perceived another climax was coming, he dodged, and the sermon was speedily brought to a close.

Mr. Robinson was then called upon to imitate an Italian player on the bass-viol. He took a pair of tongs for his bow, and a shovel for the viol, and mounting a pair of spectacles on the tip-end of his nose, he began imitating the spluttering of the instrument by his voice. It was inimitably droll. Sir Walter was quite convulsed, and several of the ladies absolutely screamed. As to myself, I had the side-ache for four-and-twenty hours.

And thus passed the evening--till twelve o'clock. I have not told you the half of what is indicated in the notes before me. These specimens will suffice, however, to give you some idea of the manner in which good people unbent in the family circle of Edinburgh, thirty years ago. You will readily suppose that my eye often turned upon the chief figure in this interesting group. I could not for a moment forget his presence, though nothing could be more unpretending and modest than his whole air and bearing.

His features are doubtless impressed upon you by his portraits, for they have all a general resemblance.

There was in Mr. Lockhart's parlor, where we were sitting, a copy of Chantry's bust of him---since repeated a thousand times in plaster. I compared it again and again with the original. Nothing could possibly be better as a likeness. The lofty head, the projecting brows, the keen, peering glance of the eye, the long, thick upper lip, the dumpy nose, the rather small and receding chin--each feature separately homely, yet all combined to form a face of agreeable expression. Its general effect was that of calm dignity; and now, in the presence of children and friends, lighted by genial emotions, it was one of the pleasantest countenances I have ever seen. When standing or walking, his manly form, added to an aspect of benevolence, completed the image--at once exciting affection and commanding respect.

As to his manners, I need only add that they were those of a well-bred English gentleman--quiet, unpretending, absolutely without self-assertion. He appeared to be happy, and desirous of making others so. He was the only person, present, who seemed unconscious that he was the author of Waverley. His intercourse with his daughter, and hers in return, were most charming. She called him "papa," and he called her "my child," "my daughter," "Sophia," and in the most endearing tone and manner. She seemed quite devoted to him, watching his lips when he was speaking, and seeking in every thing to anticipate and fulfill his wishes. When she was singing,

his eye dwelt upon her, his ear catching and seeming to relish every tone. Frequently, when she was silent, his eye rested upon her, and the lines came to my mind--

"Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them, than Heaven:
And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek
It would not stain an angel's cheek--
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!"

After a stay of about three weeks in Edinburgh, I took a reluctant leave of it, and went to London. Eight years later, September, 1832, I was again there. Scott was on his death-bed, at Abbotsford. Overburdened with the struggle to extricate himself from the wreck of his fortunes, his brain had given way, and the mighty intellect was in ruins. On the morning of the 17th, he woke from a paralytic slumber--his eye clear and calm, every trace of delirium having passed away. Lockhart came to his bedside. "My dear," he said, "I may have but a moment to speak to you. Be a good man; be virtuous--be religious: be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort, when you are called upon to lie here!"

Oh, what a bequest were these words, uttered by the dying lips of the mightiest genius of the age! We may all do well to heed them. Few more words did he speak; he soon fell into a stupor, which, on

the 21st, became the sleep of death. Thus he expired, all his children around him. "It was a beautiful day," says his biographer--"so warm that every window was wide open, and so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes!"

The signs and symbols of mourning that spread over Great Britain on account of the death of the great and good man, were like those which commemorate the decease of a sovereign. Bells were tolled, sermons were preached, flags of ships were at half-mast, nearly every newspaper was clothed in black. In Edinburgh, every lip trembled in speaking of the melancholy event.

Two days after this, I departed with my companion for the Highlands. On reaching Stirling, we found it enveloped in the drapery of dark, impenetrable clouds. We passed on to Callender; we proceeded to Loch Katrine. All around seemed to be in mourning. Huge masses of dim vapor rolled around the pinnacle of Benain; the shaggy brows and rocky precipices of Benvenue were all shrouded in gloomy mist. The hoary forests of the Trosaehs heaved sad and moaning in the breeze. The surface of the lake was wrinkled with falling spray. All around seemed to wail and weep, as if some calamity had fallen upon nature itself. He who had endowed these scenes with

immortality, was dead; his body was now being borne to its tomb. While a nation wept, it was meet that the mountain and the lake, the stream and the glen--which his genius had consecrated--should also weep.

"Call it not vain; they do not err
     Who say, that when the poet dies,
Mute nature mourns her worshiper,
     And celebrates his obsequies;
Who say, tall cliff and cavern lone,
For the departed bard make moan;
That mountains weep in crystal rill;
That flowers in tears of balm distill;
Through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
And oaks, in deeper groans, reply;
And rivers teach their rushing wave
To murmur dirges round his grave!"

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LETTER XLIII.

Journey to London--Remarks on, England, as it appears to the American Traveler--The Climate--The Landscape---Jealousies between the English and Americans--Plan for securing Peace.

My dear C******

Early in June, I set out for London. My route led me through the village of Dalkeith, and the possessions of the Duke of Buccleugh, extending for thirty miles on both sides of the road. We were constantly meeting objects which revived historical or poetic reminiscences. Among these was Cockpen,

the scene of the celebrated ballad, and as I rode by, the whole romance passed before my mind. I fancied that I could even trace the pathway along which the old laird proceeded upon his courtship, as well as the residence of

"The pennyless lass with a lang pedigree;"

and who was so daft as to reject his offer, although

"His wig was well powthered and as gude as new;
     His waistcoat was red, and his coat it was blue;
A ring on his finger, his sword and cocked hat--
     And who could refuse the auld laird wi' a' that?"

We crossed the Galawater and the Ettrick, and traveled along the banks of the Tweed--formed by the union of these two streams. We passed Abbots-ford, rising at a little distance on the left--its baronial dignity being lost in the spell of more potent associations. Further on, we saw the Eildon Hills, "cleft in three" by the wondrous wizzard, Michael Scott--as duly chronicled in the Lay of the Last Minstrel. We proceeded along the banks of the Teviot--a small limpid stream, where we observed the barefooted lassies washing, as in the days of Allan Ramsay. We saw Netherby Hall, and a little beyond Cannobie Lea, the scenes of the song of Young Lochinvar. All these, and many more localities of legendary name and fame, were passed in the course of a forenoon's progress in the stage-coach. Scotland is indeed a charmed land!

One day's journey brought me to Carlisle: thence I traveled westward, looking with all due delight upon Wendermere, and Rydal, and Grassmere, and Helvellyn, and Derwentwater, and Skiddau. Then, turning eastward, I traveled over a hilly and picturesque country, to the ancient and renowned city of York. Having lingered, half entranced amid its antiquities, and looked almost with worship upon its cathedral--the most beautiful I have ever seen--I departed, and soon found myself once more in London.

As I shall not return to the subject again, allow me to say a few words as to the impression England makes upon the mind of an American, traveling over its surface. I have visited this country several times within the last thirty years, and I shall group my impressions in one general view. The whole may be summed up in a single sentence, which is, that England is incomparably the most beautiful country in the world! I do not speak of it in winter, when incumbered with, fogs; when there is

"No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon,
     No dusk, no dawn--no proper time of day;
No sky, no earthly view, no distance looking blue;
     No road, no street, no t'other side the way!"

I take her as I do any other beauty who sits for her portrait--in her best attire; that is, in summer. The sun rises here as high, in June, as it does in America. Vegetation is just about as far advanced. The meadows, the wheat-fields, the orchards, the forests, are in

their glory. There is one difference, however, between the two countries--the sun in England is not so hot, the air is not so highly perfumed, the buzz of the insects is not so intense. Every thing is more tranquil. With, us, all nature, during summer, appears to be in haste, as if its time was short--as if it feared the corning frost. In England, on the contrary, there seems to be a confidence in the seasons, as if there were time for the ripening harvests; as if the wheat might swell out its fat sides, the hops amplify its many-plaited flowers, the oats multiply and increase its tassels--each and all attaining their perfection at leisure. In the United States, the period of growth of most vegetables is compressed into ten weeks; in Great Britain, it extends to sixteen.

If we select the middle of June as a point of comparison, we shall see that in America there is a spirit, vigor, energy in the climate, as indicated by vegetable and animal life, unknown in Europe. In the former, the pulse of existence beats quicker than in the latter. The air is clearer, the landscape is more distinct, the bloom more vivid, the odors more pungent, the perceptions of the mind even, I doubt not, are more intense. A clover-field in America, in full bloom, is by many shades more ruddy than the same thing in England--its breath, even is sweeter: the music of the bees stealing its honey is of a higher key. A summer forest with us is of a livelier green than in any part of Great Britain; the incense

breathed upon the heart, morning and evening, is, I think, more full and fragrant. And yet, if we take the summer through, this season is pleasanter in England than with us. It is longer, its excitements are more tranquil, and, being spread over a larger space, the heart has more leisure to appreciate them, than in the haste and hurry of our American climate. There is one fact worthy of notice, which illustrates this peculiarity of the English summer. The trees there are all of a more sturdy, or, as we say, stubbed form and character. The oaks, the elms, the walnuts, beeches, are shorter and thicker, as well in the trunks as the branches, than ours. They have all a stocky, John Bull form and stature. The leaves are thicker, the twigs larger in circumference. I have noticed particularly the recent growths of apple-trees, and they are at once shorter and stouter than in America. This quality in the trees gives a peculiarity to the landscape. The forest is more solid and less graceful than ours. If you will look at an English painting of trees, you notice the fact I state, and perceive the effect it gives, especially to scenes of, which trees constitute a prevailing element. All| over Europe, in fact, the leaves of the trees have a less feathery appearance than in America; and in general the forms of the branches are less arching, and, of course, less beautiful. Hence it will be perceived that European pictures of trees differ in this respect from American ones--the foliage in the for-

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Scene in England. Vol 2., p. 214.

mer being more solid, and the sweep of the branches more angular.

But it is in respect to the effects of human art and industry, that the English landscape has the chief advantage over ours. England is an old country, and shows on its face the transforming influences of fifteen centuries of cultivation. It is, with the exception of Belgium, the most thickly-settled country of Europe--nearly three hundred and fifty inhabitants to the square mile, while in the United States we have but seven. Massachusetts, the most thickly-settled State in America, has but one hundred and thirty.

England, therefore, is under a garden-like cultivation; the plowing is straight and even, as if regulated by machinery; the boundaries, of estates consist for the most part of stone mason-work, the intermediate divisions being hedges, neatly trimmed, and forming a beautiful contrast to our stiff stone walls and rail fences. The public roads are nicely wrought, the sides being turfed with neat and convenient footways. The railway stations are beautiful specimens of architecture; the sides of the railways are all sodded over, and often are blooming with patches of cultivated flowers. In looking from the top of a hill over a large extent of country, it is impossible not to feel a glow of delight at the splendor of the scene--the richness of the soil, its careful and skillful cultivation, its green, tidy boundaries checkering the

scene, its teeming crops, its fat herds, its numberless and full-fleeced sheep.

Nor must the dwellings be overlooked. I pass by the cities and the manufacturing villages, which, in most parts, are visible in every extended landscape--sometimes, as in the region of Manchester, spreading out for miles, and sending up pitchy wreaths of smoke from a thousand tall, tapering chimneys. I am speaking now of the country, and here are such residences as are unknown to us. An English castle would swallow up a dozen of our shingle or brick villas. The adjacent estate often includes a thousand acres--and these, be it remembered, are kept almost as much for ornament as use. Think of a dwelling that might gratify the pride of a prince, surrounded by several square miles of wooded park, and shaven lawn, and winding stream, and swelling hill, and all having been for a hundred, perhaps five hundred years, subjected to every improvement which the highest art could suggest! There is certainly a union of unrivaled beauty and magnificence in the lordly estates of England. We have nothing, in America which at all resembles them.

And then there is every grade of imitation of these high examples, scattered over the whole country. The greater part of the surface of England belongs to wealthy proprietors, and these have alike the desire and the ability to give an aspect of neatness, finish, elegance, not only to their dwellings and the

immediate grounds, but to their entire estates. The prevailing standard of taste thus leads to a universal beautifying of the surface of the country. Even the cottager feels the influence of this omnipresent spirit; the brown thatch over his dwelling, and the hedge before his door, must be neatly trimmed; the green ivy must clamber up and festoon his windows, and the little yard in front must bloom with roses and lilies, and other gentle flowers, in their season.

And thus cold, foggy England is made the paradise of the earth--at least during this charming month of June, Nature now, in compensation for her ill humor at other seasons, aids in this universal decoration. Through the whole summer--nay, in autumn, and even in winter--the verdure of the English landscape is preserved. Not in July nor August, not even in December, do we here see the grass parched with heat or grown gray in the frost. It is true the leaves of the trees fall, as they do with us, in November--not having first clothed the hills in red and purple and gold as in America, but, as the English poet tells us--

"------ the fading, many-colored woods,
Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round
Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,
Of every hue, from wan, declining green,
To sooty dark"--

thus, for a time, seeming to prelude the coming winter, with a drapery of mourning woven, of the faded

glories of summer. Nothing can indeed be more dismal than the aspect of England, when the black, crumpled leaves are falling in the forests--some, yet fluttering on the branches, and others strewn on the ground. But even then the sod retains its living hue, and when at last the leaves have fallen, there is still a universal mantle of verdure over the fields--thus redeeming winter from a portion of its gloom.

So much for the common aspect of England as the traveler passes over it. The seeker for the picturesque may find abundant gratification in Devonshire, Derbyshire, Westmoreland, though Wales and Scotland, and parts of Ireland, are still more renowned for scenic beauty. So far as combinations of nature are concerned, nothing in the world can surpass some of our own scenery--as along the upper waters of the Housatonic and the Connecticut, or among the islands of Lake George, and a thousand other places--but these lack the embellishments of art and the associations of romance or song, which belong to the rival beauties of British landscapes.

You will notice that I confine these remarks to a single topic--the aspect of England, as it meets the eye of an American traveler. The English, with all their egotism, do not appreciate that wonderful display of wealth and refinement, which the surface of their country presents. They do not and can not enjoy the spectacle as an American does, for they are born to it, and have no experience which, teaches

them to estimate it by common and inferior standards. Having said so much on this subject, I shall not venture to speak of English society--of the lights and shadows of life beneath the myriad roofs of towns and cities. The subject would be too extensive, and besides, it has been abundantly treated by others. I only say, in passing, that the English people are best studied at home. John Bull, out of his own house, is generally a rough customer: here, by his fireside, with wife, children, and friends, he is generous, genial, gentlemanly. There is no hospitality like that of an Englishman, when you have crossed his threshold. Everywhere else he will annoy you. He will poke his elbow into your sides in a crowded thoroughfare; he will rebuff you if, sitting at his side in a locomotive, you ask a question by way of provoking a little conversation; he will get the advantage of you in trade, if he can; he carries at his back a load of prejudices, like that of Christian in Pilgrim's Progress, and instead of seeking to get rid of them, he is always striving to increase his collection. If he becomes a diplomat, his great business is to meddle in everybody's affairs; if an editor, he is only happy in proportion as he can. say annoying and irritating things. And yet, catch this same John Bull at home, and his crusty, crocodile armor falls off, and he is the very best fellow in the world--liberal, hearty, sincere--the perfection of a gentleman.

The relations of America to England are a subject

of great interest to both countries. It would seem that by every dictate of prudence, as well as of propriety, they should remain friends. We are of the same kith and kin, have the same language, the same faith the same moral and social platform, the same, or at least similar institutions. All these ties seem to bind us in the bonds of peace and amity. To this may be added the myriad relations of commercial interest. To do good to each other is virtually to earn and bless our daily bread. And yet we have been twice at war. There is a social war always being waged between us. The presses of England and America seem to conceive that they say their best things when they say their worst, of the two countries. We must not, then, put too much faith in consanguinity. Family quarrels are proverbially the fiercest. It is a mournful truth that the first murder was a fratricide.

What then is to be done? One thing could and should be done, in England. The press there is in the hands of the ruling people. If, as is asserted in England, there is a general feeling of good-will there toward America, that should be made manifest by the common vehicles of public opinion. Certainly this has never yet been done. From the very beginning, the British press has been supercilious, hypercritical, condemnatory of our country, its manners, principles, institutions. Is it possible--so long as this state of things shall continue--for the American people +o believe that the English nation do

not, in their hearts, cherish hostility toward country?

It may, indeed, be said that the American press is as little conciliatory toward England as that of England toward America. But, certainly, the good example should come from them. They are the older people--the mother country: their journals are more immediately within the control and influence of leading minds and influential men, than ours. And be sides, all that is wanted on our part, to a good under standing, is an assurance, a conviction of good-will, toward us on the other side of the water. Amid all our scolding at England, there is at the bottom of the American heart, a profound respect for her. We care very little what the French, or Dutch, or Germans, or Russians, or Chinese, or Japanese, say or think of us; but if the English say any thing bad of us, we are sure to resent it. Why can not something be done to bring this mischievous war to an end?

And yet how can it be effected? Let me venture upon a suggestion: if the London Times--that mighty personification of John Bull--would always be a gentleman, when he speaks of America, such, would be the influence of this high example, that I should have some hope of seeing, even in my lifetime, a millennial spirit in the intercourse of the two countries.