Volume Iv Part 2 (1/2)
”According to my ability I studied while wandering among the mountains, and at intervals, adopting my knee for my desk, wrote down the results of my musing. Let not the shepherd ever forget his dog--his constant companion and best friend, and without which all his efforts would little avail! Mine knew well the places where in my rounds I was wont to pause, and especially the majestic seat which I occupied so often on the loftiest peak of Stanhopelaw. It had also an adopted spot of rest the while, and, confident of my habits, would fold itself down upon it ere I came forward; and would linger still, look wistful, and marvel why if at any time I pa.s.sed on without making my wonted delay. I did not follow these practices only 'when summer days were fine.' The lines of an epistle written subsequently will convey some idea of my habits:--
”'My early years were pa.s.s'd far on The hills of Ettrick wild and lone; Through summer sheen and winter shade Tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd.
In bold enthusiastic glee I sung rude strains of minstrelsy, Which mingling with died o'er the dale, Unheeded as the plover's wail.
Oft where the waving rushes shed A shelter frail around my head, Weening, though not through hopes of fame, To fix on these more lasting claim, I'd there secure in rustic scroll The wayward fancies of the soul.
Even where yon lofty rocks arise, h.o.a.r as the clouds on wintry skies, Wrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath The colder cone of drifted wreath, I noted them afar from ken, Till ink would freeze within the pen; So deep the spell which bound the heart Unto the bard's undying art-- So rapt the charm that still beguiled The minstrel of the mountains wild.'
”The ancients had a maxim--'Revenge is sweet.' In rural, as well as in other life, there are things said and done which are more or less ungenerous. These, if at any time they came my way, I repelled as best I might. But I did not stop here; whether such matters, when occurring, might concern myself as an individual or not, I took it upon me, as if I had been a 'learned judge,' to write satires upon such persons as I knew or conceived to have spoken or acted in aught contrary to good manners.
These squibs were written through the impulse of offended feeling, or the stirrings of that injudicious spirit which sometimes prompts a man to exercise a power merely because he possesses it. They were still, after all, only as things of private experiment, and not intended ever to go forth to the world--though it happened otherwise. I usually carried a lot of these writings in my hat, and by and by, unlike most other young authors, I got a publisher unsought for. This was the wind, which, on a wild day, swept my hat from my head, and tattering its contents asunder from their fold, sent them away over hill and dale like a flock of wild fowl. I recovered some where they had halted in bieldy places; others of them went further, and fell into other hands, and particularly into those of a neighbour, who, a short while previously, had played an unmanly part relating to a sheep and the march which ran between us. He found his unworthy proceeding boldly discussed, in an epistle which, I daresay, no other carrier would ever have conveyed to him but the unblus.h.i.+ng mountain blast. He complained to others, whom he found more or less involved in his own predicament, and the thing went disagreeably abroad. My master, through good taste and feeling, was vexed, as I understood, that I should have done anything that gave ground for accusation, though he did not mention the subject to myself; but my father, some days after the mischief had commenced, came to me upon the hill, and not in very good humour, disapproved of my imprudent conduct. As for the consequences of this untoward event, it proved the mean of revealing what I had hitherto concealed--procuring for me a sort of local popularity little to be envied. I made the best improvement of it, as I then thought, that lay in my power--by writing a satire upon myself.
”I continued shepherd at Deloraine two years, and then went in the same capacity to the late Mr Knox of Todrigg; and if at the former place I had been well and happy, here I was still more so. His son William, the poet of 'The Lonely Hearth,' paid me much friendly attention. He commended my verses, and augured my success as one of the song-writers of my native land. In those days, I did not write with the most remote view to publication. My aim did not extend beyond the gratification of hearing my mountain strains sung by lad or la.s.s, as time and place might favour. And when, in the dewy gloaming of a summer eve, returning home from the hill, and 'the kye were in the loan,' I did hear this much, I thought, no doubt, that
”'The swell and fall of these wild tones Were worth the pomp of a thousand thrones.'
”William Crozier, author of 'The Cottage Muse,' was also my neighbour and friend at Todrigg, during the summer part of the year; and even at this hour I feel delight in recalling to memory the happy harmony of thought and feeling that blended with and enhanced the genial suns.h.i.+ne of those departed days. I rejoice to dwell upon those remote and rarely-trodden pastoral solitudes, among which my lot in the early years of life was so continually cast; few may well conceive how distinctly I can recall them. Memory, which seems often to const.i.tute the mind itself, more, perhaps, than any other faculty, can set them so brightly before me, as if they were painted on a dark midnight sky with brushes dipped in the essence of living light. To appreciate thoroughly the grandeur of the mountain solitudes, it is necessary to have dwelt among the scenes, and to have looked upon them at every season of the ever-changing year. They are fresh with solemn beauty, when bathed in the deep dews of a summer morning; or in autumn, if you have attained to the border of the mystery which has overhung your path, and therefore to a station high enough for the survey, all that meets the eye shall be as a dream of poetry itself. The deep folds of white vapour fill up glen and hollow, till the summit of the mountains, near and far away--far as sight itself can penetrate--are only seen tinged with the early radiance of the sun, the whole so combined as to appear a limitless plain of variegated marble, peaceful as heaven, and solemnly serene as eternity.
What Winter writes with his frozen finger I need not state. When the venerable old man, Gladstanes, perished among the stormy blasts of these wilds, I was one of about threescore of men who for three days traversed them in search of the dead. Then was the scenery of the mountains impressive, much beyond what can well be spoken. The bridal that loses the bride through some wayward freak of the fair may be sad enough; so also the train, in its dark array, that conveys the familiar friend to the chamber where the light of nature cannot come. But in this latter case, the hearts that still beat, necessarily know that their part is resignation, and suspense and anxiety mingle not in the mood of the living, as it relates to the dead; but otherwise is it with those who seem already const.i.tuting the funeral train of one who should have been--yet who is not there to be buried.
”'The feeling is nameless that makes us unglad, And a strange, wild dismayment it brings; Which yet hath no match in the solemn and sad Desolation of men and of things.
”'The hill-foxes howl'd round the wanderer's way, When his aim and his pathway were lost; And effort has then oft too much of dismay To pay well the toil it may cost.
If fate has its privilege, death has its power, And is fearful where'er it may fall, But worse it may seem 'mong the blasts of the moor, Where all that approaches portends to devour, Nor fixes till first it appal.
”'No mercy obtains in the tempests that rave, By the sky-frozen elements fed, And there comes no hand that is willing to save, And soothe, till the spirit be fled; But the storms round the thrones of the wilderness break O'er the frail in the solitude cast, And howl in their strength and impatience to take Their course to commix with the roar of the lake Where it flings forth its foam on the blast.
”'Lo! 'neath where the heath hangs so dark o'er yon peak, Another of Adam lay lone, Where the bield could not shelter the weary and weak, By the strife of the tempest o'erthrown.
No raven had fed, and the hill-fox had fled, If there he had yet come abroad, And the stillness reign'd deep o'er his cold moorland bed, Which came down in the power of the sleep of the dead When the spirit return'd to its G.o.d.'
These are a few out of many more lines written on this subject, which at the time was so deeply interesting to mind and heart.”
Mr Riddell here states that his poetical style of composition about this period underwent a considerable change. He laid aside his wayward wit for serious sentiment, an improvement which he ascribes to his admiration of the elegant strains of his friend, young Knox.
”My fortune in life,” he proceeds, ”had not placed me within the reach of a library, and I had read almost none; and although I had attempted to write, I merely followed the course which instinct pointed out. Need I state further, that if in these days I employed my mind and pen among the mountains as much as possible, my thoughts also often continued to pursue the same practice, even when among others, by the 'farmer's ingle.' I retired to rest when others retired, but if not outworn by matters of extra toil, the ardour of thought, through love of the poet's undying art, would, night after night for many hours, debar the inroads of sleep. The number of schools which I have particularised as having attended may occasion some surprise at the deficiency of my scholars.h.i.+p.
For this, various reasons are a.s.signable, all of which, however, hinge upon these two formidable obstacles--the inconveniency of local position, and the thoughtless inattention of youth. In remote country places, long and rough ways, conjoined not unfrequently with wild weather, require that children, before they can enter school, be pretty well grown up; consequently, they quit it the sooner. They are often useful at home in the summer season, or circ.u.mstances may destine them to hire away. Among these inconveniences, one serious drawback is, that the little education they do get is rarely obtained continuously, and regular progress is interrupted. Much of what has been gained is lost during the intervals of non-attendance, and every new return to the book is little else than a new beginning. So was it with me. At the time when my father hired a teacher into his house, it was for what is termed the winter quarter, and I was then somewhat too young to be tied down to the regular routine of school discipline; and if older when boarded away, the other obstruction to salutary progress began to operate grievously against me. I acquired bit by bit the common education--reading, writing, and arithmetic. So far as I remember, grammar was not much taught at any of these schools, and the spelling of words was very nearly as little attended to as the meaning which they are appointed to convey was explained or sought after.
”But the non-understanding of words is less to be marvelled at than that a man should not understand himself. At this hour I cannot conceive how I should have been so recklessly careless about learning and books when at school, and yet so soon after leaving it seriously inclined towards them. I see little else for it than to suppose that boys who are bred where they have no companions are p.r.o.ne to make the most of companions.h.i.+p when once attained to. And then, in regard to books, as of these I rarely got more than what might serve as a whet to the appet.i.te, I might have the desire of those whose longings after what they would obtain are increased by the difficulties which interpose between them and the possession. One book which in school I sometimes got a glance of, I would have given anything to possess: this was a small volume ent.i.tled, 'The Three Hundred Animals.'
”I cannot forbear mentioning that, when at Deloraine, I was greatly advantaged by an old woman, called Mary Hogg, whose cottage stood on an isolated corner of the lands on which my flock pastured. Her husband had been a shepherd, who, many years previous to this period, perished in a snow-storm. In her youth she had opportunities of reading history, and other literature, and she did not only remember well what she had read, but could give a distinct and interesting account of it. In going my wonted rounds, few days there were on which I did not call and listen to her intelligent conversation. She was a singularly good woman--a sincere Christian; and the books which she lent me were generally of a religious kind, such as the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the 'Holy War;' but here I also discovered a romance, the first which I had ever seen. It was printed in the Gothic letter, and ent.i.tled 'Prissimus, the Renowned Prince of Bohemia.' Particular scenes and characters in 'Ivanhoe'
reminded me strikingly of those which I had formerly met with in this old book of black print. And I must mention that few books interested me more than 'Bailey's Dictionary.' Day after day I bore it to the mountains, and I have an impression that it was a more comprehensive edition of the work than I have ever since been able to meet with.
”At Todrigg my reading was extended; and having begun more correctly to appreciate what I did read, the intention which I had sometimes entertained gathered strength: this was to make an effort to obtain a regular education. The consideration of the inadequacy of my means had hitherto bridled my ambition; but having herded as a regular shepherd nearly three years, during which I had no occasion to spend much of my income, my prospects behoved to be a little more favourable. It was in this year that the severest trial which had yet crossed my path had to be sustained. The death of my father overthrew my happier mood; at the same time, instead of subduing my secret aim, the event rather strengthened my determination. My portion of my father's worldly effects added something considerable to my own gainings; and, resigning my situation, I bade farewell to the crook and plaid. I went to Biggar, in Clydesdale, where I knew the schoolmaster was an approved cla.s.sical scholar. Besides, my Glencotha reminiscences tended to render me partial to this part of the world, and in the village I had friends with whom I could suitably reside. The better to insure attention to what I was undertaking, I judged it best to attend school during the usual hours. A learner was already there as old in years, and nearly as stout in form, as myself, so that I escaped from the wonderment which usually attaches to singularity much more comfortably than I antic.i.p.ated. There were also two others in the school, who had formerly gone a considerable way in the path of cla.s.sic lore, and had turned aside, but who, now repenting of their apostasy, returned to their former faith. These were likewise well grown up, and I may state that they are now both eminent as scholars and public men. The individual first mentioned and I sat in the master's desk, which he rarely, if ever, occupied himself; and although we were diligent upon the whole, yet occasionally our industry and conduct as learners were far from deserving approbation. To me the confinement was frequently irksome and oppressive, especially when the days were bright with the beauty of suns.h.i.+ne. There were ways, woods, and even wilds, not far apart from the village, which seemed eternally wooing the step to retirement, and the mind to solitary contemplation.
Some verses written in this school have been preserved, which will convey an idea of the cast of feeling which produced them:--
”Discontented and uncheery, Of this noise and learning weary, Half my mind, to madness driven, Woos the lore by nature given; 'Mong fair fields and flowing fountains, Lonely glens and lofty mountains, Charm'd with nature's wildest grandeur, Lately wont was I to wander, Wheresoever fancy led me, Came no barrier to impede me; Still from early morn till even, In the light of earth and heaven, Musing on whatever graces, Livelier scenes or lonelier places, Till a nameless pleasure found me Living, like a dream, around me,-- How, then, may I be contented, Thus confined and thus tormented!
”'Still, oh! still 'twere lovelier rather To be roaming through the heather; And where flow'd the stream so gla.s.sy, 'Mong its flowers and margins mossy, Where the flocks at noon their path on Came to feed by birk and hawthorn; Or upon the mountain lofty, Seated where the wind blew softly, With my faithful friend beside me, And my plaid from sun to hide me, And the volume oped before me, I would trace the minstrel's story, Or mine own wild harp awaken, 'Mid the deep green glens of braken, Free and fearlessly revealing All the soul of native feeling.
”''Stead of that eternal humming, To the ear for ever coming-- Humming of these thoughtless beings, In their restless pranks and pleaings; And the sore-provoked preceptor Roaring, ”Silence!”--O'er each quarter Silence comes, as o'er the valley, Where all rioted so gaily, When the sudden bursting thunder Overpowers with awe and wonder-- Till again begins the fuss-- 'Master, Jock's aye nippin' us!'
I could hear the fountains flowing, Where the light hill-breeze was blowing, And the wild-wing'd plover wailing, Round the brow of heaven sailing; Bleating flocks and skylarks singing, Echo still to echo ringing-- Sounds still, still so wont to waken That no note of them is taken, Yet which seem to lend a.s.sistance To the blessing of existence.
”'Who shall trow thee wise or witty, Lore of ”the Eternal City,”