But here was peace, that peace which home can yield; I rise, dear Mary, from the soundest rest, JOHN LEYDEN. JOHN LEYDEN, a distinguished oriental scholar as well as a poet, was a native of Denholm, Roxburghshire. He was the son of humble parents, but the ardent borderer fought his way to learning and celebrity. His parents, seeing his desire for instruction, determined to educate him for the church, and he was entered of Edinburgh college in 1790, in the fifteenth year of his age. He made rapid progress; was an excellent Latin and Greek scholar, and acquired also the French, Spanish, Italian, and German, besides studying the Hebrew, Arabic, and Persian. He became no mean proficient in mathematics and various branches of science. Indeed, every difficulty seemed to vanish before his commanding talents, his retentive memory, and robust application. His college vacations were spent at home; and as his father's cottage afforded him little opportunity for quiet and seclusion, he looked out for accommodations abroad. In a wild recess,' says Sir Walter Scott, in the den or glen which gives name to the village of Denholm, he contrived a sort of furnace for the purpose of such chemical experiments as he was adequate to performing. But his chief place of retirement was the small parish church, a gloomy and ancient building, generally believed in the neighbourhood to be haunted. To this chosen place of study, usually locked during week days, Leyden made entrance by means of a window, read there for many hours in the day, and deposited his books and specimens in a retired pew. It was a well-chosen spot of seclusion, for the kirk (excepting during divine service) is rather a place of terror to the Scottish rustic, and that of Cavers was rendered more so by many a tale of ghosts and witchcraft, of which it was the supposed scene, and to which Leyden, partly to indulge his humour, and partly to secure his retirement, contrived to make some modern additions. The nature of his abstruse studies, some specimens of natural history, as toads and adders, left exposed in their spirit-vials, and one or two practical jests played off upon the more curious of the peasantry, rendered his gloomy haunt not only venerated by the wise, but feared by the simple of the parish.' From this singular and romantic study, Leyden sallied forth, with his curious and various stores, to astonish his college associates. He already numbered among his friends the most distinguished literary and scientific men of Edinburgh. On the expiration of his college studies, Leyden accepted the situation of tutor to the sons of Mr Campbell of Fairfield, whom he accompanied to the university of St Andrews. There he pursued his own researches connected with oriental learning, and in 1799 published a sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Western Africa. He wrote also various copies of verses and translations from the northern and oriental languages, which he published in the Edinburgh Magazine. In 1800 Leyden was ordained for the church. He continued, however, to study and compose, and contributed to Lewis's Tales of Wonder and Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. So ardent was he in assisting the editor of the Minstrelsy, that he on one occasion walked between forty and fifty miles, and back again, for the sole purpose of visiting an old person who possessed an ancient historical ballad. His next publication was a new edition of The Complaynt of Scotland, an ancient work written about 1548, which Leyden enriched with a preliminary dissertation, notes, and a glossary. He also undertook the management, for one year, of the Scots Magazine. His strong desire to visit foreign countries induced his friends to apply to government for some appointment for him connected with the learning and languages of the East. The only situation which they could procure was that of surgeon's assistant; and in five or six months, by incredible labour, Leyden qualified himself, and obtained his diploma. The sudden change of his profession,' says Scott, 'gave great amusement to some of his friends.' In December 1802, Leyden was summoned to join the Christmas fleet of Indiamen, in consequence of his appointment as assistant-surgeon on the Madras establishment. He finished his poem, The Scenes of Infancy, descriptive of his native vale, and left Scotland for ever. After his arrival at Madras, the health of Leyden gave way, and he was obliged to remove to Prince of Wales Island. He resided there for some time, visiting Sumatra and the Malayan peninsula, and amassing the curious information concerning the language, literature, and descent of the Indo-Chinese tribes, which afterwards enabled him to lay a most valuable dissertation before the Asiatic Society at Calcutta. Leyden quitted Prince of Wales Island, and was appointed a professor in the Bengal college. This was soon exchanged for a more lucrative appointment, namely, that of a judge in Calcutta. His spare time was, as usual, devoted to oriental manuscripts and antiquities. I may die in the attempt,' he wrote to a friend, but if I die without surpassing Sir William Jones a hundredfold in oriental learning, let never a tear for me profane the eye of a borderer.' The possibility of an early death in a distant land often crossed the mind of the ambitious student. In his Scenes of Infancy,' he expresses his anticipation of such an event in a passage of great melody and pathos. ་ The silver moon at midnight cold and still, In 1811 Leyden accompanied the governor-general to Java. His spirit of romantic adventure,' says Scott, led him literally to rush upon death; for, with another volunteer who attended the expedition, he threw himself into the surf, in order to be the first Briton of the expedition who should set foot upon Java. When the success of the well-concerted movements of the invaders had given them possession of the town of Batavia, Leyden displayed the same ill-omened precipitation, in his haste to examine a library, or rather a warehouse of books, in which many Indian manuscripts of value were said to be deposited. A library in a Dutch settlement was not, as might have been expected, in the best order; the apartment had not been regularly ventilated, and either from this circumstance, or already affected by the fatal sickness peculiar to Batavia, Leyden, when he left the place, had a fit of shivering, and declared the atmosphere was enough to give any mortal a fever. The presage was too just he took his bed, and died in three days (August 28, 1811), on the eve of the battle which gave Java to the British empire.' The Poetical Remains of Leyden were published in 1819, with a Memoir of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton. Sir John Malcolm and Sir Walter Scott both honoured his memory with notices of his life and genius. The Great Minstrel has also alluded to his untimely death in his Lord of the Isles.' Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore Scenes sung by him who sings no more, Has Leyden's cold remains. The allusion here is to a ballad by Leyden, entitled The Mermaid, the scene of which is laid at Corrievreckin, and which was published with another, The Cout of Keeldar, in the Border Minstrelsy. His longest poem is his 'Scenes of Infancy,' descriptive of his native vale of Teviot. His versification is soft and musical; he is an elegant rather than a forcible poet. His ballad strains are greatly superior to his 'Scenes of Infancy.' Sir Walter Scott has praised the opening of "The Mermaid,' as exhibiting a power of numbers which, for mere melody of sound, has seldom been excelled in English poetry. Sonnet on Sabbath Morn. With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, Ode to an Indian Gold Coin. Slave of the dark and dirty mine! So bright, whom I have bought so dear! The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! * A writer in the Edinburgh Review (1805) considers that Grahame borrowed the opening description in his Sabbath from the above sonnet by Leyden. The images are common to poetry, besides being congenial to Scottish habits and feelings. 61 Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played, Revives no more in after-time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave; The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widowed heart to cheer: Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine; Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true! Dark and untimely met my view- A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, Of sun-rays tipt with death was borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey; Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! The Mermaid. On Jura's heath how sweetly swell The murmurs of the mountain bee! How softly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea! But softer floating o'er the deep, The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsay. Aloft the purple pennons wave, As, parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars, the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore. In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay: For her he chid the flagging sail, The lovely maid of Colonsay. 'And raise,' he cried, 'the song of love, The maiden sung with tearful smile, When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove, We left afar the lonely isle! "When on this ring of ruby red Shall die," she said, "the crimson hue, Know that thy favourite fair is dead, Or proves to thee and love untrue." Now, lightly poised, the rising oar Disperses wide the foamy spray, And echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, Resounds the song of Colonsay. 'Softly blow, thou western breeze, Softly rustle through the sail! Soothe to rest the furrowy seas, Before my love, sweet western gale! Where the wave is tinged with red, And the russet sea-leaves grow, Mariners, with prudent dread, Shun the shelving reefs below. As you pass through Jura's sound, With wrinkled form and wreathed train, O'er the verge of Scarba's steep, The sea-snake heave his snowy mane, Sea-green sisters of the main, Softly rustle through the sail! Before my love, sweet western gale!' Thus all to soothe the chieftain's wo, Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow, He seemed her parting sigh to hear. Impatient for the rising day, That streaks with foam the ocean green; While forward still the rowers urge Their course, a female form was seen. That sea-maid's form, of pearly light, Was whiter than the downy spray, And round her bosom, heaving bright, Her glossy yellow ringlets play. Borne on a foamy crested wave, She reached amain the bounding prow, Then clasping fast the chieftain brave, She, plunging, sought the deep below. Ah! long beside thy feigned bier, The monks the prayer of death shall say, And long for thee, the fruitless tear, Shall weep the maid of Colonsay! But downward like a powerless corse, The eddying waves the chieftain bear; He only heard the moaning hoarse Of waters murmuring in his ear. The murmurs sink by slow degrees, No more the waters round him rave; Lulled by the music of the seas, He lies within a coral cave. In dreamy mood reclines he long, Soft as that harp's unseen control, In morning dreams which lovers hear, When clouds dissolve the dews unseen, Smile on the flowers that bloom more fair, And fields that glow with livelier greenSo melting soft the music fell; It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray'Say, heard'st thou not these wild notes swell! Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay.' Like one that from a fearful dream He heard that strain, so wildly sweet, It shone like ocean's snowy foam; Her mirror crystal, pearl the comb. Her pearly comb the siren took, And careless bound her tresses wild; Still o'er the mirror stole her look, As on the wondering youth she smiled. Again she raised the melting lay; With rubies and with emeralds set; Shall sing, when we for love are met. How sweet to dance with gliding feet Along the level tide so green, Responsive to the cadence sweet That breathes along the moonlight scene! And soft the music of the main Rings from the motley tortoise-shell, While moonbeams o'er the watery plain Seem trembling in its fitful swell. How sweet, when billows heave their head, And shake their snowy crests on high, Serene in Ocean's sapphire-bed Beneath the tumbling surge to lie; To trace, with tranquil step, the deep, Where pearly drops of frozen dew In concave shells unconscious sleep, Or shine with lustre, silvery blue ! Then all the summer sun, from far, Pour through the wave a softer ray; While diamonds in a bower of spar, At eve shall shed a brighter day. Nor stormy wind, nor wintry gale, That o'er the angry ocean sweep, Shall e'er our coral groves assail, Calm in the bosom of the deep. Through the green meads beneath the sea, Enamoured we shall fondly strayThen, gentle warrior, dwell with me, And leave the maid of Colonsay!' While mine beats high in every vein: My heart would grow as cold as thine.' These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, To joy, to love's delicious thrill? Her eyes are milder than the dove! Her eyes are dim with tears for me; Unfolds in length her scaly train; And view far off the sea-nymphs play; Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay. I feel my former soul return, It kindles at thy cold disdain ; And has a mortal dared to spurn A daughter of the foamy main !' She fled, around the crystal cave The rolling waves resume their road; But enter not the nymph's abode. The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring. And heart-sick, oft he waked to weep, But still the ring, of ruby red, Retained its vivid crimson hue, 'O give to me that ruby ring, That on thy finger glances gay, 'Except thou quit thy former love, Content to dwell for aye with me, Thy scorn my finny frame might move To tear thy limbs amid the sea.' "Then bear me swift along the main, The lonely isle again to see, And when I here return again, I plight my faith to dwell with thee.' An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, While slow unfolds her scaly train ; With gluey fangs her hands were clad; She lashed with webbed fin the main. He grasps the Mermaid's scaly sides, As with broad fin she oars her way; Beneath the silent moon she glides, That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay. Proud swells her heart! she deems at last To lure him with her silver tongue, And, as the shelving rocks she passed, She raised her voice, and sweetly sung. In softer, sweeter strains she sung, Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay, When light to land the chieftain sprung, To hail the maid of Colonsay. O sad the Mermaid's gay notes fell, So sadly mourns the writhed shell The charm-bound sailors know the day; WILLIAM GIFFORD. WILLIAM GIFFORD, a poet, translator, and critic, afforded a remarkable example of successful application to science and literature under the most unfavourable circumstances. He was born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, in April 1756. His father had been a painter and glazier, but both the parents of the poet died when he was young; and after some little education, he was, at the age of thirteen, placed on board a coasting vessel by his godfather, a man who was supposed to have benefited himself at the expense of Gifford's parents. It will be easily conceived,' he says, 'that my life was a life of hardship. I was not only "a ship-boy on the high and giddy mast," but also in the cabin, where every menial office fell to my lot: yet if I was restless and discontented, I can safely say it was not so much on account of this, as of my being precluded from all possibility of reading; as my master did not possess, nor do I recollect seeing, during the whole time of my abode with him, a single book of any description, except the Coasting Pilot.' Whilst thus pursuing his life of a cabin boy, Gifford was often seen by the fishwomen of his native town running about the beach in a ragged jacket and trousers. They mentioned this to the people of Ashburton, and never without commiserating his change of condition. This tale, often repeated, awakened at length the pity of the auditors, and, as the next step, their resentment against the man who had reduced him to such a state of wretchedness. His godfather was, on this account, induced to recall him from the sea, and put him again to school. He made rapid progress, and even hoped to succeed his old and infirm schoolmaster. In his fifteenth year, however, his godfather, conceiving that he had got learning enough, and that his own duty towards him was fairly discharged, put him apprentice to a shoemaker. Gifford hated his new profession with a perfect hatred. At this time he possessed but one book in the world, and that was a treatise on algebra, of which he had no knowledge; but meeting with Fenning's Introduction, he mastered both works. This was not done,' he states, without difficulty. I had not a farthing on earth, nor a friend to give me one: pen, ink, and paper, therefore (in despite of the flippant remark of Lord Orford), were, for the most part, as completely out of my reach as a crown and sceptre. There was indeed a resource, but the utmost caution and secrecy were necessary in applying it. I beat out pieces of leather as smooth as possible, and wrought my problems on them with a blunted awl: for the rest, my memory was tenacious, and I could multiply and divide by it to a great extent.' He next tried poetry, and some of his 'lamentable doggerel' falling into the hands of Mr Cookesley a benevolent surgeon of Ashburton, that gentleman set about a subscription for purchasing the remainder of the time of his apprenticeship, and enabling him to procure a better education. The scheme was successful; and in little more than two years, Gifford had made such extraordinary application, that he was pronounced fit for the university. The place of Biblical Lecturer was procured for him at Exeter college, and this, with such occasional assistance from the country as Mr Cookesley undertook to provide, was thought sufficient to enable him to live, at least, till he had taken a degree. An accidental circumstance led to Gifford's advancement. He had been accustomed to correspond, on literary subjects, with a person in London, his letters being enclosed in covers, and sent, to save postage, to Lord Grosvenor. One day he inadvertently omitted the direction, and his lordship necessarily supposing the letter to be meant for himself, opened and read it. He was struck with the contents, and after seeing the writer and hearing him relate the circumstances of his life, undertook the charge of his present support and future establishment; and, till this last could be effected to his wish, invited him to come and reside with him. These,' says the grateful scholar, 'were not words of course: they were more than fulfilled in every point. I did go and reside with him, and I experienced a warm and cordial reception, and a kind and affectionate esteem, that has known neither diminution nor interruption from that hour to this, a period of twenty years.' Part of these, it may be remarked, were spent in attending the earl's eldest son, Lord Belgrave, on a tour of Europe, which must have tended greatly to inform and expand the mind of the scholar. Gifford appeared as an author in 1794. His first production was a satirical poem entitled The Baviad, which was directed against a class of sentimental poetasters of that day, usually passing under the collective appellation of the Della Crusca School, (Mrs Piozzi, Mrs Robinson, Mr Greathead, Mr Merry, Weston, Parsons, &c.), conspicuous for their affectation and bad taste, and their high-flown compliments on one another. There was a specious brilliancy in these exotics,' he remarks, which dazzled the native grubs, who had scarce ever ventured beyond a sheep, and a crook, and a rose-tree grove; with an ostentatious display of "blue hills," and "crashing torrents," and "petrifying suns." Gifford's vigorous exposure completely demolished this set of rhymesters, who were probably the spawn of Darwin and Lichfield. Anna Matilda, Laura Maria, Edwin, Orlando, &c., sunk into instant and irretrievable contempt; and the worst of the number (a man Williams, who assumed the name of Pasquin for his ribald strains') was nonsuited in an action against Gifford's publisher. The satire was universally read |