In Memoriam. JAMES B. BROWN, Esquire. "J. B. SELKIRK." Author of "Ethics and Aesthetics of Modern Poetry," "Bible Truths with Shakesperian Parallels," "Poems," etc. Farewell, kind heart! thy battle's o'er, O truer singer ever tuned his harp by Border streams than he whose lamented death occurred at Selkirk last Christmas Day. An artist to the finger-tips, his sensitive nature shunned publicity, and while oft he sang because he must, his desire was for quiet and contemplation. Possessing a mind richly stored with the thoughts of the great masters of English literature a cultured artist, and an observant traveller, he met the leading thinkers of his time on their own level, and won their respect and appreciation. His love for music was both a passion and a solace, and many an hour he passed with no companion but his favourite piano, to which he revealed his hopes and fears in skilful improvisations. His interest in ecclesiastical matters was always strong, and it remained keen to the last, as is shown by his having left a most interest (J. B. S.) ing MSS. pamphlet in which he pleads earnestly for Creed revision. As an artist with the pencil, he found unfailing delight in depicting some favourite nook of his beloved Borderland--on Ettrick or Yarrow for preference. The writer recalls with melancholy interest that the last time he walked with his friend, was to view the glorious strath of the above-mentioned rivers as seen from the slope of the road near the westmost gate of the Haining The appreciation of him which appeared in the February and March numbers of the BORDER MAGAZINE for 1899 contained our estimate of the high place which he held as a poet and essayist. It also contained much authentic information regarding him, which probably would never otherwise have been known to the world. In view of this, it is sufficient to say at present that although cultured and cosmopolitan, his patriotism ever rang true. His "Songs of Yarrow and the Border" touch the loftier peaks of poetic feeling and descriptive power, none the less so that many of them are in the Scots vernacular. The "Miscellaneous Poems" are always attractive and characteristic, covering a canvas that stretches from Italy to the hills around Loch Skene. His prose writings give him a.high place as a thinker, and are distinguished for their scholarship and style. He has left many unpublished pieces, notably a completed novel of considerable power, which we hope may be published yet. Amongst other acquirements he was a linguist, and it had a touch of pathos in it to be told by him lately that in his retirement he was finding solace by reading Dante in the original for the tenth time! As a citizen, his civic ideals were high. As an educationist, his views were anchored to the Bible. As a writer, his deep religious spirit vitalized all he ever wrote. But who can speak of his unrecorded conversation? We are familiar with the "Table-Talk" of many famous men, but amongst them all only the "Thoughts for Heart and Life" of the late Professor John Ker, D.D., approach in any degree to those of our translated friend for versatility and philosophic discernment. A man of independent mind, and keenly sensitive, he had a tender heart, and the tangible proof which he had five years ago, that his services to literature were neither undervalued nor forgotten moved him deeply. It is futile to conjecture what he might have done for literature had he been given better health. Let us rather be thankful for what we have got from his gifted pen, and be assured that in after years, not only in the Borders, but much further afield, his name will be honoured and his work be more and more appreciated. Farewell, noble soul! farewell, sweet singer! We shall miss thee when the western breeze blows down Ettrick with Spring's reviving breath, and when the heather you so dearly loved flushes the Yarrow hills once more! Enough, if thy spirit still abides with us, and thy fervour continues to inspire the hearts of future generations to emulate thy sympathy, thy patriotism, and thy faith! 66 Down the valley famed in song, 'Hush'd our minstrel's harp for aye!" Dryhope flares the bale-fire high, From the hills by dark Loch Skene, Not alone did nature bind This brave soul so high and tender; Faith, with scenes of visioned splendour- Shall we mourn as if were dead Men shall hear their glad tones ringing Trumpet-like from out the sky'Heaven-born singers never die!" DUNCAN FRASER. [By the courtesy of William Fowler, Esq., of Selkirk, we are able to reproduce a photo of Mr Brown's grave as it appeared on the 29th of December-a day after the funeral.] "J. B. Selkirk "A Personal Impression. manner. B. SELKIRK," as Mr James B. Brown chose to call himself, needs no introduction to the readers of this journal. Yet his death on Christmas Day brings him before his many admirers once more in a pathetically pronounced It was a large company that, three days later, followed his remains to Selkirk Churchyard. He was laid to rest inside the ruined walls of the old Parish Church-now a veritable Friedhof, as the Germans say, or Court of Peace. There lie the Murrays of Philiphaugh, from the thirteenth century onwards, and there too-indeed in the very next grave to that of "J. B. S."-lie the father and nother of that brilliant and versatile Scot, Andrew Lang, whose parents died in 1869, within two days of each other, and were interred together at the same hour. It is not our present intention to discuss, except incidentally, the literary work of Mr Brown. Rather is this to be a personal impression of the man, as one of his friends found him. Yet our indebtedness to him as a writer may be expressed in a manner by merely naming his books. These are: In prose-"Bible Truths and Shakespearian Parallels," and "Ethics and Esthetics of Modern Poetry,"the latter containing thoughtful and charming essays, some of which had previously appeared in "Blackwood" and "Cornhill." In poetry"Yarrow and Other Poems" (Longman's 1869), and "Poems" (Blackwood, 1896). Possibly this list is not complete. But what is it merely to mention these books? To those who know them not they are empty titles; but to those who know them the simple record of the names bursts into blossom in the mind that has loved them, and once more the enchanted Borderland lies before us under the glamour of a pen instinct with the spirit of romance and chivalry. No doubt "J. B. Selkirk" is the Border laureate! When a man like Mr Andrew Lang frankly admits that "Death in Yarrow" caused him to shed tears, "which, in the words of Fred Bayham, were 'manly, sir, manly""; when Prof. Veitch wrote, "We have no poem with which to compare The Reiver's Ride' since the pen dropped from the hand of Walter Scott"; when the "Athenæum" asserts that "After the Di Majores of Yarrow Poets-Scott, Wordsworth, Hogg-we are inclined to think J. B. Selkirk' bears the palm among these contributory 'makars'; when the "National Observer," in its forceful days, considered "Death in Yarrow" and "Retreat in Yarrow" as "spotless," we may rest assured that as a singer of Yarrow and Ettrick, and the ballad-haunted land of the Border, "J. B. S." occupies an unchallengeable position. And what a wonderful countryside it all is! Take this as at once an example of his beautiful prose and as an eloquent statement of his enthusiasm for and love of the Border and its rich heritage of poetry. "The ballads of no country came near them. This was no exaggerated estimate of a perfervid Scot, but the valuation of the civilised world, wherever literary culture had found a footing. These poems occupied a unique place in litera Almost nothing known of the origin of the finest of them, and absolutely nothing of the authors. There never was such a case of genius climbing into heaven and drawing the ladder so completely after them. No mortal man knew the whence and the whither of that divine breath which passed over the Borderland, awoke the silent Memnon of her muse, and passed away into silence again. All that was known was that when it did pass away it left every hill and valley in that delectable country clothed and enriched with the consecration of the poet's dream; it left every river, lake, and mountain tarn flushed with the light that never was on sea or land." But we err grievously if we consider the poet merely what is termed "a local singer"-even if that locality be broad Borderland itself. He is a poet of a wider view. To him poetry was a passion. He gave it, as he sings in "Poesy," "love for love." Compared with the poet's power to bless, he held that princes' and politicians' names are such as "we hardly know that we possess." Did not Mr Gladstone say something of the same sort in the presence of Tennyson when they voyaged together in the "Pembroke Castle" in 1883? It was the spirit of poetry that he carried everywhere with him. He spent all his life practically in Selkirk, and the countryside is teeming with rich material for verse, yet he would have been a poet anywhere, and he would assuredly have thrown over any material basis of earth and sky, the light of fancy and imagination. He is much more than the laureate of the Border--though that in itself is a title of no mean distinction. This enquiry may, however, be left to others. It cannot be further pursued now, for my object is rather to recreate for my readers out of happy and tender memories the man as I found him. Picture to yourself, then, a man, not over tall, but very erect, with shrewd yet kindly eyes, and fine hair like spun silver. The forehead is both broad and high. In short, he appeared to me to be not at all unlike what Thackeray in miniature might be, as far as personal appearance was concerned. He is sitting in a little room high up in terraced Selkirk. Looking from the window Foulshiels hill spreads a great shoulder westward, and the sky bends over all. The little room is full of books (many of them first editions) mostly poetry. Now and again the occupant of the easy chair rises and pokes and turns a birch log on the fire, with a poet's love of the attendant pungent scent, the little wheezy noises, and the small intricate activities of the sparks-all precisely as Lowell describes it in "The Vision of Launfal." The mantel board is covered with photographs, and above it there is a fine painting in water-colour of his favourite St Mary's Loch, by Tom Scott, R.S.A. Elsewhere the walls display the poet's own water-colour sketches, for he wields his brush as well as his pen, in the restricted sense of the words. He has, indeed, exhibited at the R.S.A. Show in Edinburgh, having the honour, too, of a place on the line. Presently he may rise at your begging and sit down at the always open piano and fill you with an old-world charm by touching delicately and precisely the notes that give out the all but forgotten sweetness of Haydn and Mozart. You cannot help noting how beautifully shaped are the hands-for those of an old man- -that float over the keyboard. They are very white and long-fingered. This is as "J. B. S." appeared to the present writer. He rises frequently to reach a book, and asks you, "Do you know this-and this?" If you do not, he cries out, "O, you must hear it!" He sits down, and while he reads in very distinct tones his quick eye glances up as a fine line emerges to see whether your face shows that you relish or miss its beauty. To hear him talk at his best one required to have leisure for a long after-dinner conversation. On such occasions as you sat opposite him, blowing, it may be, wreaths of tobacco smoke in his direction-from which, however, none came towards you, for he did not smokehe would talk fluently about his favourite subjects for hours together. Perhaps he felt too keenly to be the kind of polished speaker whose conversation is made up of rounded periods. There was an abruptness, a multitude of little asides, a heat that sometimes showered epithets of no complimentary sort upon those who misread great questions, or misjudged great poetry, as he understood those things. But it was always effective talking withal, finding its way generally, whatever the subject started might be, back to poetry. His knowledge of Shakespeare was wide and accurate, and his veneration for Wordsworth was profound. Hardly less admiration had he for Tennyson, holding, as he did, the firm belief that even yet Tennyson was not rated as highly as next century would be certain to find him. He was wont to refer with pride to the reference to himself in Tennyson's "Life," wherein is recorded a letter sent to him by the late Laureate from Freshwater in 1864. The letter is of more than passing interest, because it gives Tennyson an opportunity of stating what he meant by his little poem, "The Flower"-a poem usually misread. But the letter also shows that Tennyson had, as he himself says, more than dipt into "J. B. Selkirk's" essays. Here it is: : DEAR SIR,-Accept my best thanks for your volume of Essays, one of which I had read before, in the "Cornhill," I think. The world, and especially the schools of our younger poets, would be none the worse for lending you an attentive ear. I may remark that you have fallen into a not uncommon error with respect to my little poem, "The Flower," as if "I" in the poem meant A. T. and the flower my own verses. And so you have narrowed into personality an universal apologue and parable. I once had a letter from a stranger asking whether Christianity were not intended by it. You see by this that I have more than dipt into your book.— Pray believe me, yours in all sincerity, A. TENNYSON. Browning he considered a long way behind Tennyson as a poet, but every year his admiration grew more for the perplexing author of "Sordello" and "The Ring and the Book." “I can never forgive him for his bad style and the liberties he takes with the English language, great man that he is!" he would say, bringing down his hand on his knee with impetuous force. Walt Whitman was "anathema" to him, but any chance reference to Keats invariably brought forth the words: "O, he was a miracle !" His vivacity on such occasions was wonderful, considering that he was sorely subject to insomnia, although he had learned to rest quietly without exciting himself when sleep forsook him or fighting, as he said, to secure the boon. George Herbert was a very especial favourite with him. He fairly revelled in the quaint conceits of "The Pulley" and other of Herbert's beautiful verse-mosaics. He While mentioning religious verse, it may be said that he was a high authority on hymns. On an important book by an expert having a few lines only devoted to it in the "Scotsman,' J. B. S. wrote to the editor protesting. The next post brought the book with it, and the invitation to say what he liked about it. He had his say, and it appeared as a leading article. It may be added that he received a beautiful letter from Cardinal Newman in acknowledgment of his vindication of the completeness of "Lead, Kindly Light," as against Bishop Bickersteth's supplementary verse. was a deeply religious man. The next life was so mixed with this in his view that the transition he has passed through can bring only a partial change. "I am so sure of another life." he would say, "that I cannot now, in my old age, enjoy to the full any writer who denies its existence. Emerson was one of my literary gods long ago, but I have had to give him up, his thoughts of the next world are so nebulous and contradictory." Although a member of the Established Church up till his death, he rarely attended its services, but, sitting at his fireside, he might be found on Sundays reading the Morning or Evening Service of the English Church, which he described--while a gentle expression dwelt for a moment in his eyes-as "very comforting," "though," he added-with a return of a more worldly twinkle to his eyes -"I can spare the sermon well." Many of his friends, however, were clergymen. Of A.K.H.B., for example, he said, "He sent me all his books one by one, and I have no reason to find fault with his criticism of my own work,"-referring to what the popular St Andrews minister wrote of "Death in Yarrow," which was described thus: "For homely pathos and exquisite suggestiveness of many things, nothing finer was ever written. I don't think it is surpassed by anything of its kind in the language. One pronounced feature of the man was his generosity, and his interest in young writers. He took from a portfolio one day a long printed poem of nineteen double stanzas, and on my asking him what it was, he replied, "O, it's a thing I haven't seen for many a long day; something I wrote in savage mood long, long ago. A young man, known to me, came to me one day with tears in his eyes and a "Scotsman" in his hand, pointing out a slaughter-house review of his first book of verse. I threw this off in great heat, and sent it to Russell, who replied, "No, I can't print this: you're too hard on me, but here are a hundred printed copies for you." After reading it he crumpled the paper into a ball and flung it straight at the fire. A quick movement on my part (my field was "point" at cricket long ago!) and I caught it, and so saved it from destruction. It is certainly a tremendous counter-blast, although, in irony, it is headed "The Retort Courteous." But this was his strange work. In his poem, "For the Defence," "J. B. S." promised only to write prose in his old age. But such a thing could not be. Nevertheless it is true that much of his time latterly was spent in writing a novel. As to his latest verse it is distinctly religious, and in it, if one misses some of the old inspiration there is, on the other hand, a distinct return to a simple view of Christianity scarcely to be expected from the man who wrote "The Modern Sphinx." The line with which his last poem ("Vita Umbratilis") ends-"And Thou, my God, and Thou!" seems quite intentionally given as an offset to a well-known quatrain from Omar. He had long regarded death with more than waiting even something like longing-and the words that occur in "Plaited Thorns" he might well take to himself: · "I suffer Death,-where a!! earth's suffering ends, It was from the very verge of the grave, so to speak-only a fortnight before his death-that he wrote to me these beautiful buoyant words, and with them I must conclude this very imperfect impression of a strong, yet sweet and His gentle soul has gone the destined way The Border Almanac, 1905. HE true Border farmer would think the advent of the New Year had been postponed if he did not see the annual issue of Rutherfurd's Border Almanac. This valuable publication in its quaint old-world cover is once more issued by Messrs J. & J. H. Rutherfurd, Kelso, and many folks besides the farmers will derive pleasure from perusing its well-stored pages. The reprints from old newspapers, and the obituary notices of eminent Borderers who have passed away, are sufficient to make the book popular, apart altogether from the vast amount of valuable information which is crowded into its pages. It is a surprising threepence worth, and we trust that the publishers will be long encouraged to continue the issue of this old familiar friend. All live by seeming. The beggar begs with it, and the gay courtier Gains land and title, rank and rule, by seeming: The clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier Motto ("Ivanhoe.") |