BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE. No. CCLXXVII. NOVEMBER, 1838. VOL. XLIV. OUR POCKET COMPANIONS. shower-shrouded-and rushes bleakly rustling as we plashed across the moors. There was no grandeur in the gloom -no hope of thunder. Clouds could not create themselves out of such a barren sky-the atmosphere was rain as it was getting blacker and blacker the rivers rose-and coming to a stand-still, we naturally asked ourselves, "to-night where shall we sleep?" WHAT a day it has been, and what a night it is, and what a hurley-burley yet in heaven! The winds must be mad to keep howling in that way so long after sunset; and we fear to think-faroff as it is of the sea-God spare the ships. In this glen there is nothing with life the tempest can well destroy. The cattle may be eerie, but they are all lying in the lee of the hills-and so are the sheep-or in the hollows of those green waves that undulate along Providentially, at this juncture, a the glen, but are for ever at rest. storm, which, unknown to us blind morHours ago the shepherds left the tals, had been brewing in a sma' still mountains; and all its inmates are by in cloudland, began to muster strength the fireside of every household. As for a burst, and though we cannot say for this hut, it is as still within as a bit that "far off its coming shone," yet of moonlight, and seems to have nowe heard it in the distance, like a conthing to do with the storm. certo of cracked bag-pipes. The rain "Whare hae you been a' day, my boy and in an hour or less the night began had no chance with the whirlwind, Kitty?" We cannot tell. We know where we were yesterday-among the braes of Balwhidder. But to-day-a night like day-there was no sun of any sort -without mist there would have been darkness-and such a mist there was, that the crags, side by side, could not see one another's faces. Yet at some times it was gloomier than at others and we kept walking out of one dungeon into another, like a prisoner vainly attempting to escape in his sleep. We passed along the edges of lochs and heard them dashing as if they were wide; and often all at once saw a cataract. But no mountain tops-only black breasts of heather to break up-we had almost said beau- We and keeping a respectful distance from the river, "on the swelling instep of the mountain's foot"-like an old stag in search of provender-we erelong entered an enclosure,-and heard a house laughing in a loun place, not as if in defiance, but in ignorance of the storm. 46 Like a drowned rat we never can be-so we stooped into the hut, unruffied as an eagle or a swan. No man ever saw a "drookit" eagle or a drippin'" swan, even in a driving deluge; and no man ever saw Christopher North discomposed by the ele. ments. The rain brings the roses into his cheeks, and the blast brightens them; through mist his eyes kindle like angry stars. The house is small, and we have called it a hut; but not small the household. What a dowgs! a decoction of bark! But they soon saw we were no tatterdemallion, and leapt whining up to our breast. One colley, with a cross of the Newfoundlander-a devil, no doubt, at the ducks -we recognised, and he us, as an old acquaintance, and it was manifest he called to mind our having shaken paws with him in Prince's Street as he was on his way through Edinburgh, on a visit with his master to some friends in Fife. Men--women-children, of course-uprose at our entrance; and a better feeling, we hope, than pride expanded our breast when, on dofing our bonnet "An eagle plume his simple cap adorns"- and bowing like a chief-as we are we heard a voice by name hail CHRISTOPHER NORTH. Pooh, pooh, for your fashionable assemblages-in London and Edinburgh, and Paris and Vienna, and Berlin and St Petersburgh, with all their literary lions-where e'er we go-we are welcomed in the wilderness, and there is brightness of joy in the obscurity of our fame. Who are they? Shepherds and herdsmen. That old man fought in Egypt-and though "curst ophthalmy" killed his eyes, he has long forgot that he is blind. With both hands on his grandchild's head he sees she is fairnor think you that shines not for him on the mountains the morning light. And here we have been for an hour or more you may imagine not idle tnough now we are beginning to take some repose. We are by ourselves now in the Spence-as dry as a whistlehaving dined and supped on bannocks of barley-meal, eggs, butter, and honey-while the household-it we had heard laughing, and not the house has said its prayers and gone to bed. Where are we? We said we did not know-but we were lying-yet the world shall not be let into the secret-some spots in the Highlands are sacred still from the intrusion of tourists-and this is felt to be as much our own as if it were one of our dreams. Is it selfish to keep to oneself-unnamed in outer air-the knowledge of the local habitations, in the mighty regions of nature, where not in visionary ministrations, but in real offices of humanity, the soul of an old wanderer, conducted by his good genius, who has never yet threatened to desert him, continues yet to find a happiness he had ceased to hope for-and in the midst of trouble unexpected visitings of peace? We are comfortably and classically wrapt up in a blanket, like John Kemble in Coriolanus. Just look at our Library-arranged on the earth en floor before the peat-fire-to dry; for though the oil-skin linings of our Many-Pocketted are water-proof, as if Mackintoshen, some of the vols. were specky, and the damp has now exhaled. Tiny vols, one and all; and we should not be surpised to find in the morning that some of them had been stolen by the Faires. Diamond editions of twenty of our best English writers-in prose and in verse. We pick up one with our toes--as pre hensile as our fingers-and what is it but-YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS. Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!" Why, we are not a whit tired-never were less sleepy in our lives-and, without a winking, could outwatch the Bear. He must have rather a rough time of it to-night-"surlier as the storms increase." That must be an old pine groaning-but he has stood many a blast, and, steel to the backbone, will bend but not break. Well, let us commence with Old Youngfor though he be somewhat gloomyso at times are we, and we hope you for is not "man born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards?" That reminds us that if we do not put on some more peats the fire will be out and should this "brief candle" follow its example, we may break our shins against that cutty-stool on the Our single small tallow yields an uncertain glimmer in the gloom, and we fear to snuff it with our fingers lest it should leave us where Moses was when his candle went out. Our peat-fire has again subsided-and there is neither moon nor star. Yet with our eyes shut we could read from the book of memory, at any given catchword, the finest passages in the Night Thoughts; and they are in thousands swarming-murmuring humming-though the image is not that of bees. Shakspeare alone is fuller of "thick-coming fancies" than Young. Lavish as he is-profuse prodigal of his riches, we feel that his stores of thought, imagery and sentiment are inexhaustible-his mind as opulent, after all that magnificent outlay, as before the "treasures of the deep" as wonderful in their undiscovered caves as those that have been thrown up on the surging sea. "My hopes and fears Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow Why? The question is asked, but not answered-for the pathos is in itself-and wretched Thought must pause till Doomsday for a reply 'tis not of such a one the Poet says, Yet "here buries all his thoughts, Inters celestial hopes, without one sigh," He inters them not-they seem before his eyes to bury themselves-he looks on with many a sigh-deeper than any grave-but they cease, for 'tis an imaginary funeral, and Fear comes at last to know as well as Hope, that 'twas all a delusion of the soul sick unto death. Then, we can think of that great line and be comforted: "How populous! how vital is the grave!" And of that other line, so tender and so true, "He mourns the dead who lives as they desire." Try to say a new good thing about Time. Don't be afraid of failure, for on such a subject commonplaces are the world's delight-and wisdom is at one with the world. Then take Young. The spirit walks of every day deceased; We live in a world of spirits-for there are three hundred and sixty-five ghosts in the year. But every hour is an angel-a messenger. "'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours; And ask them what report they bore to And how they might have borne more welcome news. Their answers form what men experi ence call." There can be no experience, worth the name, without communion with heaven. The worldly-wise man is a mere mole-or at the best a bat. "Should not cach dial strike us as we pass, Portentous, as the written wall which struck, O'er midnight bowls, the proud Assyrian pale ?" Many men might have said that, but few could have said this "That solar shadow, as it measures life, The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; What more could be said? more?-Ay-listen We take fair days in winter for a spring, age Since he cannot Man must compute that The world used to have by heart one celebrated passage on friendship she has not forgotten it; but we call -and we shall not quote, as we hope on single lines though we trust she remembers them too "Poor is the friendless master of a world." Almost as immense as Shakspeare's— "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." Do this and be happy"Judge before friendship, then confide till death." "When such friends part, 'Tis the survivor dies." Friendship has been called many million times a flower-and it is a flower; but Young asks you for whom it blossoms? and seeing you hesitate in the multitude of the thoughts within him, he sums up them all in "Abroad they find who cherish it at home." Who was Philander? We know not. But how the Poet must have loved him, who thus lamented his loss ! No Lost all her lustre. Where her glittering towers ? To naked waste; a dreary vale of tears; The great poet is true to nature here -if too often-and we fear it is sohe plays her false-and wilfully follows phantasies when imaginations were ready to crowd into his arms. And true to her is he in another place-far away from the above-but hallowed by the same spirit of grief. "I loved him much, but now I love him more, Like birds, whose beauties languish, halfconcealed; Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes Expanded shine with azure, green and gold; How blessings brighten as they take their flight!" Call not that image fanciful-but if it affects you not as assuredly it affected the Poet, sympathize with the awe that for a while held him back from depicting the death bed of such a friend. "Yet am I struck; as struck the soul, Aerial groves' impenetrable gloom; In vaults; thin courts of poor unflatter- Or at the midnight altar's hallowed flame. These are the speechless griefs that justify the Poet in saying "Scorn the proud man that is ashamed to weep." And we now call to mind another strain, in which he sings of some strange, wild, sudden accumulation of sorrows-such as often befalls the children of men-and when heard of strike us all with dismay-"because that we have all one human heart." This hoary cheek a train of tears bedews; And cach tear mourns its own distinct distress; And each distress, distinctly shown, demands Of grief still more, as heightened by the A grief like this proprietors excludes; Far as the fatal fame can wing her way; From whom of all our living Poets "When gross guilt interposes, labouring earth, 66 Through chinks, styled organs, dim life peeps at light; "Like lavish ancestors his earlier years Have disinherited his future hours." "Is not the mighty mind, that son of Heaven, "The keen vibration of bright truth-is hell." Pride, like an eagle, builds among the stars; |