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Wnu Tiiograt^hiciil .///,/ Critical Notice'.. BY JOHN D. ROSS, LL. D. '*"'%''dectf""and "%!>«? nf'^rA'f' ''Rfndom Sketches on Scottish Ciuojects, ana hditpr of ''Celebrated Songs of Scotland." ''Round Burns^ Grave" "Highland Mary:' u^^// about Burns," "The Burns Scrap Book," "Burnstana," "Burns' Clarinda," etc., etc. The grandest chariot wherein King thoughts^*'Xde._ALEX. Smith. NEW YORK : WALTER W REID, Publisher. 1897. r ir DEDICATED TO CHAUNCBY M. DEPEW, LL. D., A LOVER OF UTERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART, A WARM-HEARTED GENTI^EMAN AND ONE OF THE FOREMOST REPRESENTATIVE AMERICANS OF OUR TIME. CONTENTS. PAGE — Anderson, Rkv Duncan, m. A --q Anderson, Wiixiam . ' * * • • 35* Bruce, Hon. Waij.ace ... C01.1.INS, Hon. Chas. H. . <^ 09 ■* Imrie, John •^ 225 *• James, Wii^ijam T. . . „ Law, James D. • • 204 Leggktt, Benjamin ^. Ph. D o - ivUCKHART, Rev. Arti'ur John . * • • • ^3^ ^ Lockhart, Rev. Burton VV., I) D 273 MacCuij,och, Hunter . . • • • . I 07 *-- Macfari^ane, John •^ 309 Macpherson, Hector . . ^, ■ • • • • 290 MacPherson, Patrick ... 30 «- Martix, George . 152 Reekie, Chari.es 362 *- Reid, Robert . 247 — Ross, Rev. Archibald . o 40 Ross, Peter, L. L. D g^ Shaw, Ralph H. 112 ^ Smith, Rev. William Wvi; . 324 "• Smvthe, Albert P). s. 340 Williamson, George . • • 97 L_ (a^ny^^ Chx, HON. WALLACE BRUCE. Distinguished on the roll of American poets of the present century stands the name of Wallace Bruce. An accomplished scholar, a brilliant orator, a voluminous reader and an able critic, he combines with these artistic qualities the feelings and taste and imagination of a true poet, and many of his pro- ductions through their exquisite beauty have lent a lustre to the poetical literature of our country, and are destined to live, and thus become a monu- ment to his genius long after he has passed to his final reward. His is indeed a muse of surpassing sweetness and excellence and power, and, to his credit be it said, there is not a line or a verse which he has penned that he need ever wish to blot out. As we glance leisurely through his poems we find here and there realistic touches of the fascinating beauty of Tenny- .son, the quaint simplicity of Wordsworth, the ex- uberant humor of Butler, the dramatic strength of Shakespeare, the divine loftiness of Milton, the sturdy independence of Burns, the weird charms of Coleridge, the gentleness of Whittier, the melody of Moore, the picturesqueness of Chaucer, and the vivid descriptive power of Byron. His language is choice and appropriate, the expression dignified, the wm lO A CLUSTER OF POETS. similies striking, the versification harmonious, while the subjects are invariably interestinjj and instructive. Truly an orij^^inal and pleasing and inspired singer in all respects. Where all is so uniformly good it becomes a difficult matter to select pieces for quota- tion, especially when these pieces must necessarily be short ones and our author's talents are always displayed to better advantage in his longer composi- tions. Here is one however that will serve as an introduction : THK SNOW ANGEI,. The sleigh-bells danced that winter night ; Old Brattlcborough rniig with glee ; The windows overflowed with light ; Joy ruled each hearth and Christmas tree. But to one the bells and tnirth were naught ; His soul with deeper joy was fraught. He waited until the guests were gone, He waited to dream his dream alone ; And the night wore on. Alone he stands in the silent night ; He piles the snow in the village square ; With spade for chisel, a statue white From the crystal quarry rises fair. No light, save the stars, to guide his hand, But the image obeys his soul's command. The sky is draped with fleecy lawn, The stars grow pale in the early dawn. And the lad toils on. HON. WALLACE BRUCE. n And lo ! in the morn the people came To gaze at the wondrous vision there ; And they called it "The Angel," divining its name, For it came in silence and unaware. It seemed no mortal hand had wrought The uplifted face with prayerful thought ; But its features wasted beneath the sim ; Its life went out ere the day was done ; And the lad dreamed on. And his dream was this : In the years to be I will carve the angel in lasting stone ; In another land ; beyond the sea, I will toil in darkness, will dream alone ; While others sleep I will find a way Up through the night to the light of day. There's nothing desired beneath star or sun Which patient genius has not won ; And the boy toiled on. The years go by. He has wrought with might ; He has gained renown in the land of art ; liut the thought inspired that Christmas night Still kept its place in the sculptor's heart ; And the dream of the boy, that melted away In the light of the sun that winter day. Is emlx)died at last in enduring stone, Snow /ingel in marble — his purpose won ; And the man toils on. "Wallace Bruce touches smoothly and sweetly chords that have an echo on both sides of the Atlantic," said the Edinburgfh Scotsman in reviewing his poems, and the (ilasgow Herald concluded an 12 A CLUSTER OF POETS. !i extended notice of his merits by saying^, '* His verse thrills with fine, free-flowing, vigorous spirit, which imparts to it that feeling of reality and freshnesss that gives to the poetry of Burns its permanent attraction." " Keenly alive to the beautiful," says the Birmingham Gazette, " whether in art or nature or in home life," while the Saturday Review declares that there is to be found in his writings ''freshness and power and a certain open-air flavor at no time common to writers of verse." The Rev. Henry Ward Beecher claimed that his poetry, " by its merit and beauty made its way to all eyes and hearts," and Mr. Gladstone, acknowledging the receipt of one cf his volumes, wrote : " The outward form is beauti- ful, and my first acquaintance with the contents is in harmony therewith." As a poet, Mr. Bruce is endowed with a great command of language and abundance of rhyme. His verses flow naturally and mu.sically, and we be- come interested in them at once. The following poem, entitled "The protest of the Immortals," may be given as a specimen of this. It was recited by Mr. Bruce at a banquet of the Edinburgh Pen and Pencil Club, and was not only well received then but was much spoken of and quoted by the Scottish press at the time : A singular meeting the other night ! Did you hear of it up at Parliament Hall ? Just twelve o'clock the moon shone bright ; HON. WALLACE BRUCE, '3 A strange, weird brilliancy flooded all The rich-stained windows ; the portraits there The spectral radiance seemed to share I followed the crowd, a ghastly throng, A curious group of former days ; As through the portal it surged along Familiar faces met my gaze, As if the library down below Had yielded its worthies for public show. In close procession, a hundred or more ; But it seemed so strange, no voice or word. No footfall on the oaken floor ; An old time Provost proffered a word, A motion forsooth, for then and there Sir Walter responded and took the chair. He seemed full pale as he rose to speak, And bowed his head to the eager crowd. But a flush forthwith illumed his cheek. Erect his form, which erst was bowed ; Intent on the Wizard seemed to be That strange, peculiar company. I noted expressions of scorn and pride Vividly flashed from face to face ; The minstrel dashed a tear aside, Ai^ptaling, it seemed, to the Scottish race ; Aye more, each gesture seemed to be For his darling city a loving plea. I saw him point to the legend there Emblazoned upon the windows high ; To the Crown that Scotia used to wear It < H A CLUSTER OF POETS. When her heroes dared to do or die : And he seemed to say, '• Edina's crown Shall not for gold be trampled down." All hands went up at the table round, Where sat Kit North with flowing quill, And the sentences seemed to leap and bound Like living sparks from his sturdy will — A protest deep, a trumpet word Straight from the heart, for his soul was stirred. A moment's pause ; they were asked to sign ; But who would lead that famous band ? Who on the roll of auld lang syne, Prince or peasant, thus dared to stand ? With one accord the gathering turns. And straightway summoned Robert Burns. He came, and proudly wrote his name, The clear, bold hand, beloved by all. And there seemed to burst a loud acclaim That shook the roof of the stately hall. His plain sign-manual seemed to say — We guard "Auld Reekie " from wrong to-day. Shoulder to shoulder, in steady file, I noted them all as they passed along — Dugald Stewart and stern Carlyle, Riddell and Lockhart, of Border song. Professor Aytoun and dear John Brown, Brougham and Erskine, in wig and gown ; Hugh Millar and Pollok, Mackenzie, Blair, Cockburn, Jeffrey, and David Hume, Hogg and Ramsay — a curious pair. HON. WALLACE BRUCE. '5 De Quincey, " Delta " in noni-de-plume, Drummond of Hawthornden, Boswell, Home, Fergusson, Allison — still they come. They stood in groups, the roll was done ; The chairman rose, they listened all ; St. Giles pealed out the hour of one, They took their way from the silent hall ; Over the parchment alone I bent — It seemed like the League and Covenant. I read it there in the fading light, A message strange from the shadowy past, With storied names for ever bright While Scotland's fame and glory last ; The ink on that parchment shall never fade Till Arthur's Seat in the Forth is laid. " Stand by your city and guard it well — That street is more than a common wynd For smoking chimneys and sooty smell ; Has Plutus made your guardians blind ? What god your senses has so beguiled That Art and Nature shall be defiled ?" So said Kit North : and I read with joy — " Stand by your city and guard it well ; For a mess of pottage, or base alloy. Who dare your birthright or beauty sell ? Never ! ah, never ! Edina mine, Shall force or foliy thy virtue tyne. '* Stand by your city and guard it well ; Burrow in rocks for your tunnelled ways, TaL.t not the soil with carbon fell, i6 A CLUSTER OF POETS. The flowers of the sod where the sunlight plays." No wonder the hall with wild applause Greeted the reading of every clause. " Stand by your city and guard it well ; Greed is mighty, but truth prevails ; Let not your children's children tell How beauty was bartered for iron rails." Such was the meeting in Parliament Hall — " Nemo impune !" Guard us all. The entire poem proves that Mr. Bruce has a very sincere regard for Scotland, the home of his ancestors. He delights to talk and lecture on her heroes, her poets, her statesmen and her preachers, and he loves her old traditions, her ballads, her songs, her litera- ture and her customs, with a love that is hardly sur- passed even by a native-born Scotsman. This love for Scotland and all things Scottish is visible in nearly all his writings and it was therefore a gratify- ing and appropriate compliment to Mr. Bruce when President Harrison appointed him United States Consul at Edinburgh. I now take pleasure in appending another poem on a Scottish subject and one which I think all readers will admire. The poem is thoroughly Scot- tish in tone and expression, besides being so well written that any Scottish poet would be pleased could he say that he was the author of it. HON. WALLACE BRUCE, t? INCH-CAILLIACH, LOCH LOMOND. [The islaud burial-place of Clan Alpine, resembling, from Rossdhu, a re- clining body with folded amis.] No more Clan Alpine's pibroch wakes' Loch Lomond's hills and waters blue ; " Hail to the Chief" no longer breaks The quiet sleep of Roderick Dhu ; Enwrapped in peace the islands gleam Like emerald gem in sapphire set, And, far away, as in a dream, Float purple fields where heroes met. Inch-Cailliach — islaud of the blest ! Columbia's daughter, passing fair. With folded arms upon her breast. Rests soft in sunset radiance there ; A vision .sweet of fond Elaine, And floating barge of Camelot, Upon her brow no trace of pain, And on her heart ' ' Forget me not. ' ' Forget thee, saintly guardian ? Nay, From the distant lands across the sea To this lone Isle I fondly stray With song and garland fresh for thee ; I trace the old inscriptions dear. Fast fading now from mortal ken, And through the silver lichens peer To read McAlpine's name again. My mother's name, a sacred link Which binds me to the storied past ; A rainbow bridge from brink to brink Which spnns with light the centuries vast. i^ i8 rl CLUSTER OF POETS. Two-hundred years ! Clan Alpine's pine Has struck its roots in other lands ; My pulses thrill to trace the sign And touch the cross with reverent hands. All ruin here ! — the shrine is dust, The chapel wall a shapeless mound ; But Nature guards with loving trust, And ivy twines her tendrils round The humble slab, more fitting far Than gilded dome for Scotia's line ; The open sky and northern star Become the chieftains of the pine. The light streams out from fair Rossdhu Across the golden-tinted wave ; That crumbling keep, that ancient yew, StiU mark a worthy foeman's grave ; But warm the hearts that now await Our coming at the open door. With love and friendship at the gate. And beacon-lights along the shore. Dear Scotia ! evermore more dear To loyal sons in every land ; Strong in a race that knew no fear, And for man's freedom dared to stand ; Ay, dearer for thy songs that float Like thistle-down o'er land and sea, And strike the universal note Of love, and faith and liberty. Mr. Rowland B. Mahany, writing of Mr. Bruce in The Magazine of Poetry says : •' It is as a poet, however, that his genius shines with the greatest HON. WALLACE BRUCE. 19 lustre. Disregarding the mannerisms and conceits of the present school, whose productions are at best but ephemeral, he has held fast to old standards, and struck a tone whose echo is destined to vibrate in the hearts of listeners, now and hereafter. No American poet of this generation, not even Whittier, has set to sweeter music the tender memories of home. Without the broad effects of Will Carleton or the stilted moralizing of Longfellow, Wallace Bruce's "Old Homestead Poems," have that delicacy of fancy, sincerity of expression, and depth of feeling which give fitting utterance to the vague sanctity with which we hallow the past. The same truthful- ness of motive is characteristic of all his verses, even when his abounding humour ripples into song. This nobility of purpose and excellence of execution are the qualities which make those familiar with his work enthusiastic admirers. His shorter lyrics, published in the leading magazines, have always been widely praised and copied ; and the fervent patriotism that pulsates through his poems has caused his selec- tion as poet on many distinguished occasions, notably at the Newburgh Centennial, over which President Arthur presided, and at which Senator Evarts and Senator Bayard were the chief orators. The success of **The Long Drama," read by Mr. Bruce, was by common consent the triumph of the celebration." Patriotism is certainly another predominating fea- ture in many of Mr. Bruce's poems. It is introduced and interwoven into his verses with gre it skill and T jy> A CI. I V TER OF I\ )H TS. always commands our admiration. Nor are his efforts in this direction confined to America alone. Wherever the bugle has sounded in the cause of liberty and right, that country has become sacred ground to him. But his patriotism is never boister- ous or unpoetical. It is set forth clothed in the finest of language and very guarded in expression, so as to give offence to no one. The follov»ring poem, be- sides being one of his best, will give a good idea of this particular fejiture of his muse : — "UNO DE MIIvLE." [One April day in 1890 I saw a steamer draped in black bring home to Como for burial a soldier of the immortal One Thousand of Garibaldi. By a strange and dramatic coincidence his comrade, an eloquent scholar of Como, died a few hours later at his desk, while preparing for the morrow a tribute to his friend's memory, and on the next day the boat bore his own body to his own kindred. — W. B.J Another gone of the thousand brave ; Across Lake Como borne to his grave. " Uno de Mille." they softly say, Waiting there by the quiet bay ; A crowdetl plaza, a weeping sky — Hu.sli ! the steamer is drawing nigh, •' Uno de Mille !" Who is he ? A soldier, they whisper, of liberty ; One of the thousand from College hall HON. WALLACE HRVCE. »/ Who rallied nt Garibaldi's call : His voyage finisliLMl, the anchor cast, Home at Como to sleep at last. Home, by her rippliii)^ waters blue, Mir Hiring skies of tender hue ; Home, where a kinsman's lioart-felt tear Hallows a brother soldier's bier ; Home, where a noble comrade now Plaits a chaplet to grace his brow. Strew with roses the hero's way. Over the sleeping warrior i)ray ; Home, from journeying far and wide, Welcome him here with stately pride ; The night, my brother, comes to me, The morn, Italia, to thee ! Strew with roses the hero's way. Over the .sleeping warrior i)ray ; Wake, Italia ! speak for me, Reunited from sea to sea, I'lace a garland ui>on his bier, " Uno de Mille " is lying here. Thus mused his comrade through the night, Weaving a chaplet fresh and bright, Sorrowing for a brother dead, Summoning hours forever fled ; The light burns dim, the dawning day Touches the mountains cold and gray. The pen has fallen from his grasp, His head is bowed, his hands unclasp ; The sunlight pierces the casement there ; 22 A CLUSTER OF POETS. He greets the morning with stony stare ; The day, Italia, breaks for thee ! The night, my brother, comes to me. Not as he flecmed. He little thought The morrow's work would be unwrought, Little he dreamed the boat that bore, His comrade dead to Como's shore. Dark -draped its homeward course would keep To bear him, too, where his kinsmen sleep. Hushed again the crowded square, Sky and lake the stillness share ; Over the mountains a fading glow, — *' Duo de Mille," they murmur low : One, with tapers in yonder dome. One, 'neath the starlight, going home. And so they parted, not in tears, Wedded in death through coming years ; Sleeping remote by the sunny shore, Reunited for ever more ! Ivake Como sings one song to me — " The morn, Italia, to thee ! Here also is a touching- little poem on the death of Generol Grant, and in which the same quiet patriotic feeling will be noticed. The poem is founded on the following- incident. It is said that when Grant was dying a ray of sunlight through the half-closed shutters of his room fell upon Lincoln's picture, leaving the general's portrait, which himg beside it, in deep shadow. After lingering for a moment on the brow of the martyred President it HON. WALLACE HRUCE. 33 passed at the instant of death and played upon the portrait of the j^reat soldier. THE Sir^RNT SOLDIKR. Prom gulf to lake, from sea to sea, The land is draped — a nation weeps, And o'er the bier bows reverently Whereon the silent soldier sleeps. The mountain top is bathed in light. And eastern cliff with outlook wide ; Its name shall live in memory bright — The Mount MacGregor, where he died ! A monument to stand for aye. In sumtner's bloom, in winter's snows, A shrine where men shall come to pray, While at its base the Hudson flows. A humble room, the light burns low. The morning breaks on distant hill, The falling pulse is beating slow. The group waf, motionless and still. Two portraits hang upon the wall. Two kindred pictures side by side — Statesman and soldier, loved by all — Lincoln and Grant, Columbia's pride. A single ray through lattice streams, And breaks in rainbow colours there ; On Lincoln's brow a glory gleams. As wife and childr-^n kneel in prayer. r i; if 8!; ^'Z ^ CLUSTER OF POETS. A halo round the martyr's head, It lights the sad and solemn room, Above the living and the dead, The soldier's portrait hangs in gloom. In shadow one, and one in light ; But look ! the pencil-ray has past, And on the hero's picture bright The golden sunlight rests at last. And so, throughout the coming years. On both the morning beam shall play, When the long night of bitter tears Has melted in the light away. A liio^hly moral and religious sentiment pervades all of Mr. Bruce's work, and this characteristic makes his writings all the more acceptable to readers of intelligence and refinement. Indeed, many of his smaller poems are on religious subjects entirely, and each of them gives strong evidence that their author is a man who has a sincere reverence for his Maker and for all things holy. A brief specimen may be given : THR STRANGER. AN EASTERN l,KGKND. An aged man came late to Abraham's tent ; The sky was dark, and all the plain was bare. He asked for bread ; his strength was well nigh spent. His haggard look implored the tenderest care. The food was brought. He sat with thankful eyes, But spake no grace, nor bowed he toward the east. Safe-sheltered here from dark and angry skies, HON. WALLACE BRUCE, »5 The bounteous table seemed a royal feast. But ere his hand had touched the tempting fare, The Patriarch rose, and, leaning on his rod, " Stranger," he said, dost thou not bow in prayer ? Dost thou not fear, dost thou not worship God ? " He answered, "Nay." The Patriarch sadly said : "Thou hast my pity. Go ! eat not my bread." Another came that wild and fearful night. The fierce winds raged, and darker grew the sky ; But all the tent was filled with wondrous light, And Abraham knew the Lord his God was nigh. " Where is that aged man ?" the Presence said, " That asked for shelter from the driving blast ? Who made thee master of thy Master's bread .? What right hast thou the wanderer forth to cast ?" "Forgive me, lc worthy of thee. Our stern loving mother, unconquercd and free : Willi hearts light ftni 'italwart seek fortime and fnme, Aye loyal and true to the dear Scottish name. Then home of our sires, though oceans us sever, Till death's chilly hand stills the heart's heaving swell ; The wreath of old Scotland for ever and ever ! — The thi,«5t.!c, the heather, and bonnie bluebell ! H1lL„ P.I TRICK MACrHERSON. 35 Scotland forever ! hurrah ! hurrah ! lie false to her tiever ! hurrah ! hurrah ! The pink of crtition— surpasses theui a', — Ev'ry country aid nation, Hurrah ! luirrah ! But I came upon another ])Oom to-nip:ht in con- nection with Scotland which very ;^rcatly pleased mc, It is one entitled "Dark Cullodcn Day," and so hio-hly was it ranked by competent jiulj^es at the time of its comi^lelion that it secured for its author a valuable prize from the New Yf)rk Caledonian Club. It is a very excellent piece of poetical work in all respects and I do not wonder at the warm reception it met with when it was first issued. The subject itself is one that every Scotsman is or should be fa- miliar with. American readers, however, may not at once recall the full particulars. Therefore, I quote the following from Chambers' "History of the Rebellion " for their special benefit : "After the battle of Falkirk, the Highlanders continued their retreat, and on the i8th of February, 1746, entered Inverness. On the 25lh of February, the Duke of Cumberland's army entered Aberdeen, and both sides engaged in petty skirmishes in their district, till on the 18th of April, the duke marched upon the northern capital. The Highland army ad- vanced to Drummossic Moor, about five miles, to meet him, and on the 16th of April, 1746, engaged in the celebrated battle of Culloden, which resulted, as is well known, in the complete defeat of the High- land array. The battle of Culloden lasted little more L i^ If 1 i 1 i 1 1 ! 1 1 i. 1 1 1 'm ! ' ! than forty minutes, most of which brief space of time was spent in distant firint^, and very little in the active struj';^le. It was as complete a victory as possible on the part of the royal army, and any other result would have been very discreditable to the English army. Its numbers and condition of fight- in,i»' were so superior, their artillery did so much for them, and the plan of the battle was so much in their favor, that to have lost the day would have argued a degree of misbehavior for which even Pi*eston-pans and Falkirk had not prepared us." "Dark Culloden Day" is a somewhat lengthy composition, but I quote it in full as it is now, and must ever remain, one of Mr. Macphersons best poems : DARK CULLODEN DAY. April 1 6, 1746. Ye glorious sist.ers nine — Melpomene divine ! A tragic theme is mine, Inspire my mournful lay ; The tale has oft been told In tears, by patriarchs old ; The interest ne'er gets cold, In " Dark Ciillodcn Day." The heavens, o'ercast with gloom ; O'er all the wreck of doom ; Dacli cairn a patriot's tomb ; Let wailing pibrochs play ! '■"*-4,, PA TRICK MACPIIKNSGN. 37 O'erwhiihned by d' .;>jest woe, The tears of feeliii)^ flow ; Our Royal line laid low, On "Dark Culloden Day." With death's funereal pcdl. And cypress drape the wall ; Deplore in cot and hall The outcome of the fray. In sorrow we bewail Kach fallen loyal (iael ; The brave, from hill and dale — On "Dark Culloden Day." The crimson Highland blood Was poured out like a flood ; In gory recking nmd, The slaughtered clansmem lay. They fell uplu)lding right. The Prince they loved, iji sight, Out numbered in the fight On " Dark Culloden Day." The vale of fair olencoe Saw scenes of deepest woe ; Trei!' hein;js were the foe — Th-^ .truck midst feasting gay ; Diike William in command Wa'i worse— with sword and br ;\d, Lc loot'e a nuirdering band On "Dark Culloden Day." O e : hill and dale they sped, The fiend incarnate led, A ?wath they strewed with dead, Uke reapers liiov.'! < hav, 1V1 ■■■■I 38 llilll j i ' 1 1 i :! ^ III. W CLUSTER OF POETS. The sun of Scotland's glory, Her place in song and story. Eclipsed were by this foray, On " Dark Culloden Day." The old, the young, the fair. To wrongs beyond repair. To death and violence were Consigned by lordings gay. The true historians tell, The carnage that befell. Where rode those imps of hell On " Dark Culloden Day." The mem'ry of the brave. Who fought their Prince to save From every treacherous knave, Untarnished lasts fcr aye ; Around the festive board, Their names will be adorred, Their foes will be ubhored On "Dark Cullwlen Day." The absent alien stock. Who claim each foot of rock ; Debased in hoof and hock. Unloved have had their day. Their sun has nearly set. The claymore draw and whet ; Arouse ! and don't forget " Dark Culloden Day." Then Scotland in her might. The vampire bats will smite ; Will rule her own aright Exultant pibrochs play. f: M i PATRICK MACPHERSON. The uiirk^' clouds will fade ; The nations debt be paid ; The howlin T spectre laid Of " Dark Cullodeii Day." 39 I Like all true Scotsmen, Mr. Macpherson is an admirer of the national poet, Robert Burns. It would certainly be strange were he otherwi.se. And yet, I cannot say that any of his poems are modelled after Burns. Far from it. His muse is free and in- dependent, and follows its own inclination at all times. It is related of him that in the town where he lived fifty years ago, there was a Dr. Grant, a retired naval officer, who knew Burns well. The doctor was a very nice old gentleman, and would let people shake the hand that had shaken the hand of Burns. To this day Mr. Macpherson is proud of the fact that he had on at least one occasion, warmly grasped the old doctor's hand. And he sings of Burns in one or ! vo poems that are well worthy of quotation, as, tp. XL from the subject, they contain a great deal of merit. The following may be taken as a specimen J! iiis powers in this direction : SCOTIA'S BARD. The classic bards of ancient Greece and Rome Live but in name — like the *• Appian Way ; On shelves unread rests many a pond'rous tome — Museum fossils, the book-worms prey ; In Inter times come Shakespeare, Dryden, Pope, "nir 40 A CLUSTER OF POinS. 111 I i And Milton's epic — sombre, hazy, weird — Thou}.;]! ricli in fancy and of wond'rous scope, It lacks vitality, is dead and vSered ; Material presence we never feel — A real personage is Burns's " I3eil." When vScott essayeil Olympic heights to scale, And fdl his goblet from the fount of song, 3^'^ stormed parnassus like a fearless Gael ; — id ga':;od the sunnuit, for his flight w.as strong : — Tli. .v'hen struck by Hyron's skillful hand — To » . ■ >: attuned with mountains, rocks aiul rills — Gave forth such music as entranced the land. The beauties charm us and the pathos thrills ; Whilst soriiing pinions to them both belong. Burns reigns unrivaled in the realm of song. Southey, Coleridge, Keats, Wordsworth and Tom Moore Dazzle us no more — their light has failed — The lyre they struck in rosoiuince was poor ; 'Twas measured music, neatly •>itched and scaled ; The minor bards may startle loving friends With driveled dullness, nor tune, nor time ; Their balked ambition soon in failure eiuls — Ignoring method while they strangle rhyme. The struggling crowd of many blank decades Just floundered on and clubbed their spavined jades. Mackay and Swinburne may be rated high, Compared to others of the rhyming brood ; We grant it so, but do they e'er come uigh To Burns in strength or in altitude ? The muse of Tennyson was gentle, mild — Distilling philters feminine — yet he lias launched a pean, darksome, thrilling, wild, A sample glorious of war's minstrelsy ; 'Tis really great, a living sketch, but say, Can it compare with Burns' " Scots wha hae ?" m til i4i ! t tronj^ :- id— ul rills- 11s; Tom Moore scaled ; le, IS d jades. rild, ?'• PA TRICK AMC/VZ/'JA'SON. 4* Uncounted niilHons clmniied hear Burns's lay, They list in ecstacy, 'tis from above, So sweet its cadence, all their homage pay, With reverence bowing in their faith and love ; At home, or drifting on a foreign shore, Of Scotia's bard we are ever proud ; Our homage true to the inmost core. Till life is ended and in our shroud • With joy exultant when the day returns, We'll meet to honour immortal Burns. In these lines are sentiments and other sterling qualities which stamp the author as a true poet. In connection wdth Mr. Macpherson, I take pleasure in quoting a brief biographical sketch of his which appears in '* Modern Scottish Poets." He was born on the 19th of December, 1829, at the Dam of Dulsie, Nairnshire, Scotland. In 1836, his mother, then a widow, removed to Forres, in Moray- shire. Then our Highland boy new only Gaelic, and for the amusement of his playmates he fre quently had to repeat the Lord's prayer, in that ancient language. After a year at school, however, he knew as much "Forres English" as the other boys, and ultimately took first prize for English read- ing. About 1 84 1 he entered the services of a book- seller, as a shop boy, and as his employer was form- erly a schoolmaster, he taught the lad Latin and other higher branches of learning. Here he also gained a knowledge of bookbinding and land surveying. After three years his master died and the business was disposed of. Thus was closed our young High- 42 A CLUSTER OF POETS. WiU f'iiil i lliili ll II lander's career as a bookseller, but the teaching of the old bookseller and contact with his books and the learned but eccentric people who frequented his shop, became prime factors in determining Mac- pherson's character and tastes. Our hero was next apprenticed to a shoemaker, singing in the church choir on Sundays and in his leisure moments in the evening receiving musical lessons from an old soldier, and ultimately became clarionet player in the local instrument band. He also attended evening schools for singing, dancing, elocution, etc., and was pre- centor in Rafford Church for three years previous to 1 85 1, wiieiji he went to Edinburgh and followed his calling in one of the leading bootshops in that city, and from thence to London, and to New York in 1870. While in London Mr. Macpherson was one of the first to join the science classes in the new Royal Polytechnic Institute, where he studied mathmatics, chemistry and practical mechanics, and he afterward passed with distinction in an examination held by the Society of arts. It may be urged, he says that such abstract studies could be productive of no pecuniary benefit to a mechanic. Accumulating wealth is not the sole object of human existence. Such studies have a salutary effect in clearing and strengthening the intellectual faculties. Many well- meaning friends advised the abandonment of manual labor for a more ethereal occupation. But this specimen of the (alleged lazy) Highlanders kept at PATRICK iMACPHERSON. 43 aching of ooks and Lented his ing Mac- was next le church its in the d soldier, the local g schools was pre- evious to owed his that city, York in le of the w Royal hmatics, fterward held by ays that of no [nulating jcistence. ring and iny well- : manual 5ut this kept at work, knew neither poverty nor riches, was never sick, and found bootmaking, on the best class of work, to yield as good an income as any calling with- in reach. It also afforded absolute freedom of action — was just the business for an erratic, rough-hewn essayist and versifier. For twenty years he has been in the sewing machine and musical instrument busi- ness at 319 9th Ave., New York. Since his i8th year Mr. Macpherson has been writing articles, verses, etc. He is still stalwart in body, vigorous in mind, ever progressive. Intensely Scotch, he has been over twenty-five years a member of the New York Caledonian Club. An interviewer in one of the New York papers says: " In some re- spects he is a remarkable man. He is certainly a scholar of no mean attainments, a fine musician, playing upon several different instruments, including the bagpipes of his native Highlands. He has written songs and set them to music and he does not hesitate occasionally to harness his muse into the shafts of business." This reference to our author's lyrical powers is well merited and recalls quite a number of those pieces that I have had the pleasure of reading. Here is a brief specimen. It is very musical : THE THREE KATES. The crowfeet and the furrows Attest the lapse of years, But yet there's a panacea To mitigate our tears ; li;' . ■il ;l I'll 44 A CLUSTER OF POETS. % iiii We think of Janes and Jessies, Who influenced our fate — I was gone on three completely, And each of them was Kate. There was bonnie Katie Fraser, Amiable and fair. And winsome Katie Kynoch — Her ma was from Kildare — And darling Katie Calder, My affinity and joy, She just was all perfection. So clever, sweet and coy. Our paths in life diverged — Like me she crossed the seas — I westward went, her goal was The far antipodes ; Beneath the "Southern Cross" She chose a wedded life. And pledged her love and troth As a faithful, tender wife. Gentle, kind and winning. Pure as mountain air, The frosts of three-score winters May bleach her raven hair, May blanch her rosy cheeks. The dimples may efface, Her youthful charms will linger. She'll bear the years with grace. There all my knowledge ceases Of those charming, pretty girls. We get what Fate decrees us As the ball terrestrial whirls — 'A, m PATRICK MACPHERSON. 45 If still among the living, I wish them every joy, Time, their youth and beauty To me, cannot destroy. There is quite a large number of Mr. Macpherson's poems and songs which I would like to touch upon did space permit. But I am unable to do more than mention the names of the best of them. They are as follows: "Annie the Fair," '* I'm Scotch," " To Scotland," "Tut the Towie," "Sandy," "Bonnie Annie McQueen," " Eppie Tam," "Highland Hunt- ing Song," "The Cyclone," " The Viking Rover," " McDonald on a Wheel," "The Highland Crofters," "Farewell," and "Usguebagh." These, along with a few others, and the pieces which I have already quoted in full, would make a very respectable looking volume of poetry, and I hope Mr. Macpherson will take the hint and ere long be able to annoimce that his poems are "in the press." Another writer has said of him : " As a poet and pose writer, Mr. Mac- pherson traverses many interesting fields and teaches many important truths with considerable descriptive power and in clear and forcible language. His patriotic songs are characterized by stirring senti- ment, and show that while real to the land of his adoption, his heart keeps warm to the tartan — the sentiment of deep loyalty and admiration for the heather hills that nourished his infancy and inspired his earliest imagination." And here before taking leave of Mr. Macpherson, I would like to quote a m rw A CLUSTER OF POETS. l! !i* 4:1 III little lyric, an especial favorite of its authors. The title is '* Princess Louise of Lome," and it is as dainty and patriotic and loyal a little song as ever was put forth by one claiming to be a " Scotch- American :" PRINCESS LOUISE OF LORNE. We hear not the name of a Campbell, Nor yet in Argyle were we born ; But we love the land of the thistle, And the Princess Louise of Lome. The flower reappears in the blossom — A blending of even and mom — Like the Empress and Queen Victoria, And the Princess Louise of Lome. Some names we hold dear and cherish. For those who have left us we mourn ; With feeling we think of Prince Charlie, With love, of the Princess of Lome. Though far from the land of our fathers, By fortune's rough hand we've been borne, We can trace the Bruce's blood Royal To the Princess Louise of Lome. No recreant oath will enslave us — To the Queen our fealty's sworn — Our loyalty, roused from its slumber, Stands fast to the Princess of Lome. i % Long life to Empress Victoria ! For years may her honors be worn i The other Princesses and Princes, And the Marquis and Princess of Lome. i 1 III PATRICK MACPHERSON. rhe inty put in:" 47 In conclusion, let me assure Mr. Macpherson that I am glad his poems came under my notice. I have spent a pleasant time over them, and they have done me good. And when one claiming to be a critic can say of another's writings that a perusal of them has done him good, the reader may be sure that there must be considerable talent — something that will live in them. m \'\[\ REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS. i!lP! IT is seldom that theologians come prominently before the literary world as writers of poetry. While many of them are endowed with poetic j^ifts of a high order, and while they undoubtedly exer- cise those gifts more or less during their leisure moments, it is only on certain occasions, or for spec- ial reasons that their musings are ever allowed to pass beyond, or even become known outside of the family circle. Why this should be the rule instead of the exception, we are at a loss to determine or explain We confess ourselves confident that many of then would ultimately attain a high rank among the poets of their country were they to place their productions within easy reach of such readers as delight in, and acknowledge themselves interested in this particular branch of literature. The Rev. Archibald Ross of Brooklyn, N. Y., is a fair example of the kind of poet preacher that we have reference to. While he has been for many years a successful laborer in the Master's vineyard, he has not neglected to cultivate and make use of the poetical talents that he has been blessed with, and his numerous poems are not only intelligent and readable productions, but are in every respect well worthy of preservation. There is in- deed something to cherish and admire in all that he RHY. ARCHIBALD ROSS. PT III ■■'■*<. ■2i tOgggta^M REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS. 19 has written. His muse is refined but vigorous, his hmguage classical and terse, his rhythtn musical, and his descriptive and argumentative powers keen and active. In no instance is the s])irit of frivolity visi- ble. We perceive at a glance that each of his poems has been studiously brooded over and carefully worked out, while an independent and earnest yet en- couraging tone is conspicuous and makes itself felt in almost every line. He rarely introduces or pic- tures the darker side of life to us, but for the shams and idle pretensions of the world he certainly has no mercy, and he holds them up to ridicule and scoiti in words of reproach and condemnation that con- tinue to echo through our memory long after they have been listened to or read. On the other hand, however, and as may readily be surmised, his vener- ation for all that is noble and ]yure and sincere in life is equally intense and asserts itself at all times. That he loves his fellowman, no one can doubt after once reading his writings, but for the honest, liberal, broad-minded Christian man he has an especial regard and he extends the hand of fellowship and good will to him on every possible occasion. He looks upon the poet's office as high and noble, even godlike; and the reader will not fail to be pleased, in this connection, with an extract from "The Poet," where the imagination is luxuriant, the diction clear and expressive, and the thought magnificent yet chaste and delicate : :•' !J SO A CLUSTER OF POETS. THE POET. Pi Fl He walks with men, and yet he is a king — A right and royal one, and on his brow Is stamped the impress of God's coronal. He bears the aspect of a messenger, And enters on his work with dignity. He parleys not, nor wavers, for he knows The Graces are around him to delight, While soaring through his field, the universe. Thus, conscious of his ancient title deeds, And rich inheritance, he vindicates Justice and order wisely, nor will swerve A hairbreadth from the will within his hands. To him all form and substance play a part In perfect unison. The azure bound Alive M'ith him, rejoices ; the bleak earth, So cold and bare to millions, he transforms To labyrinths of grandeur, where the walks Of opal, garnet, and a thousand gems, Blaze in the lustre of cerulean fires. The vaporous clouds in his alembic eye Like huge leviathans plough the serene, Bearing the fleecy waters, from whose breasts Drop welcome fatness, while the smiling earth And jubilant heaven meet and assert their loves With passion awful in its majesty. To him the chaste, clear evening sky unfolds A spangled vesture fit for deity. He rides earth like a charioteer, observes Her graceful sailing round the galaxies Unharmed and undisturbed. He knoweth well Disease is but derangement — maladies But atoms in disorder, where the line Is broken, and the air is full of death. REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS. 5f He is a priest of nature, wandering through The alcoves of his garden, and avers That as a poet he must teach, arouse, And open out the beauties of his house. Though the world laugh, his work goes bravely on. He watches undercurrents, and while men May think him nerveless, vapid and inane. He pierces through their being like the spear. Armed and accoutred at the fountain head, He comes to earth prepared to speak to men. The circumambient air, the marvelous light, The subterranean fires : all hidden things Declare his active presetice ; fruits and flowers. As well as noxious vapors, and the warmth Of sunshine, or the gloomy depths of night. The adamantine rocks unloose their bands Within his presence, while Bootes waits. With Hercules and all the host of heaven, To bid him welcome to their distant zones. He mounts the tempest, flying etherward, Or, silently, steals in the heart of man ; For he knows human nature ; he can play With infants, or hold converse with the peer Of schools ; he meets with nature's commonest pets, Buds, leaves and blossoms ; the huge oak and elm To him are distant brothers, carrying on Some holy ministration. When he sleeps. His favorite monitor pours in his ear Rare chords of melody known but to few. He wakes : the tiniest grasses in the plain Give solemn lessons for his lecture hour, While insect matins and the song of birds Reveal the glories of his paradise. Who knoweth but the suns of other realms. Whose beauties sparkle on the breast of Night, May speak his parentage ; for this we see, ir I • '\'\V II! 'li 5' yl CLUSTER OF POETS. His ways are singular, his habits strange, His soul subdued and pensive, or lit up With eddies of delight that grave their lines More deeply than in faces of the crowd, Pleading as if he knew that our life here Were but a school, while his intensive speech And mode of utterance savor of abodes Mayhap contiguous, if not of this world. Welcome, thou visitant from other climes ! Stay with us, teaching us that to be wise Is our great privilege, our brightest joy. The earth cries out from villainy and wrong. And in thy sacred mission souls will rise. And learn to love their great Original. h ! Mr. Ross has been a pretty keen observer in so- ciety, and our readers may rest assured that Henry Ward Beecher gave him great theme for contempla- tion. When this extraordinary genius passed away, the strange stagnation and adverse currents of opinicm that followed in his wake were ably reflected in a most brilliant poem by the author. The ire of the narrow theologians was aroused ; tho commendation of the Broad Christian Church was noble and out- spoken ; and in the lull — While some grow vengeful, waiting for a chance To kiss Pelagius, and kick Augustine, Others, conversely, chose more beaten paths. That lead, they swear, from Paul's theology. And so religious valor is at ebb. And thought is squeamish from the want of fire. And Zeal is purblind from the lack of faith. And vile Suspicion gnaws one to the bone, . I J. ii U i| llH 'l» . II W i W REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS, 53 And teachers, prisoned in the iron bands Of narrow dogma, lie down in the mire. Nor will they shake themselves till once they hear A shout from Plymouth, that will make them turn Their lazy selves — may it come speedily. Both in Canada and the United States, Mr. Ross has been an extensive traveler, and he could not fail to be interested in the question of ventilation as a sanitary precaution in our dwelling-houses and work- shops. In the pulpit and the press he has spoken on this theme to good advantage. In the following picture from '* Gaza" (well styled from Samson's prison house), the reader can see the workmen, notice the filth in every direction, and hear the out- bursts of infamy that accompany them. And this of a workshop in New York. Thank Heaven, things are mending by degrees, and God's pure air is more and more allowed to permeate our dwellings and shops every year. \ i GAZA, Twelve days did I grind hard at Gaza prison. Where the proud Philistines set up their tools And implements of war, and the rooms reeked With feculent odors, and the slimy floors And purulent atmosphere smelt of grim death. There stood the martyrs in their nauseous pens — Where the hours rolled like an eternity — So unaccustomed to the air of heaven, That when God sent the light-winged zephyrs forth. The windows shut to rapidly as if Hell \ n 1 1 ? 1 54 A CLUSTER OF POETS. l! I ■ii'-i i % Were on the rampage ; and the hacking cough, And pale and sombre visage, and dry tears. With flakes of sputa floating in the gloom. Midst ghastly laugh and noxious gases — all Spoke of a race of white slaves yet on earth, Cursed by King Mammon to disease and shame. The cruel Philistines looked in and laughed At the poor helots gasping for their breath, And conjured how a further ten per cent. Might be adroitly fleeced without suspicion. There were young Jezebels attired in paint, Hot in their maledictions, whose sly oaths lyike scimetars would pierce the putrid air. And men who erst showed on their pensive brows Beauty and genius, now depraved and base As Sodom in its fall. "Life "is a most exquisite piece of reading". It is a poem of over a thousand lines in long iambics, and exhibits a thousand beauties. Here we find a large pasture ground, forcing upon our attention, from the monad to the stellar spheres, theme upon theme for illustration. "The Heavens," "Sleep," "The Rain," "The Snow," "Flowers," etc., are crystal- ized throughout in the highest flights of sacred and impassioned language. Morals, beauty, character, are here. Is this not beautiful ? Here, veiled in innocence, comes one. Resplendent, radiant, like the sun. Go where we may, do what we will. Her sweetness shines upon us still. Hope still holds queenship in the soul. Still wields her sceptre of control — REV. ARCHIBALD ROSS. 55 A remnant of the happy time Our parents passed in Eden's prime. Iji the writer's opinion, "Theodemia, a glimpse of the Divine Academy," is his masttirpiece. This is a remarkable poem in many respects ; strong, im- pulsive and full of genuine poetic power. It is ex- ceedingly rich in valuable and beautifully expressed thoughts and similes ; the tone is highly moral and elevating, and there is an abundance of what, at first, seems peculiar, but which proves to be good and sound philosophical arguments. The author states that "the object of the poem is to pay grateful homage to useful minds, and to point out various avenues where we may be led to improve more rapidly in the midst of so many advantages in this school of the world." It is impossible to properly analyze or even to give a synopsis of the poem here, so numerous and profound are the themes which it embraces and discourses on, but we quote a few ex- tracts from which the reader no doubt will be enabled to form a general idea of its meritorious character : Where, then, are all our teachers? People look As they have right to do — for pabulum To feed the intuitions, and we give Them piles of chaff with but a grain of gold. And sometimes not e'en that. They know some things, And they expect their teachers should know more, And so they may in such a favored school. What then should we exact of those who l:each ? But close adherence to the laws of right I i! ii 'I \''-'\: 1 i ii ,-6 II .-{ CLUSTER OF POETS. As stamped within their being — earnest men, In knowledge large, molded in modesty, Careful in observation, choice in thought, Rich in resources, fertile in the stores Of illustration for unfolding truth. ****** To maintain That we can make no progress in the line Of spiritual knowledge would be libellous Upon ourselves as minds ; our ethics stand On footing where all innate truths agree With revelation, as with nature also. These innate springs exist — a wondrous proof That power, subjective, personal, apart From matter, acts infusing energy. Here Hume and Locke — philosophers diverse On Christian planes — are staggered, and declare That knowledge must first pass the ordinary senses Ere the will show its bias and demeanor ; That these are warders of the human mind. Or keys to all our world of acquisition — A fallacy that keener knowledge pushed Right to the wall as worthless and unsound. ***** Nor hesitate to study well the plans Of teachers, pure, illustrious in their lives. As Pestalozzi or as Arnold — men Who swept the depths of nature to enrich The dawning genius of the younger mind. But for enquiring men who must be answered. Pierce everywhere for knowledge — nor be checked, And make earth's friction your Bucephalus. Grandest of records of the eloquent past Is the great book of Job — this read and think. Whether in fact or symbol, here is truth. i># * ;-'£V>>:i^>w'«<^