Tales and Sketches. Edited, with a preface, by Mrs. Miller

Front matter

BY THE SAME AUTHOE, Price 7s. 6d. each. THE TESTIMONY OF THE ROCKS. THE FOOT-P HINTS OF THE CREATOR. THE CRUISE OF THE BETSEY. THE OLD RED SANDSTONE, MY SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLMASTERS. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND AND ITS PEOPLE. SCENES AND LEGENDS OF THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND, THE HEADSHIP OF CHRIST. SKETCH-BOOK OF POPULAR GEOLOGY. ESSAYS, HISTORICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL, POLITICAL AND SOCIAL, LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC. BY HUGH MILLER, AUTHOR OF " THE OLD RED SANDSTONE," " MY SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLMASTERS," " THE TESTIMONY OF THE ROCKS," ETC. EDITED, WITH A PREFACE, BY MfiS MILLER. EDINBCP.GH: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK LONDON : HAMILTON, ADAMS, & CO. MDCCCLXIII. EDINBURGH : PRINTFD BY MILLER & FAIRLY.

Preface

. The following " Tales and Sketches" were written at an early* period of the author's career, daring the first years of his married life, before he had attempted to carry any part of the world on his shoulders in the shape of a public newspaper, and found it by no means a comfortable burden. Yet possibly the period earlier still, when he produced his " Scenes and Legends," had been more favourable for a kind of writing which required in any measure the exercise of the imagination. The change to him was very great, from a life of constant employment in the open air, amid the sights and sounds of nature, to " the teasing monotony of one which tasked his intellectual powers without exercising them." Hence, partly, it may be imagined, the intensity of his sympathy with the poet Ferguson. The greater number of these Tales were composed literally over the midnight lamp, after returning late in the evening from a long day's work over the ledger and the balance-sheet. Tired though VI

PREFACE.

. he was, his mind could not stagnate : he must write. I do not mention these circumstances at all by way of apology. It has struck me, indeed, that the Tales are nearly all of a pensive or tragical cast, and that in congenial circumstances they might have had a more joyous and elastic tone, in keeping with a healthier condition of the nervous system. Yet their defects must undoubtedly belong to the mind of their author. I am far from being under the delusion that he was, or was ever destined to be, a Walter Scott or Charles Dickens. The faculties of plot and drama, which find their scope in the story and the novel, were among the weakest, instead of the strongest, of his powers. Yet I am deceived if the lovers and students of Hugh Miller's works will not find in the "Tales and Sketches" some matter of special interest.

In the first three there are, I think, glimpses into his own inner life, such as he, with most men of reserved and dignified character, would choose rather to personify in another than to make a parade of in their own person, when coming forward avowedly to write of them selves. And, then, if he could have held a conversation with Robert Burns, so that all the world might hear, I think there are few who would not have listened with some curiosity. In his " Recollectiorft of Burns" we have his own side of such conversation ; for it .seems evident that it is himself that he has set a travelling and a talking in the person of Mr Lindsay. But of Burns' share in the dialogue the reader is the best

PREFACE.

. VII judge. Some may hold that he is too like Hugh Miller himself, — too philosophic in idea, and too pure in sentiment. In regard to this, we can only remind such, that Burns' prose was not like his poetry, nor his ideal like his actual life. Unquestionably my husband had a very strong sympathy with many points in the character of Burns. His thorough integrity, — his noble independence, which disdained to place his honest opinions at the mercy of any man or set of men, — his refusal to barter his avowal of the worth and dignity of man for the smiles and patronage of the great, even after he had tasted the sweets of their society, which is a very different matter from such avowal before that time, if any one will fairly think of it, — all this, with the acknowledged sovereignty of the greater genius, made an irresistible bond of brotherhood between Miller and Burns.

But to the grosser traits of the poet's character my husband's eyes were perfectly open ; and grieved indeed should I be if it could for a moment be supposed that he lent the weight of his own purer moral character to the failings, and worse than failings, of the other. Over these he mourned, he "rieved, — I believe he would at any time have given the life of his body for the life of his brother's soul. Above all, he deplored that the all-prevailing power of Christian love was never brought to bear on the heart of this greatest of Scotland's sons. If Thomas Chalmers had been in the place of RusselL who knows what might have been ? But,

PREFACE.

. doubtless, God in his providence had wise purposes to serve. It is often by such instruments that he scourges and purifies his Church. For, let us not forget, that scenes such as are depicted in the " Holy Fair," however painful to our better feelings, were strictly and literally true. This I have myself heard from an eye-witness, who could not have been swayed by any leanings towards the anti-puritan side : and, doubtless, many others are aware of testimony on the same side of equal weight. We may hope that the time is passing away when the more exceptionable parts of Burns' character and writings are capable of working mischief, at least among the higher and middle classes. It is cause of thankfulness, that in regard to such, and with him as with others, there is a sort of purifying process goes on, which leaves the higher and liner elements of genius to float buoyantly, and fulfil their own destiny in the universal plan, while the grosser are left to sink like lead in the mighty waters.

Thus it is in those portions of society already refined and elevated. But there is yet a portion of the lower strata where mid night orgies continue to prevail, and where every idea of pleasure is counected with libertinism and the bottle ; and there the worst productions of Burns are no doubt still rife, and working as a deadly poison. Even to a superior class of working-men, who are halting between two opinions, there is danger from the very mixture of good and evil in the cha racter and writings of the poet. They cannot forget that he

PREFACE.

. IX who wrote " The cock may craw, the day may daw, yet still we'll taste the barley bree," wrote likewise the immortal song, " A man's a man for a' that ;" and they determine, or are in danger of determining, to follow the object of their worship with no halting step. Doubtless, political creed and the accidents of birth do still colour the individual estimate of Burns and his writings. It is but of late that we have seen society torn, on occasion of the centenary of the poet, by conflicting opinions as to the propriety of ob serving it ; and many would fain have it supposed that the religious and anti-religious world were ranged on opposite sides. But it was not so. There were thoroughly good and religious men, self-made, who could not forget that Burns had been the champion of their order, and had helped to win for them respect by the power of his genius; while there were others, — religious men of old family, — who could remember nothing but his faults.

I remember spending one or two evenings about that time in the society of a well-born, earnestly religious, and highly estimable gentleman, who re probated Burns, and scoffed at the idea that a man cotdd be a man for a' that. He might belong to a limited class ; for well I know that among peers there are as ardent admirers of Bums as among peasants. All I would say is, that even religious feelings may take edge and bitterness from other causes. But to the other class, — those who from loyalty and gratitude are apt to follow Bums too far, — well I know that my husband would have said, " Receive all genius as X

PREFACE.

. the gift of God, but never let it be to you as God. It ought never to supersede the exercise of your own moral sense, nor can it ever take the place of the only infallible guide, — the Word of God." But I beg the reader's pardon for digressing thus, when I ought to be pursuing the proper business of a preface, which is, to state any explanatory circumstances that may be necessary in connection with the work in hand. The " Recollections of Ferguson" are exquisitely painful — so much so, that I would fain have beguu with something brighter ; but these two contributions being the most import ant, and likewise the first in order of a series, they seemed to fall into the beginning as their natural place. I have gone over the Life of Ferguson, which the reader may do for himself, to see whether there is any exaggeration in the " Recollections."

I find them all perfectly faithful to the facts. The neglected bard, the stone cell, the straw pallet, the stone paid for by a brother bard out of his own strait ened means, are not flattering to the " Enibro' Gentry j" but amid a great deal of flattery, a Uttle truth is worth remembering. On the other hand, it rejoices one to think that Ferguson's death-bed, on the heavenward side, was not dark. The returning reason, the comforts of the Word of Life, are glimpses of God's providence and grace that show gloriously amid the otherwise outer darkness of those depths. The sort of literature of superstition revived or retained

PREFACE.

. XI in " The Lykewake," there are a great many good people who think the world would be better without It chanced to me some three years ago, when residing in a sea-bathing village, and sitting one day on a green turf bank overlooking the sea, to hear a conversation in which this point was brought very prominently forward. A party, consisting of a number of young people, accompanied by their papa, a young French lady who was either governess or friend, and a gentleman in the garb of a clergyman, either friend or tutor, seated themselves very near me ; and it was proposed by the elder gentleman that a series of stories should be told for the amusement and edification of the young peopla A set of stories and anecdotes were accordingly begun, and very pleasingly told, chiefly by the clergyman, — friend or tutor.

Among others was a fairy tale entitled "Green Sleeves," to which the name of Hugh Miller was appended, and which evoked great applause from the younger members of the party, but regarding which, the verdict of papa, very emphatically delivered, was, " / approve of fairies neither in green sleeves nor white sleeves. However," — after a pause, during which he seemed to be revolving in his mind any possible use for the like absurdities, — " they may serve to show us the blessings of the more enlightened times in which we live, when schools for the young, and sciences for all ages, have banished such things from the world." So, with this utilitarian view of the subject let us rest satisfied, unless we are of those who, feeling that the

PREFACE.

. XII human mind is a harp of many strings, believe that it is none the worse for having the music of even its minor chords awaked at times by a skilful hand. I am unable to say whether " Bill Whyte" be a real story, ever narrated by a bona fide tinker of the name, or no. I am rather inclined to think that it is not, because I recognise in it several incidents drawn from " Uncle Sandy's" Experiences in Egypt, such as the hovering of the flight of little birds, scared and terrified, over the smoke and noise of battle, the encampment in the midst of a host of Tu lies' bones, &c. With the " Young Surgeon" I was myself acquainted. It is a sketch, strictly true. Owing to a mistake, there are three stories which find themselves in this volume, which the reader will likewise find in " Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland."

These are, " The Widow of Dunskaith," the story of " George Ross the Scotch Agent," and that of " M'Culloch the Me chanician." When the plan of the " Tales and Sketches" occurred to me, I was thinking over the five or six opening tales, which were written for "Wilson's Tales of the Bor ders," during, as I have said, the first two years of their author's married life. I remembered that he had likewise written a number of shorter stories for " Chambers' Jour nal" at the same period ; and as the " Scenes and Legends" had been written before our marriage, it did not occur to me that there could possibly be any repetition. I found,

PREFACE.

. XIII however, when the printing had gone somewhat too far, that, by the kind permission of the Messrs Chambers, the greater part of what had appeared in their "Journal" had been incorporated with the "Scenes and Legends" in a later edition. Had I not overlooked or forgotten this, I would have found a place for " Letters on the Herring Fishery," which are, in fact, a series of sketches, and, in the opinion of many, equal to anything my husband ever wrote. This will be done, God willing, in another edition ; and, in the meantime, it is hoped that such readers as prefer the useful to the imaginative will be not unwelcomely reminded of two very excellent models for those who wish to rise and those who have risen. Of the same character is " The Story of the Scotch Merchant of the Eighteenth Century," written origi nally at the request of a near relative of Mr Forsyth, for private circulation among a few friends, and now for the first time given to the public by the kind consent of the sur viving relatives.

LYDIA MILLER. December 23, 1862. CONTENTS. PAGE Recollections of Ferguson ..... l Recollections of Burns ..... 53 The Salmon-Fisher of ITdoll . . . .118 The Widow of Dunskaith ..... 147 The Lykewake ...... 169 Bill Whyte ....... 206 The Young Surgeon . . . . . .242 George Ross, the Scotch Agent .... 261 m'culloch the mechanician ..... 273 A True Story of the Life of a Scotch Merchant of the Eighteenth Century . . . . .283 RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON.

Chapter I

Of Ferguson, the bauld and slee. — P-URN: I have, I believe, as little of the egotist in my composition as most men ; nor would I deem the story of my life, though by no means unvaried by incident, of interest, enough to re p.iy the trouble of either writing or perusing it, were it the story of my own life only ; but, though an obscure man my self, I have been singularly fortunate in my friends. The party-coloured tissue of my recollections is strangely inter woven, if I may so speak, with pieces of the domestic history of men whose names have become as familiar to our ears as that of our country itself ; and I have been induced to struggle with the delicacy which renders one unwilling to speak much of one's self, aud to overcome the dread of exertion natural to a period of life greatly advanced, through a desire of pre serving to my countrymen a few notices, which would other wise be lost to them, of two of their greatest favourites. 1 A could once reckon among my dearest and most familiar friends, Robert Burns and Robert Ferguson.

It is now rather more than sixty years since I studied for a few weeks at the University of St Andrews. I was the sou of very poor parents, who resided in a seaport town on the west coast of Scotland. My father was a house-carpenter,- — a quiet, serious man, of industrious habits, and great simplicity of character, but miserably depressed in his cir cumstances, through a sickljhabit of body. My mother was a warm-hearted, excellent woman, endowed with no ordinary share of shrewd good sense and sound feeling, and indefati gable in her exertions for my father and the family. I was taught to read at a very early age, by an old woman in the neighbourhood, — such a person as Shenstone describes in his " Schoolmistress ;" and, being naturally of a reflective turn, I had begun, long ere I had attained my tenth year, to de rive almost my sole amusement from books.

I read inces santly ; and, after exhausting the shelves of all the neigh bours, and reading every variety of work that fell in my way, — from the "Pilgrim's Progress" of Bunyan, and the " Gospel Sonnets" of Erskine, to a " Treatise on Fortification" by Vauban, and the " History of the Heavens" by the Abbe Pluche, — I would have pined away for lack of my accustomed exer cise, had not a benevolent baronet in the neighbourhood, for whom my father occasionally wrought, taken a fancy to me and thrown open to my perusal a large and well-selected library. Nor did his kindness terminate until, after having secured to me all of learning that the parish school afforded, he had settled me, now in my seventeenth year, at the Uni- TCrsity. RECOLLECTION'S OF FKRGUSOy. 3 Youth is the season of warm frieudships aud romantic wishes and hopes.

We say of the child, in its first attempts to totter along the wall, or wh i it has first learned to rise beside its mother's knee, that it*, is yet too weak to stand alone ; and we may employ tlie same language in describing a young and ardent mind. It is, like the child, too weak to staud alone, and anxiously seeks out some kindred mind on which to lean. I had had my intimates at school, who, though of no very superior cast, had served me, if I may so speak, as resting-places, when wearied with my studies, or when I had exhausted my lighter reading ; and now, at St Andrews, where I knew no one, I began to experience the unhappiness of an unsatisfied sociality. My schoolfellows were mostly stiff, illiterate lads, who, with a little bad Latin, and worse Greek, plumed themselves mightily ou their scholarship ; and I had little inducement to form any inti macies among them ; for of all men the ignorant scholar is the least amusing.

Among the students of the upper classes, however, there was at least one individual with whom I longed to be acquainted. He was apparently much about my own use, rather below than above the middle size, and rather delicately than robustly formed ; but I have rarely seen a more elegant figure or more interesting face. His features were small, and there was what might perhaps be deemed a too feminine delicacy in the whole contour ; but there was a broad and very high expansion of forehead, which, even in those days, when we were acquainted witii only the phreno logy taught by Plato, might be regarded as the index of a capacious and powerful mind ; and the brilliant light of his large black eyes seemed to give earnest of its activity. " Who, in the name of wonder, is that 1 " I inquired of a class-fellow, as this interesting-looking young man passed me for the first time.

" A clever but very unsettled fellow from Edinburgh," replied the lad ; " a capital linguist, for he gained our first bur sary three years ago ; but our Professor says he is certain he will never do any good. He cares nothing for the company of scholars like himself ; and employs himself — though he excels, I believe, in English composition — in writing vulgar Scotch rhymes, like Allan Ramsay. His name is Robert Ferguson." I felt from this moment a strong desire to rank among the friends of one who cared nothing for the company of such men as my class-fellow, and who, though acquainted with the literature of England and Rome, could dwell with interest on the simple poetry of his native country. There is no place in the neighbourhood of St Andrews where a leisure hour may be spent more agreeably than among the ruins of the cathedral.

I was not slow in discovering the eligibilities of the spot ; and it soon became one of my favourite haunts. One evening, a few weeks after I had entered on my course at college, I had seated myself among the ruins, in a little ivied nook fronting the setting sun, and was deeply engaged with the melancholy Jaques in the forest of Ardennes, when, on hearing a light footstep, I looked up, and saw the Edinburgh student whose appearance had so interested me, not four yards away. He was busied with his pencil and his tablets, and muttering, as he went, in a half-audible voice, what, from the inflection of the tones, seemed to be verse. On seeing me, he started, and, apolo- RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON. 5 gizing in a few hurried but courteous words for what he termed the involuntary intrusion, would have passed, but, on my rising and stepping up to him, he stood.

" I am afraid, Mr Ferguson," I said, 'tis I who owe you an apology : the ruins have long been yours, and I am but an intruder. But you must pardon me : I have often heard of them in the west, where they are hallowed, even more than they are here, from their connection -with the history of some of our noblest Reformers ; and, besides, I see no place in the neighbourhood where Shakspeai-e can be read to more advantage." "Ah," said he, taking the volume out of my hand, — "a reader of Shakspeare and an admirer of Knox ! I question whether the heresiarch and the poet had much in com mon." " Nay, now, Mr Ferguson," I replied, " you are too true a Scot to question that. They had much, very much, in common. Knox was no rude Jack Cade, but a great and powerful-minded man, — decidedly as much so as any of the nobler conceptions of the dramatist, — his Cæsars, Brutuses, or Othellos.

Buchanan could have told you that he had even much of the spirit of the poet in him, and wanted only the art. And just remember how Milton speaks of him in his ' Areopagitica.' Had the poet of 'Paradise Lost' thought regarding him as it has become fashionable to think and speak now, he would hardly have apostrophized him as Enox, the reformer of a tuition, — a great man animated by the Spirit of God." " Pardon me," said the young man ; " I am little acquainted with the prose writings of Milton ; and have, indeed, picked up most of my opinions of Knox at second-hand. But I have read his merry account of the murder of Beaton, and found nothing to alter my preconceived notions of him from either the matter or manner of the narrative. Now that I think of it, however, my opinion of Bacon would be no very ade quate one, were it formed solely from the extract of his his tory of Henry VII. given by Kanies iu his late publication.

Will you not extend your walk 1" We quitted the ruins together, and went sauntering along the shore. There was a rich sunset glow on the water, and the hills that rise on the opposite side of the Frith stretched their undulating line of azure under a gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold. My companion pointed to the scene. " These glorious clouds," he said, " are but wreaths of vapour; and these lovely hills, accumulations of earth and stone. And it is thus with all the past, — with the pnst of our own little histories, that borrows so much of its golden beauty from the medium through which we survey it, — with the past, too, of all history. There is poetry in the remote : the bleak hill seems a darker firmament, and the chill wreath of vapour a river of fire. And you, Sir, seem to have contemplated the history of our stern Reformers through this poetical medium, till you forget that the poetry was not in them, but in that through which you surveyed them."

" Ah, Mr Ferguson," I replied, " you must permit me to make a distinction. I acquiesce fully in the justice of your remark : the analogy, too, is nice and striking; but I would fain carry it a little further. Every eye can see the beauty of the remote; but there is a beauty in the near, — an interest at least, which every eye cannot see. Each of the thousand RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGI7SOX. little plants that spring up at our feet has an interest and beauty to the botanist : the mineralogist would find some thing to engage him in every little stone. Aud it is thus with the poetry of life : all have a sense of it in the remote and the distant ; but it is only the men who stand high in the art — its men of profound science — that can discover it in the near. The mediocre poet shares but the commoner gift, and so he seeks his themes in ages or couutries far removed from his own ; whilst the man of nobler powers, knowing that all nature is instinct with poetry, seeks and finds it in the men and scenes in his immediate neighbourhood.

As to our Reformers" " Pardon me," said the young poet ; " the remark strikes me, and, ere we lose it in something else, I must furnish you with an illustration. There is an acquaintance of mine, a lad much about my own age, greatly addicted to the study of poetry. He has been making verses all his life-long : he began ere he had learned to write them even ; and his judgment has been gradually overgrowing his earlier compositions, as you see the advancing tide rising on the beach, and obliterating the prints on the sand. Now, I have observed that in all his earlier compositions he went far from home : he could not attempt a pastoral without first transporting himself to the vales of Arcadia ; or an ode to Pity or Hope without losing the warm, living sentiment in the dead, cold personification of the Greek.

The Hope and Pity he ad dressed were, not the undying attendants of human nature, but the shadowy spectres of a remote age. Now, however, I feel that a change has come over me. I seek for poetry among the fields and cottages of my own land. I — a — a — the friend of whom I speak But I interrupted your remark on the Reformers." " Nay," I replied, " if you go on so, I would much rather listen than speak. I only meant to say that the Knoxes and Melvilles of our country have been robbed of the admiration and sympathy of many a kindred spirit, by the strangely erroneous notions that have been abroad regarding them for at least the last two ages. Knox, I am convinced, would have been as great as Jeremy Taylor, if not even greater." We sauntered along the shore till the evening had darkened into night, lost in an agreeable interchange of thought.

" Ah !" at length exclaimed my companion, " I had almost forgotten my engagement, Mr Lindsay ; but it must not part us. You are a stranger here, and I must introduce you to some of my acquaintance. There are a few of us, — choice spirits, of course, — who meet every Saturday evening at John Hogg's ; and I must just bring you to see them. There may be much less wit than mirth among us ; but you will find us all sober when at the gayest ; and old John will be quite a study for you."

Chapter II

Say, ye red gowns, that aften here Hae toasted calces to Katie's beer, Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer. Sae blythe, sae daft ! Ye '11 ne'er again in Use's career Sit half sae saft. Elegy on John Hogg. We returned to town ; aud, after threading a few of the narrower lanes, entered by a low door into a long dark room, dimly lighted by a fire. A tall thin woman was em ployed in skinning a bundle of dried fish at a table in a corner. " Where's the gudeman, Kate ?" said my companion, changing the sweet pure English in which he had hitherto spoken, for his mother tongue. " John's ben in the spence," replied the woman. " Little Andrew, the wratch, has been makin' a totum wi' his faither's a'e razor; an' the puir man's trying to shave himsel' yonder, an' girnan like a sheep's head on the tangs."