Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 60, No. 369, July 1846

Morning, and other Poems! It was impossible for the author to have stumbled upon a more unfortunate subject in support of his pretensions. Of all imaginable themes, that of morning is least likely to inspire with enthusiasm the soul of a Scottish barrister. Few are the associations of delight which that word awakens in his mind. It recalls to him the memory of many a winter, throughout which he has been roused from his comfortable nap at half-past seven, by the shrill unquellable voice of Girzy, herself malignant and sullen as the bespoken warning of the watchman. He recollects the misery of shaving with tepid water and a blunt razor by the light of a feeble dip – the fireless study – the disordered papers – the hasty and uncomfortable breakfast, and the bolting of the slippery eggs. Blash comes a sheet, half hail half slush, against the window – the wind is howling without like a hurricane, and threatens to carry off that poor shivering lamplighter, whose matutinal duty it is to extinguish the few straggling remnants of gas now waning sickly and dim, in the dawn of a bad December morning. What would he not give if this were a Monday when he might remain in peace at home! But there is no help for it. He is down for three early motions on the roll of the most punctual Ordinary that ever cursed a persecuted bar; so he buttons his trot-cosey around him, and, without taking leave of the wife of his bosom – who, like a sensible woman as she is, never thinks of moving until ten – he dashes out, ankle-deep in mud and melting snow, works his way up a continuous hill of a mile and a half in length, with a snell wind smiting him in the face, his nose bluemigating like a plum, and his linen as thoroughly damped as though it had been drawn through the wash-tub. Just as he begins to discern through the haze the steeple of Knox's kirk, nine strokes upon the bell warn him that his watch is too slow. He rushes on through gutter and dub, and arrives in the robing-room simultaneously with ten other brethren, who are all clamorously demanding their wigs and gowns from the two distracted functionaries. Accomodated at last, he hurries up the stairs, and when, through the yellow haze of the house, he has groped his way to the den where early Æacus is dispensing judgment by candle-light, he finds that the roll has been already called without the appearance of a single counsel. Such, for half the year – the other half being varied by a baking – are the joys which morning brings to the member of the Scottish bar. Few, we think, in their senses would be inclined to sing them, nor, indeed, to do our author justice, does he attempt it. His notions of morning occupations are very different. Let us see what sort of employment he advises in an apostrophe, which, though ostensibly addressed to Sleep, (a goddess with two mothers, for he calls her "Daughter of Jove and Night, by Lethe born,") must, we presume, have been intended for the edification of his fellow-mortals.

"Nor then, thy kneesVex with long orisons. The morning task,The morning meal, or healthful morning walkDemand attention next. Thy hungry feed,Among thy stall, if lowing herds be thine;Drain the vex'd udders, set the pail apartFor the wean'd kid; the doggish sentinelSupply, nor let him miss the usual handHe loves. Then, having seen all full and glad,Body and soul with food thyself sustain.If wedded bliss be yours, the fruitful vineGreet lovingly, and greet the olive shoots,The gifts of God!"

Here is a pretty fellow! What! First breakfast, then a walk, then the byre, the ewe-bught, the pig-stye, and the kennel, and after all that, without wiping the gowkspittle of the tares from your jacket, or the stickiness of Cato's soss from your fingers, you would sit down to a second breakfast, like a great snorting gormandizer, and never say good-morning to your wife and children until you have finished your third roll, and washed down that monstrous quantity of fried ham with your fifth basin of bohea! But no – we turn over a couple of pages, and find that we have done our friend injustice. He is a poet, and, according to his idea of that race, they subsist entirely upon porridge or on sowens.

"But what becomes the rustic, little suitsThe poet and the high Æonian fire —His toils I mean; sacred the morning primeIs still to song, and sacred still the grove;No fields he boasts, no herds to grace his stalls,The muse has made him poor and happy too,She robs him of much care and some dull coin,Stints him in gay attire and costly books,But gives a wealth and luxury all her own,And, on a little pulse, like gods they diet."

Our theory is, that this man is a medical student. We have a high regard for the healing faculty; nor do we think that, amongst its ranks, there is to be found more than the ordinary proportion of blockheads. But the smattering of diversified knowledge which the young acolytes are sure to pick up in the classes, is apt to go to their heads, and to lead them into literary and other extravagances, which their more sober judgment would condemn. They are seldom able, however, to disguise their actual calling; and even their most powerful efforts are tinctured with the flavour of rhubarb or of senna. This youth has been educated in obstetrics.

"Three months scarce had thrice increasedEre the world with thee was blest."

He is an adept in the mysteries of gestation – an enthusiast so far in his profession, and cannot even contemplate the approach of morning without the feelings of a genuine Howdie. Mark his exordium —

"The splendid fault, solicitude of fame,Which spurs so many, me not moves at allTo sing, but grateful sense of favours obtain'dBy many a green-spread tree and leafy hill:The MORNING calls, escaped from dewy sleepAnd Tithon's bed to celebrate her charms,What sounds awake, what airs salute the dawn!"That virgin darkness, loveliest imp of time,Is, to an amorous vision, nightly wed,And made the mother of a shining boy,By mortals hight the day, let others tell,In livelier strains, and to the Lydian fluteSuit the warm verse; but be it ours to waitIn the birth-chamber, and receive the babe,All smiling, from the fair maternal side,By pleasant musings only well repaid."

It is a great pity that one so highly gifted should ever have been tempted to forsake the muse for any mere mundane occupation. But in spite of his modest request that sundry celestial spirits —

"Will to a worthier give the bays to Phœbus dear,And crown my Wordsworth with the branch I must not wear" —

we are not altogether without hopes that he will reconsider the matter, avoid too hard work, which, in his own elegant language, might make him

"Wan as nun who takes the vows,Or primrose pale, or lips of cows!" —

and not only delight us occasionally with a few Miltonic parodies as delectable as these, but be persuaded in time to assume the laureat's wreath. As for the pretext that he is getting into practice – whether legal or medical – that is all fudge. He informs us that "the following pages were written, during the author's leisure hours, some years ago, before the superior claims of professional occupations interfered to make such pursuits unlawful, and would probably have remained unpublished, but for the accident of a talented friend's perusal." Moreover, he says that "his conscience will not reproach him with the hours which the preparation of these poems for the press has filched from graver business —

'The tedious forms, the solemn prate,The pert dispute, the dull debate.'"

We assure him that it need not do so. No man who has glanced at this volume will accuse him of knowing the difference between a process of Ranking and Sale and a Declarator of Legitimacy; and he may comfort himself with the conviction that his literary pursuits are quite as lawful at the present time as they were some years ago. No importunate solicitor will ever interfere to divert him from them. The man who cannot compass an ordinary distich will never shine in minutes of debate; nor have we the slightest expectation that a three-guinea fee – even were he entitled to receive it – would ever supply the place of that unflinching principle of honour, which he thus modestly, and not unprophetically acknowledges to be the mainspring of his inspiration —

"'Tis this which strings, in time, my feeble harp,And yet shall ravish long eternal years!"

The following imprecation, which we find in "Morning," inspires us with something like hope of the continuance of his favours: —

"When I forget the dear enraptured lay,May this right hand its wonted skill forego,And never, never touch the lyre again!"

We dare not say Amen to such a wish. On the contrary, in the name of the whole Outer-House, we demand a supplementary canto. Let him submit it to the perusal of his "talented friend," and we dare answer for it that the publishers will make no objection to stand sponsors for a new volume on the same terms as before.

ELINOR TRAVIS

A Tale in Three ChaptersChapter the Second

So far have I spoken of what I saw and witnessed. Much of what follows came to me, years afterwards, authenticated by the chief performer in the eventful drama which I write, and by others no less worthy of belief. After what has been already narrated, it will not be supposed that I suffered the life of my friend to pass away unnoticed. We corresponded, but fitfully, and at long intervals. Here and there we met, often strangely and by accident, and I became now the depositary of his heart's dearest secrets, now the reluctant adviser, and now the bold and earnest remonstrant. Our intimacy, however, ceased abruptly and unhappily a year or two subsequently to his marriage. Sinclair, it will be seen, then went abroad, and I returned to my duty at the university. I recur to the memoranda of his history which lie before me, and proceed with my text.

It would appear that General Travis overtook the fugitives, but, as good or ill fortune would have it, not until the knot was tied, and his presence profited nothing. I have been told that the desperate father, at one period of the chase, was within an easy stage of the runaways, and, had he been so disposed, might have laid hands on the delinquents without ruinously bribing the postilions, who prudently husbanded their strength in full expectation of additional largess. But, at the very moment of victory, as it were, the general unfortunately was seized with illness, and compelled to pass a day and night under the hands of a village doctor in a roadside inn. He was very angry and rebellious, you may be sure, and oftener than once asserted with an oath – so that there could be no doubt whatever of his sincerity – that he would give the world (if he had it) to be allowed to proceed; at the same time that he unreasonably accused the practitioner, whom he had never seen before, of conspiring with his enemies to bring his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. The worthy apothecary, guilty of nothing but the venial offence of making the most of a visitation of Providence, merely shook his head dolefully at every exclamation of his patient, hinted at gastric fever, and rubbed his palms, intimating by that act that so he proposed to wash his hands of all responsibility. Whereupon the general prudently gave in, held out his massive fist, was prescribed for, went to bed and put out his candle, just two minutes after he had put out the basket of physic which had been sent to prolong his stay in the inn for at least a week to come.

The interview between the disconsolate parent and the youthful offenders is adverted to in the letter which I received from Rupert Sinclair in London early in the honeymoon. It is many years since it was written: the paper is discoloured, and the ink fading. It is the effusion of a fond and enthusiastic youth; but it looks mournful and dried up, more like the decaying writing on the rolls of a mummy than the ardent outpourings of a recent passion. Alack for the mutability of life! I have no apologies to make for giving the letter as it stands. It speaks for itself: its publication cannot harm the dead.

"Dearest Walter – Congratulate me! wish me joy! But no greater joy than I experience at this hour, with the sunny and smiling heaven above, and in the possession of a treasure of which no man living can rob me: of which I am prouder than Alexander could have been of all his conquered worlds. She is mine! I have ventured much for the prize; yet little – for I feel I could have parted with every thing in life for her who is to me – life, every thing. She is mine! Oh the comprehensiveness of that one little word! Mine whilst existence lasts – mine to cherish and uphold – mine for earth and heaven! We walked this morning to the placid lake which lies hidden in the heart of the mountains, to which we have retreated for a season away from the envious eyes of men. The waters were as calm as at the dawn of the first sabbath! The sky that overarched us looked down upon them in unutterable love. The slightest breath that crept amongst the trees was audible. Her arm was upon mine. Nature had attuned my soul to the surrounding harmony – the gentlest pressure of her confiding hand oppressed me with joy and moved me to tears. Laugh at me if you will. You answer to all this – that I dream. Be it so: – That I must soon awake. It is possible. Nay, I grant you that this foretaste of heaven, now vouchsafed to me, must pass away and leave behind it only the remembrance of this golden epoch. Still the remembrance is mine, the undying memory of a vision unparalleled by all other dreams of life.

"I have written to my father, but he replies not. He has no sympathy for attachments such as mine, and cannot understand the bitterness of life caused by a blighted hope. But he will relent. He has a noble nature, and will take no delight in my unhappiness. My mother's influence is unbounded. She loves me, and will plead my cause with him, when the first paroxysm of anger has passed away, and has left him open to her sway. I will take my Elinor to her; her innocence and beauty would melt a stubborn heart to pity. Shall it not prevail with her whose heart is ours already by the ties of holiest nature? Believe me, I have no fear of Lord Railton's lasting anger.

"The general reached us the day after we were married. Happily for me that he arrived not before. Elinor, as I have told you often, reveres her father, and has a chivalric sense of filial obligations. Had he commanded her to return to his roof whilst the right to command remained with him, she would have deemed it her paramount duty to obey him. His rage was terrible when we met; I had never seen a man so plunged in grief before. He accused me of treachery – of having betrayed his confidence – and taken advantage of his daughter's simplicity and warm affection. The world, he said, would reproach him for an act which he would have moved heaven and earth to prevent, and the reputation of the family would be blasted by the conduct of one, who, but for his own base deed, should have remained for ever a stranger to it. What could I reply to this? For my dear Elinor's sake, I bore his cruel words, and answered not. Her gentle spirit has already prevailed. He quitted us this morning reconciled to our union, and resolved to stand by us in all extremities. There was no resisting the appeal of beauty such as hers. The old man wept like a child upon her neck as he forgave and blest her. Urgent business carries the general abroad for a season, but he returns to England shortly, to make arrangements for the future. Meanwhile, in obedience to his earnest request, I shall seek an interview with my father, and in person entreat his forgiveness and aid. My plans are unsettled, and necessarily depend upon the conduct of Lord Railton. Let me hear from you, dearest Wilson. Once more wish me joy. I ask no better fate for you than happiness such as mine.

"Your faithful and devoted"Rupert Sinclair."

The honeymoon over, Rupert Sinclair repaired to his father's house. Since his marriage he had received no tidings of his parents: he had written to his father and mother, but from neither came one syllable of acknowledgment or reply. It was strange, but he relied with unshaken confidence upon his power over the fond mother's heart, and upon the magic influence of that loveliness which he himself had found resistless and invincible. The blissful dream was a short one; he was about to be roused from it. Elinor and he were in town: upon the morning of his visit to Grosvenor Square, they sat together in their hotel and weaved their bright and airy plans in syllables more unsubstantial than the gossamer.

"You will love my mother, my dearest Elinor," said Sinclair. "The great world, in which she acts no unimportant part, has not spoiled her affections. She is indulgent and fond almost to a fault."

"I shall love her for your sake, Rupert," answered the lovely wife. "How like she is!" she exclaimed, looking at a miniature which she wore around her neck, and then comparing it with the living countenance that beamed upon her. "Yet," she continued with a sigh, "she owes me no return of love."

"And wherefore?"

"Have I not stolen her most cherished treasure?"

"Have you not added to her treasures? She will rejoice in her new-found daughter. I know her well. She will not even suffer my father to frown upon us. When he would be most stern, she will lead you to him, and melt him into tenderness and pardon."

"I hope, dear Rupert, that it may be so. I would my father were with us!"

"Lord Railton will be a father to you till his return. Trust me for it. You shall find a happy home with him, until arrangements are made for our settlement here or elsewhere."

"Oh, elsewhere, dear Rupert, if it be possible! Let us go abroad; I was never happy in London, and strange to say, never felt at home in England. Yet London was my birth-place."

"You love blue sky, dearest!"

"Yes, and happy people. Men and women who are not mere slaves to form and fashion: who breathe free air and imbibe a sense of freedom. Oh Venice! dear Venice! – we shall go to Venice, shall we not? It is the land of enchantment, dearest Rupert, there is nothing like it in the world – the land of love and of romance."

"You shall visit it, sweetest, and abide there if you wish it. To me all spots are alike that find you happy and at my side. When you are tired of Venice, you shall lead me whithersoever you will."

"Will you always say so?"

"Always. But that our departure may not be delayed, let us attend to the pressing business of the hour. All our movements depend upon my father's sanction. Once reconciled to him, and the world is before us, to minister, sweet Elinor, to your every wish."

"What if he should punish you for my offence?"

"For your offence, dear girl! and what is that? Think not of it. I go to remove your fears and seal our happiness!"

With these and similar words of confidence and hope, the youth departed on his errand. Not without some misgiving and apprehension, however, did he present himself at that door which heretofore had flown open at his approach, always offering to his view the forms of obsequious lackeys, only too willing to anticipate his pleasure. The establishment of Lord Railton in a striking manner represented the sentiments and feelings of the noble proprietor. There was not a servant in the house who did not know, and that most accurately, the opinions, public and private, of "my lord," and the relative regard he had for all who approached his noble person, and who, moreover, did not give evidence of this knowledge in his conduct towards mankind. A stranger might have formed a just opinion of the influence of a visitor by simply remarking the bearing of Mister Brown the butler, as he ushered that visitor into the sublime presence. Smiles of welcome – a sweet relaxation of the features – greeted "the favoured guest;" cold rigidity, withering politeness, if not the stern expression of rebuke itself, were the undisguised acknowledgments of one who was "a bore" in his lordship's study, and consequently "a rejected" in the steward's room. During the boyhood of Rupert Sinclair, and whilst his mamma was known to be affectionately disposed to spoil her offspring by every kind of cruel indulgence, the regard entertained for the young scion, from Mister Brown downwards, was beautiful to contemplate. If he appeared in the hall, one sickening and hollow smile pervaded the cheeks of every individual; the tongue that was still wet with slander and abuse, became, as if by magic, sugary with choice phrases; and not a soul of all the lying crew, but sought to surpass the rest by the profuseness of its palpable and unmeaning flattery. Rupert Sinclair, worldly wise though he was not, would have been stolid indeed had he not gathered from the porter's air something of the reception that awaited him from his offended sire, when the wide portal opened to receive the unforgiven prodigal.

"His lordship?" – began Rupert inquiringly.

"Not at home, sir," said the flunkey, with all imaginable coolness interrupting him.

"Lady Railton?"

"Not at home, sir."

"She is in town?"

"In town, sir? – yes, sir."

"I will wait," said Sinclair, moving towards the inner hall.

He had not spoken before the porter pulled with all his might at a bell-wire that communicated with the steward's room. As though the signals were preconcerted, Mister Brown was in the hall in no time, and confronting the intruder upon the thresh-hold of the sanctuary. "I beg your pardon, Mr Sinclair," said Mister Brown, half respectfully, half confidentially. "Lord Railton is particularly engaged this morning, and has given orders to that effect. It is the painfulest thing to communicate, but I am but an agent."

Rupert coloured up, and hesitated for a moment.

"I must see Lady Railton, then?" he continued hastily.

"Her ladyship is ill, sir – really very ill. She is not suffered to see any body. My lord has forbidden any one to approach her but her maid. I hope no offence, but I heard Doctor Bennett tell her ladyship that it was of the highest consequence to keep Mr Sinclair away for the present."

"Is she really so ill, sir?" asked Rupert, turning pale, and with a quivering lip.

Mister Brown drew his handkerchief from his pocket, and applied it to his eyes.

"She is indeed, sir," said that hoary hypocrite; "we have had a dreadful time of it. I thought his lordship would have blown his brains out. My lady was given over for a week. For my own part, I may say that duty and feeling have struggled in my bosom till I am quite worn out, and it's quite impossible for me to say who will be laid up next."

"I must see my father, Mr Brown," said Sinclair, advancing a step or two, to the great discomfort of the butler, who was evidently sadly perplexed by the conflicting emotions of his mind; for whilst he acknowledged Lord Railton for his master, he respected Mr Sinclair as his heir, and felt how important it was to obey his present lord without declining to serve the youth whom he hoped to make his future lord. "I must see him. Go to him, I beg of you, and tell him I am here."

So saying, Mr Sinclair advanced a few steps further, and found himself unhindered in the dining-room – moreover, to his surprise and agitation, in the presence of his father. Mister Brown vanished. To behold his parent, to fall on his knees before him, and to grasp his hand, was the work of a moment. Lord Railton recoiled as though a serpent, and not his child, had wound about him. He was livid with rage, and an unnatural hate was settled in his cold, yet piercing eye.

"Your pardon, father!" cried the youth.

"Never, so help me" —

"Oh, do not say it, father!" exclaimed the son, interrupting him before the awful word was spoken; "for heaven's sake, do not call that name to witness such a fearful sentence – do not drive me to distraction!"

"You have driven me mad; you have blasted every hope of mine. You have been a traitor and a shame to the name you bear, and of which I would it were in my power to deprive you as easily as it is to attach to it the curse with which you shall receive from me your title and your inheritance. Begone! I never knew what it was to hate till now."

Rupert arose and burst into tears. His father looked at him unmoved except by scorn.

"You have not seen her," exclaimed Rupert, when the first burst of grief had passed away; "you do not know the value of the child whom you reject."

"No, but I have heard. The world has heard of our disgrace. Mark me, you are no longer child of mine. I disown and discard you. I will enter into no particulars. From this moment I will hold no further intercourse with you. At my death you will obtain my name, and all that the law allows you. Until my death, you will receive from my man of business more than a sufficient sum for your support. Let me not hear from you again. I shall struggle to forget you and your ingratitude. Neither in health nor sickness, neither by letter nor in person, let me know any thing of you or yours. You have forsaken your natural ties for new associations. They have made you a traitor to your blood – let them make the most of the adoption."