The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862

'Henceforth I'll bearAffliction, till it do cry out itself,"Enough, enough," and die.'

But why talk thus? why mourn over dead hopes, dead joys, dead loves? 'Tis best to bury the dead out of our sight, and from them will spring many humbler hopes, quieter joys, more lowly affections, which 'smell sweet' though they 'blossom in the dust,' and they are the only resurrection these dead ones can ever have. I have been reading, in Maury's Geography of the Sea, how the sea's dead are preserved; how they stand like enchanted warders of the treasures of the deep, unchanged, except that the expression of life is exchanged for the ghastliness of death. So, down beneath the surface currents do some deep souls preserve their dead hopes, joys, loves. Oh, this is unwise; this is not as God intended; for, unlike the sea's dead, there will be for these no resurrection.

Thus far I wrote, when the current of my thoughts was changed by a lively tune struck up by a hand-organ across the street. I am not 'good' at distinguishing tunes, but this one I had so often heard in childhood, and had so wondered at its strange title, that I could but remember it. It was 'The Devil's Dream.' Were I a poet, I would write the words to it;—but then, too, I would need be a musician to compose a suitable new tune to the words! The rattling, reckless notes should be varied by those sad enough to make an unlost angel weep—an unlost angel, for, to the hot eyes of the lost, no tears can come. 'The Devil's Dream'—perhaps it is of Heaven. Doubtless, frescoed in heavenly colors on the walls of his memory, are scenes from which fancy has but to brush the smoke and grime of perdition to restore them to almost their original beauty. I could even pity the 'Father of lies,' the 'Essence of evil,' the 'Enemy of mankind,' when I think of the terrible awaking. But does he ever sleep? Has there since the fall been a pause in his labors? Perhaps the reason this tune-time is so fast is because he is dreaming in a hurry,—must soon be up and doing. But it is my opinion that he has so wound up the world to wickedness, that he might sleep a hundred years, and it would have scarcely begun to run down on his awaking; when, from the familiar appearance of all things, he would swear 'it was but an after-dinner nap.' Indeed he might die, might to-day go out in utter nothingness like a falling star, and it would be away in the year two thousand before he would be missed,—we have learned to do our own devil-work so rarely. Meanwhile the well-wound world—as a music-box plays over the same tunes—would go on sinning over the same old sins. Satan is a great economist, but a paltry deviser,—he has not invented a new sin since the flood. My thoughts thus danced along to the music, when they were brought to a dead stop by its cessation; and it was time, you will think....

But, permit me to remind you that my name is not acquired, but inherited.

At your service,MOLLY O'MOLLY.

No. II

I detest that man who bides his time to repay a wrong or fancied wrong, who keeps alive in his hardened nature the vile thing hatred, and would for centuries, did he live thus long,—as the toad is kept alive in the solid rock. Hugh Miller says he is 'disposed to regard the poison bag of the serpent as a mark of degradation;' this venomous spite is certainly a mark of degradation, and it is only creeping, crawling souls that have it, but the creeping and crawling are a part of the curse.

Yet I have a respect for honest indignation, righteous anger, such as the O'Mollys have ever been capable of. And all the O'Molly blood in my veins has been stirred by the contemptuous manner in which some men have spoken of woman. 'Weak woman,—inconstant woman;' they have made the wind a type of her fickleness. In this they are right; for it has been proved that the seasons in their return, day and night, are not more sure than the wind. Such fickleness as this is preferable to man's greatest constancy. Woman weak! she's gentle as the summer breeze, I grant;—but, like this same breeze, when she's roused—then beware! You have doubtless heard of that gale that forced back the Gulf Stream, and piled it up thirty feet at its source.

Take care how you sour woman's nature,—remember that, once soured, all the honey in the universe will not sweeten it. There is such a thing as making vinegar of molasses, but I never heard of making molasses of vinegar. Do you wish to know the turning process? Grumbling—everlasting fault-finding—at breakfast, dinner, and supper, the same old tune. I don't see how the man who boards can endure it; he is obliged to swallow his food without complaint. The landlady at the head of the table is a very different-looking individual from the meek woman he afterwards calls wife,—not a word can he say, though he morning after morning, in his breakfast, recognizes, through its various disguises, yesterday's dinner. By the way, this is after Dame Nature's plan; she uses the greatest economy in feeding her immense family of boarders; never wastes a refuse scrap, or even a drop of water. If one of these boarders dies, it is true he is not, like 'the poor work-house boy,' served up as one dish, but he becomes an ingredient in many 'a dainty dish' fit to 'to set before a king.' But I am not, like 'Miss Ophelia' in 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' going to explore the good dame's kitchen,—will rather eat what is set before me, asking no questions; which last, what man ever did, if he could help it?

For an insignificant man, originally but a cipher, who owes it to his wife that he is even the fraction that he is, to talk about 'woman knowing her place—he's head,' etc.! If he had given her the place that belonged to her, their value, not as individual figures, but as one number, would have been increased a thousand fold. I have made a calculation, and this is literally true, or rather, you will say, figuratively true. Well, this kind of figures can not lie.

'The rose,' the Burmese say, 'imparts fragrance to the leaf in which it is folded.' Many a man has had a sweetness imparted to his character by the woman he has sheltered in his bosom—though some characters 'not all the perfume of Arabia could sweeten;' and, strange as it seem, most women would rather be folded in a tobacco leaf than 'waste their sweetness on desert air.' Though it is a long time since I have been a man lover, I am not a man hater. I can not hate anything that has been so hallowed by woman's love,—its magnetism gives a sort of attractive power to him.

Notwithstanding all that has been said about woman's weakness, it is acknowledged that she has a pretty strong will of her own. Well, we need a strong will,—it is the great centrifugal force that God has given to all. Only it must be subordinate to the centripetal force of the universe—the Divine will.

It is said that the centripetal force of our solar system is the Pleiad Alcyon. I know not whether the other stars of that cluster feel this attraction; if they do, what a centrifugal force the lost Pleiad must have had, to break away from 'the sweet influences' which, through so immense a distance, draw the sun with all his train. This is not without a parallel—when 'the morning stars sang together' over the new-born earth, one 'star of the morning' was not there to join in the chorus.

But Old Sol will probably never so strongly assert his centrifugality as to set such an example of secession to his planets and comets.

Pardon this astronomical digression. I have just returned from hearing an itinerant lecturer, and it will take a week to get the smoke of his magic lantern out of my eyes. If there is any error in these observations, blame the itinerant, not me.

I had been low-spirited all day, had tried reading, work,—all of no avail. Dyspeptic views of life would present themselves to my mind. Some natures, and mine is of them, like the pendulum, need a weight attached to them to keep them from going too fast. But a wholesome sorrow is very different from this moping melancholy, when the thoughts run in one direction, till they almost wear a channel for themselves—when the channel is worn, there is insanity.

Neither are my gloomy religious views to-day those that will regenerate the world. Those lines of Dr. Watts,—

'We should suspect some danger nighWhen we possess delight,'—

it is said, were written after a disappointment in love—it was 'sour grapes' that morning—with the grave divine.

As a general rule, where we possess continued delight, there is no 'danger nigh.' Where an enjoyment comes between us and our God, it casts on us a shadow. When we have plucked a beautiful flower, if poisonous, it has such a sickening odor that we fling it from us. We do not 'pay too dear for our whistle,' unless it costs us a sin; then it soon becomes a loathed and useless toy. Otherwise, the dearer we pay, the sweeter its music.

And even if there is 'danger nigh'—because we are pleased with the beautiful foam, need we steer straight for the breakers? Not every tempting morsel is the enemy's bait, though we should be careful how we nibble;—he is no blunderer (a proof positive that he is not Irish), never leaves his trap sprung—and we may get caught.

This is a synopsis of the arguments, or rather assertions, with which I opposed those of the blues; but, finding they were getting the better of me, I started out for a walk. It was a chilly afternoon; the whole sky, except a clear place just above the western horizon, was covered with those heavy, diluted India-ink clouds; the setting sun throwing a dreary red light on the northern and eastern mountains, adding sullenness to the gloom, instead of dispelling it. But why describe this gloomy sunset, there are so many beautiful ones?—when, as the grand, old, dying Humboldt said, the 'glorious rays seem to beckon earth to heaven?'

Well, I walked so fast that I left my blue tormentors far in the rear. On the way I met a friend, who invited me to go to the astronomical lecture. Here you have it, after many digressions. My thoughts never strike a plane surface, but always a spherical, and fly off in a tangent.

Sydney Smith says, 'Remember the flood and be brief.' You know I belong to a very old family; and from an ancestor, who lived before the flood, has been transmitted through a long line of O'Mollys a disposition to spin out. Unfortunately an antediluvian length of time was not an heir-loom to

Your humble servant,MOLLY O'MOLLY.

Sketches Of Edinburgh Literati

By A Former Member Of Its Press.

There was a time when the little hamlet of Cockpaine, ten miles from Edinburgh, in addition to the charms of its scenery, was also socially attractive from the high literary talent of several of its residents. It was situated on the banks of the Esk, whose rapid flow affords a valuable water-power. This had been improved under the enterprise of Mr. Craig, an extensive manufacturer, who became at last proprietor not only of the mills, but of the entire village. Mr. Craig was successful for several years; but the revulsions of trade during the Crimean war swept away his previous profits, and in 1854 he sank in utter bankruptcy.

The extensive domain of the Earl of Dalhousie lay next to Cockpaine, and the village site seemed all that was necessary to its completeness. As soon as the latter was offered for sale, the earl made the long-desired purchase, and then began the immediate eviction of its population. I saw four hundred operatives, of all ages, driven off on one sad occasion—a scene which reminded me most painfully of Goldsmith's lines in the 'Deserted Village:'—

'Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting dayThat called them from their native walks away,When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,And took a long farewell, and wished in vainFor seats like these beyond the western main;And shuddering still to face the distant deep,Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.'

A subsequent visit to what was once the thriving village, with its embowered cottages reflected from the waters of the Esk, its groups of romping children, its Sabbath melodies and its secular din, now changed to a nobleman's preserves, recalled the following truthful sketch from the same poem:—

'Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed,In Nature's simplest charms arrayed;But verging to decline, its splendors rise,Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;While, scourged by famine from the smiling land,The mournful peasant leads his humble band;And while he sinks, without one arm to save,The country blooms, a garden and a grave.'

Among those whom Mr. Craig had numbered with the friends of his better days, the first rank might have been conceded to that most eccentric and interesting child of genius, Thomas DeQuincey.

Mr. Craig had thrown open to his use a lovely cottage and grounds, commonly known as 'the Paddock,' which DeQuincey and his family occupied for several years as privileged guests. 'The Opium-eater,' as he was universally called by the villagers, was not more remarkable in character than in appearance. His attenuated form, though but five feet six in height, seemed singularly tall; and his sharply aquiline countenance was strongly indicative of reflection. This aspect was increased by a downward cast of the eyes, which were invariably fixed upon the ground; and in his solitary walks he seemed like one rapt in a dream. Such a character could not but be quite a marvel to the literary coterie of Cockpaine, which found in him an inexhaustible subject of discussion; while the more common class of the community viewed him with solemn wonderment—'aye, there he gaes aff to th' brae—he'll kill himsell wi' ower thinkin'—glowrin all the day lang—ah, there's na gude in that black stuff; it's worse nor whiskey and baccy forbye.' Such were some of the ordinary comments on the weird form which was seen emerging from 'the Paddock' and moving in solitude towards the hills. Taciturnity was a striking feature in DeQuincey's character, and was, no doubt, owing to intense mental action. The inner life, aroused to extreme activity by continued stimulus, excluded all perceptions beyond its own limits, and the world in which he dwelt was sufficiently large without the intrusion of external things. In his walks I would often follow in his track, with that fondness of imitation peculiar to childhood, but was never the object of his notice, and never heard him converse but once. Overcome by such recluse habits, DeQuincey showed no desire to court the patronage of the great, and had but little intercourse with the lordly family of the Dalhousies. Indeed, his only intimacy was with Mr. Craig, whose hospitality had won his heart. He was at this time still consuming enormous quantities of opium, having never abated its use, notwithstanding his allusions to reform in the 'Confessions.' His two daughters, like those of Milton, cheered the domestic scenes of 'the Paddock,' and the trio formed a circle whose interest pervaded the literary world.

DeQuincey was at that time writing for Hogg's Instructor, a popular Edinburgh periodical, in which his articles were a leading attraction. The Instructor was published weekly, and in addition to the pen of the 'Opium-eater,' could boast the editorship of the brilliant George Gilfillan. The former of these devoted himself to a series of interesting miscellanies, in which he brought out many pen-and-ink portraits of striking power. At times, indeed, he was almost considered joint editor; but his use of opium was so little abated, that it forbade dependence upon his pen. The quantity of the drug consumed by him, according to report, was astonishing. In his daily walk along the Esk, his form was easily distinguished, even at a distance, by the prim black surtout, whose priestly aspect was somewhat in contrast with his 'shocking-bad' hat. DeQuincey had by this time escaped from the poverty of his early days, of which he speaks so bitterly in his 'Confessions,' and was, if not a man of wealth, at least in easy circumstances. He was reputed to own a snug little estate, called 'Lasswade;' but he abandoned it to a tenant, and gave preference to Cockpaine, which charmed him by its romantic scenery. His pay for contributions to the Instructor could not have been less than a guinea per page; and Hogg, its publisher (who was no relation to the Ettrick shepherd), would have given him more had it been demanded. The Instructor was subsequently merged into the Titan, and its place of publication changed to London.

Removing from Cockpaine, my initiation into Edinburgh life was through an acquaintance with the noted publishing house of the Messrs. Black, who were then getting out their splendid edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica.

This vast enterprise, which cost £25,000, was highly profitable, through the energy and cleverness of Robert Black, who conducted it. Among other distinguished contributors, I frequently met in its office Mr., subsequently Lord, Macaulay, who furnished the articles on 'Pitt,' 'Canning,' and other distinguished statesmen. Although at that time a man of slender means, Mr. Macaulay refused compensation for these papers, on the score of strong personal friendship. However, he received an indirect reward, more valuable than mere gold, since Robert Black was his strong political supporter, and frequently presided at public meetings held to further Macaulay's interests. I have often seen Music Hall crowded by an enthusiastic mass while the bookseller filled the chair, and the great reviewer appeared as a public orator. Macaulay's person was very striking and impressive. He was tall, and of noble build and full development. Although one of the most diligent of readers and hard working of students of any age, his ruddy countenance did not indicate close application, and his appearance was anything but that of a book-worm. Indeed, at first glance, one would have taken him for a fine specimen of the wealthy English farmer; and to have observed his habits of good living at the social dining parties, would have added to the impression that in him the animal nature was far in advance of the intellectual. Macaulay, on all festive occasions, proved himself as elegant a conversationist as he was a writer; his tone was thoroughly English, and his pronunciation, like that of Washington Irving, was singularly correct. As a speaker, he at times rose to splendid flights of oratory, although his delivery from memory was less effective than the extemporaneous style. Macaulay never married, but was always happy in the social circle of his friends.

The Blacks were likewise publishers of Scott's novels, the demand for which was so great that they were seldom 'off the press.' Three standard editions were issued,—one of forty-eight volumes, at a low rate, another of twenty-five volumes, at higher cost, and an additional library edition, of still greater price. Of these, one thousand 'sets' per year were the average of sale.

Shortly after this, I was in connection with the Ballantynes, who published Blackwood's Magazine, one of the most profitable periodicals in the United Kingdom. This connection led to an acquaintance with John Wilson, better known as 'Christopher North,' of 'Old Ebony.' When the printers were in haste, I have frequently walked down to his residence in Gloucester Place, and sat by his side, waiting patiently, hour after hour, for copy. The professor always wrote in the night, and would frequently dash off one of his splendid articles between supper and daybreak. His study was a small room, containing a table littered with paper, the walls garnished with a few pictures, while heaps of books were scattered wherever chance might direct. At this table might have been seen the famous professor of moral philosophy, stripped to his shirt and pantaloons, the former open in front, and displaying a vast, hirsute chest, while a slovenly necktie kept the limp collar from utter loss of place. This was his favorite state for composition, and was in true keeping with the character and productions of his genius. When in public, the professor was still a sloven; but his heavy form and majestic head and countenance—though he was not a tall man—at once commanded respect. He never appeared anything but the philosopher, and I, who saw him in the dishabille of his study, never lost my awe for his greatness. He had a worthy family, and maintained an excellent establishment. Aytoun, who is now editor of Blackwood, married one of his daughters, and has proved, by his stirring ballads, that he was worthy of such an alliance. In writing, the professor eschewed gas light, and made use of the more classic lamp. A bottle of wine was his companion, and stood at his elbow until exhausted. This will perhaps explain much of the convivial character of the 'Notes.' The old-fashioned quill pen was his preference; and as the hours advanced, and mental excitement waxed in activity, the profuse spattering of ink rattled like rain. As a matter of course, his pay was of the highest rate, and his articles were read with avidity. One reason of this may be found in the boldness with which he drags into the imaginary colloquies of Noctes Ambrosianæ the literati of both kingdoms. This liberty was sometimes felt keenly, and sharply resented. Poor James Hogg, the 'Ettrick Shepherd,' who was just then getting a position in the literary world, sometimes found himself figuring unexpectedly in the scenes, as the victim of relentless wit. As a retaliation, Hogg attacked Wilson in a sheet which he was then publishing in the Cowgate, under the aid and patronage of a hatter.

It was one of John Wilson's fancies to affect a love of boxing, and it was a favorite theme in the 'Ambrosial Discussions.' From this some have imagined that he was of a pugilistic turn, whereas he knew nothing of the 'science,' and only affected the knowledge in jest.

Next to old 'Kit North,' the most truly beloved contributor to Blackwood was 'Delta,' whose poetry was for years expected, almost of course, in every number. As Wilson's identity was well-nigh lost in his imaginary character, so plain Dr. Moir was, in the literary world, merged in 'Delta' of Blackwood. But to the inhabitants of Musselburg he sustained a character altogether different, and the gentle Delta was only known as one worthy of the title of 'the good physician.' I lived at Musselburg two years, and had ample opportunities of personal acquaintance. Dr. Moir was a man of highly benevolent countenance, and of quiet and retiring manners. His practice was very extensive, and at almost all hours he could have been seen driving an old gray horse through the streets and suburbs of the town. The ancient character of Musselburg seemed to have been as congenial to his temperament as Nuremberg was to that of Hans Sachs. Indeed, in antiquity it can glory over 'Auld Reekie,' according to the quaint couplet,—

'Musselboro' was a boro' when Edinburgh was nane;Musselboro'll be a boro' when Edinburgh is gane.'

Moir was buried at Inveresk, where his remains are honored by a noble monument; the memory of his genius will be cherished by all readers of Blackwood. He died in 1854.

While engaged on the Encyclopedia to which we have made reference, I made the acquaintance of McCulloch, the distinguished writer of finances, who furnished the article on 'Banking.'

However distinguished may have been the position of this man in point of talent, he failed utterly to command respect; and I chiefly remember his coarse, overbearing tone of boastful superiority, and his abusive language to the compositors who set up his MSS. That they found the latter difficult of deciphering is not surprising, since the sheet looked less like human calligraphy than a row of bayonets. McCulloch had edited the 'Scotsman' with decided ability, and having attracted the attention of Lord Brougham, had received an appointment in the stationer's office. But in his promotion he quickly forgot his humble origin, and displayed his native vulgarity by lording it over the craftsmen who gave form and life to his thoughts.

Among the giants of Scotland at that time, Thomas Chalmers ranked chief, and the death of Sir Walter Scott had left him without a peer. I used to meet him as he took his early walks, and in his loving way of greeting youth he often bade me a cheerful good-morning. He was then living at Kinghorn, about eight miles from Edinburgh. Dr. Chalmers' robust stature was in keeping with the power of his intellect. He was of massive frame, and displayed a breadth of shoulder which seemed borrowed from the Farnese Hercules. Though so distinguished as a divine, there was nothing clerical in his appearance—nothing of that air of 'the cloth' which at once proclaims the preacher. His noble features were generally overspread with a benevolent smile, which seemed to shed an illumination as though from the ignition of the soul; while at other times he was possessed with a spirit of abstraction as if walking in a dream.