Margaret Fuller Ossoli - At Home And Abroad

M >> Margaret Fuller Ossoli >> At Home And Abroad

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37

We passed Abbotsford without stopping, intending to go there on our
return. Last year five hundred Americans inscribed their names in its
porter's book. A raw-boned Scotsman, who gathered his weary length
into our coach on his return from a pilgrimage thither, did us the
favor to inform us that "Sir Walter was a vara intelligent mon," and
the guide-book mentions "the American Washington" as "a worthy old
patriot." Lord safe us, cummers, what news be there!

This letter, meant to go by the Great Britain, many interruptions
force me to close, unflavored by one whiff from the smoke of Auld
Reekie. More and better matter shall my next contain, for here and
in the Highlands I have passed three not unproductive weeks, of which
more anon.

LETTER IV.

EDINBURGH, OLD AND NEW.--SCOTT AND BURNS.--DR. ANDREW COMBE.--AMERICAN
RE-PUBLISHING.--THE BOOKSELLING TRADE.--THE MESSRS. CHAMBERS.--DE
QUINCEY THE OPIUM-EATER.--DR. CHALMERS.

Edinburgh, September 22d, 1846.

The beautiful and stately aspect of this city has been the theme of
admiration so general that I can only echo it. We have seen it to the
greatest advantage both from Calton Hill and Arthur's Seat, and our
lodgings in Princess Street allow us a fine view of the Castle, always
impressive, but peculiarly so in the moonlit evenings of our first
week here, when a veil of mist added to its apparent size, and at the
same time gave it the air with which Martin, in his illustrations
of "Paradise Lost," has invested the palace which "rose like an
exhalation."

On this our second visit, after an absence of near a fortnight in the
Highlands, we are at a hotel nearly facing the new monument to Scott,
and the tallest buildings of the Old Town. From my windows I see
the famous Kirk, the spot where the old Tolbooth was, and can almost
distinguish that where Porteous was done to death, and other objects
described in the most dramatic part of "The Heart of Mid-Lothian." In
one of these tall houses Hume wrote part of his History of England,
and on this spot still nearer was the home of Allan Ramsay. A thousand
other interesting and pregnant associations present themselves every
time I look out of the window.

In the open square between us and the Old Town is to be the terminus
of the railroad, but as the building will be masked with trees, it
is thought it will not mar the beauty of the place; yet Scott could
hardly have looked without regret upon an object that marks so
distinctly the conquest of the New over the Old, and, appropriately
enough, his statue has its back turned that way. The effect of the
monument to Scott is pleasing, though without strict unity of thought
or original beauty of design. The statue is too much hid within the
monument, and wants that majesty of repose in the attitude and drapery
which a sitting figure should have, and which might well accompany the
massive head of Scott. Still the monument is an ornament and an honor
to the city. This is now the fourth that has been erected within two
years to commemorate the triumphs of genius. Monuments that have risen
from the same idea, and in such quick succession, to Schiller, to
Goethe, to Beethoven, and to Scott, signalize the character of the new
era still more happily than does the railroad coming up almost to the
foot of Edinburgh Castle.

The statue of Burns has been removed from the monument erected in his
honor, to one of the public libraries, as being there more accessible
to the public. It is, however, entirely unworthy its subject, giving
the idea of a smaller and younger person, while we think of Burns
as of a man in the prime of manhood, one who not only promised, but
_was_, and with a sunny glow and breadth, of character of which this
stone effigy presents no sign.

A Scottish gentleman told me the following story, which would afford
the finest subject for a painter capable of representing the glowing
eye and natural kingliness of Burns, in contrast to the poor, mean
puppets he reproved.

Burns, still only in the dawn of his celebrity, was invited to dine
with one of the neighboring so-called gentry (unhappily quite void
of true gentle blood). On arriving he found his plate set in the
servants' room!! After dinner he was invited into a room where guests
were assembled, and, a chair being placed for him at the lower end of
the board, a glass of wine was offered, and he was requested to sing
one of his songs for the entertainment of the company. He drank off
the wine, and thundered forth in reply his grand song, "For a' that
and a' that," with which it will do no harm to refresh the memories
of our readers, for we doubt there may be, even in Republican America,
those who need the reproof as much, and with far less excuse, than had
that Scottish company.

"Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

"What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that,
The honest man, though, e'er sae poor
Is king o' men for a' that.

"Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
His ribbon, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

"A prince can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.

"Then let us pray that, come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the wide warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that."

And, having finished this prophecy and prayer, Nature's nobleman left
his churlish entertainers to hide their diminished heads in the home
they had disgraced.

We have seen all the stock lions. The Regalia people still crowd
to see, though the old natural feelings from which they so long lay
hidden seem almost extinct. Scotland grows English day by day. The
libraries of the Advocates, Writers to the Signet, &c., are fine
establishments. The University and schools are now in vacation; we are
compelled by unwise postponement of our journey to see both Edinburgh
and London at the worst possible season. We should have been here in
April, there in June. There is always enough to see, but now we find
a majority of the most interesting persons absent, and a stagnation in
the intellectual movements of the place.

We had, however, the good fortune to find Dr. Andrew Combe, who,
though a great invalid, was able and disposed for conversation at
this time. I was impressed with great and affectionate respect by
the benign and even temper of his mind, his extensive and accurate
knowledge, accompanied, as such should naturally be, by a large
and intelligent liberality. Of our country he spoke very wisely and
hopefully, though among other stories with which we, as Americans, are
put to the blush here, there is none worse than that of the conduct of
some of our publishers toward him. One of these stories I had heard
in New York, but supposed it to be exaggerated till I had it from the
best authority. It is of one of our leading houses who were publishing
on their own account and had stereotyped one of his works from an
early edition. When this work had passed through other editions and
he had for years been busy in reforming and amending it, he applied
to this house to republish from the later and better edition. They
refused. In vain he urged that it was not only for his own reputation
as an author that he was anxious, but for the good of the great
country through which writings on such, important subjects were to be
circulated, that they might have the benefit of his labors and best
knowledge. Such arguments on the stupid and mercenary tempers of those
addressed fell harmless as on a buffalo's hide might a gold-tipped
arrow. The book, they thought, answered THEIR purpose sufficiently,
for IT SELLS. Other purpose for a book they knew none. And as to the
natural rights of an author over the fruits of his mind, the distilled
essence of a life consumed in the severities of mental labor, they had
never heard of such a thing. His work was in the market, and he had
no more to do with it, that they could see, than the silkworm with the
lining of one of their coats.

Mr. Greeley, the more I look at this subject, the more I must
maintain, in opposition to your views, that the publisher cannot, if
a mere tradesman, be a man of honor. It is impossible in the nature of
things. He _must_ have some idea of the nature and value of literary
labor, or he is wholly unfit to deal with its products. He cannot
get along by occasional recourse to paid critics or readers; he must
himself have some idea what he is about. One partner, at least, in
the firm, must be a man of culture. All must understand enough to
appreciate their position, and know that he who, for his sordid aims,
circulates poisonous trash amid a great and growing people, and
makes it almost impossible for those whom Heaven has appointed as its
instructors to do their office, are the worst of traitors, and to be
condemned at the bar of nations under a sentence no less severe than
false statesmen and false priests. This matter should and must be
looked to more conscientiously.

Dr. Combe, repelled by all this indifference to conscience and natural
equity in the firm who had taken possession of his work, applied to
others. But here he found himself at once opposed by the invisible
barrier that makes this sort of tyranny so strong and so pernicious.
"It was the understanding among the trade that they were not to
interfere with one another; indeed, they could have no chance," &c.,
&c. When at last he did get the work republished in another part of
the country less favorable for his purposes, the bargain made as to
the pecuniary part of the transaction was in various ways so evaded,
that, up to this time, he has received no compensation from that
widely-circulated work, except a lock of Spurzheim's hair!!

I was pleased to hear the true view expressed by one of the Messrs.
Chambers. These brothers have worked their way up to wealth and
influence by daily labor and many steps. One of them is more the
business man, the other the literary curator of their Journal. Of this
Journal they issue regularly eighty thousand copies, and it is
doing an excellent work, by awakening among the people a desire for
knowledge, and, to a considerable extent, furnishing them with good
materials. I went over their fine establishment, where I found more
than a hundred and fifty persons, in good part women, employed, all
in well-aired, well-lighted rooms, seemingly healthy and content.
Connected with the establishment is a Savings Bank, and evening
instruction in writing, singing, and arithmetic. There was also a
reading-room, and the same valuable and liberal provision we had
found attached to some of the Manchester warehouses. Such accessories
dignify and gladden all kinds of labor, and show somewhat of the true
spirit of human brotherhood in the employer. Mr. Chambers said he
trusted they should never look on publishing _chiefly_ as _business_,
or a lucrative and respectable employment, but as the means of mental
and moral benefit to their countrymen. To one so wearied and disgusted
as I have been by vulgar and base avowals on such subjects, it was
very refreshing to hear this from the lips of a successful publisher.

Dr. Combe spoke with high praise of Mr. Hurlbart's book, "Human Rights
and their Political Guaranties," which was published at the Tribune
office. He observed that it was the work of a real thinker, and
extremely well written. It is to be republished here. Dr. Combe said
that it must make its way slowly, as it could interest those only who
were willing to read thoughtfully; but its success was sure at last.

He also spoke with, great interest and respect of Mrs. Farnham,
of whose character and the influence she has exerted on the female
prisoners at Sing Sing he had heard some account.

A person of a quite different character and celebrity is De Quincey,
the English Opium-Eater, and who lately has delighted us again with
the papers in Blackwood headed "Suspiria de Profundis." I had the
satisfaction, not easily attainable now, of seeing him for some hours,
and in the mood of conversation. As one belonging to the Wordsworth,
and Coleridge constellation, (he too is now seventy-six years of age,)
the thoughts and knowledge of Mr. De Quincey lie in the past; and
oftentimes he spoke of matters now become trite to one of a later
culture. But to all that fell from his lips, his eloquence, subtile
and forcible as the wind, full and gently falling as the evening dew,
lent a peculiar charm. He is an admirable narrator, not rapid, but
gliding along like a rivulet through a green meadow, giving and taking
a thousand little beauties not absolutely required to give his story
due relief, but each, in itself, a separate boon.

I admired, too, his urbanity, so opposite to the rapid, slang,
Vivian-Greyish style current in the literary conversation of the
day. "Sixty years since," men had time to do things better and more
gracefully than now.

With Dr. Chalmers we passed a couple of hours. He is old now, but
still full of vigor and fire. We had an opportunity of hearing a
fine burst of indignant eloquence from him. "I shall blush to my very
bones," said he, "if the _Chaarrch_"--(sound these two _rr_'s with
as much burr as possible and you will get at an idea of his mode of
pronouncing that unweariable word)--"if the Chaarrch yields to the
storm." He alluded to the outcry now raised against the Free Church by
the Abolitionists, whose motto is, "Send back the money," i.e. money
taken from the American slaveholders. Dr. Chalmers felt that, if they
did not yield from conviction, they must not to assault. His manner
of speaking on this subject gave me an idea of the nature of his
eloquence. He seldom preaches now.

A fine picture was presented by the opposition of figure and
lineaments between a young Indian, son of the celebrated Dwarkanauth
Tagore, who happened to be there that morning, and Dr. Chalmers, as
they were conversing together. The swarthy, half-timid, yet elegant
face and form of the Indian made a fine contrast with the florid,
portly, yet intellectually luminous appearance of the Doctor; half
shepherd, half orator, he looked a Shepherd King opposed to some
Arabian story-teller.

I saw others in Edinburgh of a later date who haply gave more valuable
as well as fresher revelations of the spirit, and whose names may be
by and by more celebrated than those I have cited; but for the present
this must suffice. It would take a week, if I wrote half I saw or
thought in Edinburgh, and I must close for to-day.

LETTER V.

PERTH.--TRAVELLING BY COACH.--LOCH LEVEN.--QUEEN MARY.--LOCH
KATRINE.--THE TROSACHS.--ROWARDENNAN.--A NIGHT ON BEN LOMOND.--SCOTCH
PEASANTRY.

Birmingham, September 30th, 1846.

I was obliged to stop writing at Edinburgh before the better half
of my tale was told, and must now begin there again, to speak of an
excursion into the Highlands, which occupied about a fortnight.

We left Edinburgh, by coach for Perth, and arrived there about three
in the afternoon. I have reason to be very glad that I visit this
island before the reign of the stage-coach is quite over. I have been
constantly on the top of the coach, even one day of drenching rain,
and enjoy it highly. Nothing can be more inspiring than this swift,
steady progress over such smooth roads, and placed so high as to
overlook the country freely, with the lively flourish of the horn
preluding every pause. Travelling by railroad is, in my opinion, the
most stupid process on earth; it is sleep without the refreshment of
sleep, for the noise of the train makes it impossible either to read,
talk, or sleep to advantage. But here the advantages are immense; you
can fly through this dull trance from one beautiful place to another,
and stay at each during the time that would otherwise be spent on
the road. Already the artists, who are obliged to find their home
in London, rejoice that all England is thrown open to them for
sketching-ground, since they can now avail themselves of a day's
leisure at a great distance, and with choice of position, whereas
formerly they were obliged to confine themselves to a few "green, and
bowery" spots in the neighborhood of the metropolis. But while in the
car, it is to me that worst of purgatories, the purgatory of dulness.

Well, on the coach we went to Perth, and passed through Kinross, and
saw Loch Leven, and the island where Queen Mary passed those sorrowful
months, before her romantic escape under care of the Douglas. As this
unhappy, lovely woman stands for a type in history, death, time, and
distance do not destroy her attractive power. Like Cleopatra, she has
still her adorers; nay, some are born to her in each new generation of
men. Lately she has for her chevalier the Russian Prince Labanoff, who
has spent fourteen years in studying upon all that related to her,
and thinks now that he can make out a story and a picture about the
mysteries of her short reign, which shall satisfy the desire of her
lovers to find her as pure and just as she was charming. I have only
seen of his array of evidence so much, as may be found in the pages of
Chambers's Journal, but that much does not disturb the original view I
have taken of the case; which is, that from a princess educated
under the Medici and Guise influence, engaged in the meshes of secret
intrigue to favor the Roman Catholic faith, her tacit acquiescence,
at least, in the murder of Darnley, after all his injurious conduct
toward her, was just what was to be expected. From a poor, beautiful
young woman, longing to enjoy life, exposed both by her position
and her natural fascinations to the utmost bewilderment of flattery,
whether prompted by interest or passion, her other acts of folly are
most natural, and let all who feel inclined harshly to condemn her
remember to

"Gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman."

Surely, in all the stern pages of life's account-book there is none on
which a more terrible price is exacted for every precious endowment.
Her rank and reign only made her powerless to do good, and exposed her
to danger; her talents only served to irritate her foes and disappoint
her friends. This most charming of women was the destruction of her
lovers: married three times, she had never any happiness as a wife,
but in both the connections of her choice found that she had either
never possessed or could not retain, even for a few weeks, the love of
the men she had chosen, so that Darnley was willing to risk her life
and that of his unborn child to wreak his wrath upon Rizzio, and after
a few weeks with Bothwell she was heard "calling aloud for a knife to
kill herself with." A mother twice, and of a son and daughter,
both the children were brought forth in loneliness and sorrow, and
separated from her early, her son educated to hate her, her
daughter at once immured in a convent. Add the eighteen years of her
imprisonment, and the fact that this foolish, prodigal world, when
there was in it one woman fitted by her grace and loveliness to charm
all eyes and enliven all fancies, suffered her to be shut up to water
with her tears her dull embroidery during all the full rose-blossom of
her life, and you will hardly get beyond this story for a tragedy, not
noble, but pallid and forlorn.

Such were the bootless, best thoughts I had while looking at the dull
blood-stain and blocked-up secret stair of Holyrood, at the ruins of
Loch Leven castle, and afterward at Abbotsford, where the picture
of Queen Mary's head, as it lay on the pillow when severed from the
block, hung opposite to a fine caricature of "Queen Elizabeth dancing
high and disposedly." In this last the face is like a mask, so
frightful is the expression of cold craft, irritated, vanity, and the
malice of a lonely breast in contrast with the attitude and elaborate
frippery of the dress. The ambassador looks on dismayed; the little
page can scarcely control the laughter which swells his boyish cheeks.
Such can win the world which, better hearts (and such Mary's was, even
if it had a large black speck in it) are most like to lose.

That was a most lovely day on which we entered Perth, and saw in full
sunshine its beautiful meadows, among them the North-Inch, the famous
battle-ground commemorated in "The Fair Maid of Perth," adorned with
graceful trees like those of the New England country towns. In the
afternoon we visited the modern Kinfauns, the stately home of Lord
Grey. The drive to it is most beautiful, on the one side the Park,
with noble heights that skirt it, on the other through a belt of trees
was seen the river and the sweep of that fair and cultivated country.
The house is a fine one, and furnished with taste, the library large,
and some good works in marble. Among the family pictures one
arrested my attention,--the face of a girl full of the most pathetic
sensibility, and with no restraint of convention upon its ardent,
gentle expression. She died young.

Returning, we were saddened, as almost always on leaving any such
place, by seeing such swarms of dirty women and dirtier children at
the doors of the cottages almost close by the gate of the avenue. To
the horrors and sorrows of the streets in such places as Liverpool,
Glasgow, and, above all, London, one has to grow insensible or die
daily; but here in the sweet, fresh, green country, where there seems
to be room for everybody, it is impossible to forget the frightful
inequalities between the lot of man and man, or believe that God can
smile upon a state of things such as we find existent here. Can any
man who has seen these things dare blame the Associationists for their
attempt to find prevention against such misery and wickedness in our
land? Rather will not every man of tolerable intelligence and good
feeling commend, say rather revere, every earnest attempt in that
direction, nor dare interfere with any, unless he has a better to
offer in its place?

Next morning we passed on to Crieff, in whose neighborhood we visited
Drummond Castle, the abode, or rather one of the abodes, of Lord
Willoughby D'Eresby. It has a noble park, through which you pass by
an avenue of two miles long. The old keep is still ascended to get
the fine view of the surrounding country; and during Queen Victoria's
visit, her Guards were quartered there. But what took my fancy most
was the old-fashioned garden, full of old shrubs and new flowers, with
its formal parterres in the shape of the family arms, and its clipped
yew and box trees. It was fresh from a shower, and now glittering and
fragrant in bright sunshine.

This afternoon we pursued our way, passing through the plantations
of Ochtertyre, a far more charming place to my taste than Drummond
Castle, freer and more various in its features. Five or six of these
fine places lie in the neighborhood of Crieff, and the traveller may
give two or three days to visiting them with a rich reward of delight.
But we were pressing on to be with the lakes and mountains rather, and
that night brought us to St. Fillan's, where we saw the moon shining
on Loch Earn.

All this region, and that of Loch Katrine and the Trosachs, which
we reached next day, Scott has described exactly in "The Lady of
the Lake"; nor is it possible to appreciate that poem, without going
thither, neither to describe the scene better than he has done after
you have seen it. I was somewhat disappointed in the pass of the
Trosachs itself; it is very grand, but the grand part lasts so
little while. The opening view of Loch Katrine, however, surpassed,
expectation. It was late in the afternoon when we launched our little
boat there for Ellen's isle.

The boatmen recite, though not _con molto espressione_, the parts of
the poem which describe these localities. Observing that they spoke of
the personages, too, with the same air of confidence, we asked if they
were sure that all this really happened. They replied, "Certainly; it
had been told from father to son through so many generations." Such
is the power of genius to interpolate what it will into the regular
log-book of Time's voyage.

Leaving Loch Katrine the following day, we entered Rob Roy's country,
and saw on the way the house where Helen MacGregor was born, and Rob
Roy's sword, which is shown in a house by the way-side.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37