We cannot resist going on with the testimony of this highly respectable authority, and we shall find it equally strong with respect to his moral as to his intellectual qualities. · "Dr Leyden," these and the foregoing remarks are contained in a letter addressed by Sir John Malcolm to the Editor of the Bombay Courier," had from his earliest years cultivated the muses, with a success which will make many regret that Poetry did not occupy a larger portion of his time. The first of his essays, which appeared in a separate form, was The Scenes of Infancy,' a descriptive Poem, in which he sung, in no unpleasing strains, the charms of his native mountains and streams in Teviotdale. He contributed several small pieces to that collection of Poems, called the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,' which he published with his celebrated friend, Walter Scott. Among these the Mermaid' is certainly the most beautiful. In it he has shewn all the creative fancy of a real genius. His Ode on the Death of Nelson is undoubtedly the best of those poetical effusions that he has published since he came to India. The following apostrophe, to the blood of that hero, has a sublimity of thought, and happiness of expression, which never could have been attained but by a true poet : "Blood of the brave! thou art not lost new, And hosts of heroes rise when one shall bleed." "It is pleasing to find him, on whom nature has bestowed eminent genius, possessed of those more essential and intrinsic qualities which give the truest excellence to the human character. The manners of Dr Leyden were uncourtly, more, perhaps, from his detestation of the vices too generally attendant on refinement, and a wish (indulged to excess from his youth) to keep at a marked distance from them, than from any ignorance of the rules of good breeding. He was fond of talking; his voice was loud, and had little or no modulation; and he spoke in the provincial dialect of his native country. It cannot be surprising, therefore, that even his information and knowledge, when so conveyed, should be felt by a number of his hearers as unpleasant, if not oppressive. But with all these disadvantages, (and they were great,) the admiration and esteem in which he was always held by those who could appreciate his qualities, became general wherever he was long known; they even who could not understand the value of his knowledge loved his virtues. Though he was distinguished by his love of liberty, and almost haughty independence, his ardent feelings, and proud genius, never led him into any licentious or extravagant speculation on political subjects. He never solicited favour, but he was raised by the liberal discernment of his noble friend and patron, Lord Minto, to situations that afforded him an opportunity of shewing that he was as scrupulous and as inflexibly virtuous in the discharge of his public duties, as he was attentive in private life to the duties of morality and religion. 6 I "The temper of Dr Leyden was mild and generous, and he could bear, with per fect good humour, raillery on his foibles. When he arrived at Calcutta, in 1805, I was most solicitous regarding his reception in the society of the Indian capital. entreat you, my dear friend,' (I said to him the day he landed,) to be careful of the impression you make on your entering this community; for God's sake learn a little English, and be silent upon literary subjects, except among literary men.' • Learn English!" he exclaimed, 6 no, never; it was trying to learn that language that spoilt my Scotch, and as to being silent, I will promise to hold my tongue, if you will make fools hold theirs." "His memory was most tenacious, and he sometimes loaded it with lumber. When he was at Mysore, an argument occurred upon a point of English history; it was agreed to refer it to Leyden, and to the astonishment of all parties, he repeated verbatim the whole of an act of parliament in the reign of James the First, relative to Ireland, which decided the point in dispute. his memory with such extraordinary mat-On being asked how he came to charge ter, he said that several years before, when he was writing on the changes which had taken place in the English language, this act was one of the documents to which he had referred as a specimen of the style of that age, and that he had retained every word in his memory. "His love of the place of his nativity, was a passion in which he had always a pride, and which in India he cherished with the fondest enthusiasm. I once went to see him when he was very ill, and had been confined to his bed for many days; there were several gentlemen in the room; he inquired if I had any news; I told him I had a letter from Eskdale; and what are they about in the borders?' he asked. A curious circumstance, I replied, is stated in my letter; and I read him a passage which described the conduct of our volunteers on a fire being kindled by mistake at one of the beacons. This letter mentioned, that the moment the blaze, which was the signal of invasion, was seen, the mountain eers hastened to their rendezvous, and those of Liddisdale swam the Liddal river to reach it. They were assembled (though several of their houses were at the distance of six or seven miles) in two hours, and at break of day marched into the town of Hawick (a distance of twenty miles from the place of assembly) to the border tune of Wha dar meddle wi' me.' Leyden's countenance became animated as I proceeded with this detail, and at its close he sprung from his sick-bed, and with strange melody, and still stranger gesticulations, sung aloud, cha dar meddle wi' me, wha dar meddle wi' me.' Several of those who witnessed this scene, looked at him as one that was raving in the delirium of a fever. "These anecdotes," Sir John Malcolm concludes, “will display, more fully than any description I can give, the lesser shades of the character of this extraordinary man. An external manner, certainly not agree able, and a disposition to egotism, were his only defects. How trivial do these appear, at a moment when we are lamenting the loss of such a rare combination of virtues, learning, and genius, as were concentrated in the late Dr Leyden !" There is an equally decisive testimony to the independent and disinterested character of this high-spirited man, by his generous patron, Lord Minto; but we have already quoted more than we can well justify to our readers, if they have not felt with us the deep interest of the theme. They will excuse us, however, for adding one anecdote of Leyden's father, "who," (as we are informed by the writer of this affecting narrative,) " though in a humble walk of life, is ennobled by the possession of an intelligent mind, and has all that just pride which characterizes the industrious and virtuous class of Scottish peasantry, to which he belongs. Two years ago, when Sir John Malcolm visited the seat of Lord Minto, in Roxburghshire, he requested that John Leyden, who was employed in the vicinity, might be sent for, as he wished to speak with him. He came after the labour of the day was finished, and though his feelings were much agitated, he appeared rejoiced to see one, who he knew had cherished so sincere a regard for his son. In the course of the conversation which took place on this occasion, Sir J. Malcolm, after mentioning his regret at the unavoid. able delays which had occurred in realizing the little property that had been left, said he was authorized by Mr Heber (to whom all Leyden's English manuscripts had been bequeathed) to say, that such as were likely to produce a profit should be published as soon as possible, for the benefit of the family. Sir,' said the old man with animation, and with tears in his eyes, God blessed me with a son, who, had he been spared, would have been an honour to his country!-as it is, I beg of Mr Heber, in any publication he may intend, to think more of his memory than my wants. The money you speak of would be a great comfort to me in my old age, but thanks to the Almighty, I have good health, and can still earn my livelihood; and I pray therefore of you and Mr Heber to publish nothing that is not for my son's good fame.'" We would willingly say something on Leyden's poetry, did we not consider the judgment to be passed upon it as really going but a very little way into the general appreciation of his inerit. We care very little whether or no Cicero was a poet, although it is said that this was a point of much interest to that great man himself. Perhaps Leyden was more ambitious of this kind of reputation than the character of his genius warranted, or than his other conspicuous endowments rendered at all necessary. His poetry has that kind of merit, however, that it always bears the impression of a vigorous and versatile mind, although it does not seem often to be the natural vehicle into which his thoughts and feelings would have of themselves been carried. He was a poet, because Scott and Campbell, and others of his associates and contemporaries, were poets,and Leyden was not a man who would willingly be outdone in any thing. Accordingly, we find him breaking a lance with these illustrious men in their different departments; and this at least must be said for him, that, if he often fails in the combat, he still appears to be a preux chevalier, even at the moment when he is un horsed by his more alert and skilful rivals. There is a want of grace and ready expression in his poetry; but, if he had given his whole soul to that divine art, we think he might at least. have been the Ben Jonson of modern times, (could that name be separated, in our idea, from the drama,) if some of his great compeers have character of the muse of Shakecome nearer the full and flowing speare. He has a great deal of mi nute observation, brought in heavily and inartificially indeed, yet often tersely expressed, and, like that poet of the "learned sock," we find him not unfrequently unbending from his hardness and formality, and catching for some moments a much freer air of My native stream, my native vale, That after absence long I view ! And infancy revive anew. When first each joy that childhood yields At distance fading dark and blue, I guide my wandering steps again. And now when rosy sunbeams lie breeze, And light the dew drops on the trees, And view the water-spiders glide Which, printless, yields not as they pass; The surface blue and clear as glass. I love the rivulet's stilly chime And seems in Fancy's ear to say,"A few short suns, and thou no more Shalt linger on thy parent shore, But like the foam-streak pass away!" In death's funereal cheerless hue, SPAIN. THIS is universally set down as perhaps the worst governed nation in Europe, and that from which the least good is at all to be looked for. It is, indeed, lamentably crusted over with the rust of a degrading despotism and superstition. There is, however, fine metal here, if it could be brought out, and it is always pleasing to discover, that there are noble capabilities in a people, however they may for a time be fatally overwhelmed. It is with great satisfaction, therefore, that we quote from a MS. letter of a very intelligent traveller who was lately in Spain, the following interesting observations on that country and its inhabitants. "I entered Spain near the famous fortress of Figueras, which, in point of strength and beauty, is unequalled in Europe; there, too, I first introduced myself to cork trees. I saw, too, with no small curiosity, admiration, and pity, all that remained undestroyed of Gerona, a town almost as immortal as Zaragoça, and as ill rewarded. The next day I entered Barcelona, a splendid and flourishing town. There is no giving an account of the devastations of Catalonia, and no repairs, no thanks, rewards, or compensations have been made to the gallant Catalans, who are, I think, the finest race of men I have seen, hardly lese. They are, as indeed are all the excepting the Albanians or the TyroSpanish peasantry I have yet seen, far superior in carriage, and appearance, and dress, to the French. From Barcelona I went to Tarragona, another town half ruined by sieges, and from thence to Marviedro, (the ancient Saguntum,) and Valentia, where, in the middle of December, the air was as mild as in summer, and where many trees still preserved some appearance of foliage. The road still in many places bore the marks of war, and near to Valentia was covered with stone crosses over those who had fallen by private assassination. I hardly think there is any where to be found so strong a contrast as between the people of Catalonia and Valentia, both in appearance and in character. These last are far below in every good quality to the first. From Valentia, I went in eight tedious days to Madrid, passing over the field of Almanza, and exchanging for all that was ever said of balmy climate, the keen biting winter of Madrid, which I reached just before Christmas. This city lies so high above the sea, that it has quite a mountain temperature, and a more penetrating and rarified air than I had felt before. "I think the circumstance which strikes most powerfully any one who first comes into Spain, is the condition of the peasantry, among whom, (at least in these three extensive provinces,) there is no appearance of the indolence, the want, and neglect, which in general are laid to their charge. I, when living in the country, having leagued myself with the curate, had an opportunity of examining the condition of the people, and was glad, though surprised, to find in every cottage much cleanliness, very good provisions, and a good deal of furniture and utensils. The bread and wine of the very best; bacon, vegetables, salt fish, and some flesh, were the ordinary food. The labourer earned 20d. English -day, and in summer more. "It is too, remarkable, that the lower orders are very well off in other respects, and meet with very little molestation from the government or from taxes, while all other ranks suffer heavily. The people are, in consequence, as free and as manly in their manners and language as in England, and seem to me very far superior in every thing, to the same rank in France or Italy. I am more diffuse on this subject than perhaps I should be, but I consider the people as a very important object to a traveller, in all countries, but in despotic countries of the very highest consequence, for absolute governments tend so much to efface every distinction of character, that it only is among the people that one finds either originality or spirit. Nothing can be more like to each other, than the degraded nobles of Spain and Italy, and nothing so dis similar as the Spanish and Italian peasant. The one reserved, proud, and honourable; the latter, insine re, loquacious, and dastardly. The first rather repelling at the beginning, but winning your esteem and friendship on acquaintance; the second very soon effacing the favourable idea his obliging appearance and manners had caused. "There is, I am told, the widest difference between these provinces and that of Andalusia, where at this time (29th of March) every thing is more forward than in June in England.” THE CONGRESS OF VIENNA. ALTHOUGH I look upon myself to be a very loyal person as times go, I will yet own to you that I was exceedingly diverted by your quotation from Tom Crib's Memorial. My lungs crowed like chanticleer, and I laughed a full hour sans intermission. Perhaps I was the more tickled, as I am myself a kind of droll versifier in my way. The loom, which is my calling, gives abundance of time for musing, and the very regularity of its sounds and motions naturally throws the thoughts of the operator into rhyme. In Sir John Falstaff's time, weavers, you may remember, were famous for singing psalms—in these degenerate days, we rather take to funny songs. I am tempted to send you one, which I composed several years ago, on the following occasion: The Congress to which Mr Crio's and Mr Owen's Memorials were addressed, separated without any disagreeable interruption; you will recollect, however, a former celebrated Congress, whose dispersion was rather on the sudden. There are sometimes events in history more ludicrous (if they were not very serious at the time) than the most fanciful writer of farces could have contrived. Certainly there never was any thing that seemed so much calculated to pour contempt and ridicule on all the wise heads of Europe, as the sudden landing of Bonaparte in France, when he was thought to be so well watched in Elba, and the consequent suspension of all the intrigues and devices which were framing for the settlement of Europe. Men could not well laugh then, but they may now ;-and my song, which was coinposed on the occasion, (for I could not resist giving vent to my humour even amidst all the horrors that were gathering,) but which has since remained carefully locked up in my own bosom, can now, I conceive, have no offence in it. The piece is entitled "The Congress of Vienna," and is a scene of an opera. The first speaker, or rather singer, is the Emperor Alexander. Alexander. Now, my dear cronies, in Congress assembled, Here we're all sitting as merry as grigs; France has knock'd under, and England dissembled, None there speak their minds out, except a few Whigs: Against them to battle away We've sent Mister C-st-r-gh, Who, to say truth, is a bit of a uinny; With all his fine speeches Alex. In Pluto's domain? Omnes. Who, who, who? Chorus of Crowned Heads. Pshaw, pshaw, pshaw, pooh, pooh, pooh, The messenger's a feeble! Mess. He is near Lyons, Alex. If 'tis so, we must make the best (Curse that fool Johnny Bull, though, who of a bad bargain. let him escape!) But here let us swear all, before he is far gone, To banish him forth (that will be a fine scrape!) Of the pale of society, But they're quite good enough to gull ho- Send him to Hayti, nest Johnny. Enter Second Messenger. 2d Mess. Illustrious Kings, Napoleon is in Paris! Omnes. The devil he is! 2d Mess. As sure as in fir tar is! Omnes. Who, who, who? Chorus of Crowned Heads. Then we must to battle- Tul. And I'll make my peace while you You will perhaps allow that this was no very unnatural ending at the time the song was written; but we may be all thankful that the battle of Waterloo very soon gave it a much. this, you may perhaps hear from me more glorious finale. If you insert again. I am, Mr Editor, your obedient servant, A PAISLEY WEAVER Paisley, April 30, 1819. |