Continental Monthly, Vol. I., No. IV., April, 1862 by Various

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'If singing breath, if echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven.'

If breath to every hidden prayer were given, could it be _singing_
breath? Would it not be a wail monotonous as the dirge of the November
wind over the dead summer, a wail for lost hopes, lost joys, lost loves?
Or the monotony would be varied--as is the wind by fitful gusts--by
shrieks of despair, cries of agony. No, no, there is no use in trying to
modulate our woes,--'we're all wrong,--the _time_ in us is lost.'

'Henceforth I'll bear
Affliction, 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
nigh When 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 day
That 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 vain
For 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 L25,000, 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 Ambrosianae_ 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.

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