No More Learning

"
Sir Robert was essentially a court poet,
and belonged to the cultivated circle of
Scottish favorites that James gathered
around him; yet there is no mention of him in the gossipy diaries
of the period, and almost none in the State papers. He seems, how-
ever, to have been popular: Ben Jonson boasts that Aytoun "loved
me dearly. " It is not surprising that his mild verses should have
faded in the glorious light of the contemporary poets.
He wrote in Greek and French, and many of his Latin poems
were published under the title 'Delitiæ Poetarum Scotorum' (Amster-
dam, 1637). His English poems on such themes as a 'Love Dirge,'
'The Poet Forsaken,' 'The Lover's Remonstrance,' 'Address to an
Inconstant Mistress,' etc. , do not show depth of emotion. He says of
himself:-

"Yet have I been a lover by report,
Yea, I have died for love as others do;
But praised be God, it was in such a sort
That I revived within an hour or two. »


## p. 1107 (#533) ###########################################

ROBERT AYTOUN
1107
The lines beginning "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair,»
quoted below with their adaptation by Burns, do not appear in his
MSS. , collected by his heir Sir John Aytoun, nor in the edition of
his works with a memoir prepared by Dr. Charles Rogers, published
in Edinburgh in 1844 and reprinted privately in 1871. Dean Stanley,
in his 'Memorials of Westminster Abbey,' accords to him the original
of 'Auld Lang Syne,' which Rogers includes in his edition. Burns's
song follows the version attributed to Francis Temple.
Aytoun passed his entire life in luxury, died in Whitehall Palace
in 1638, and was the first Scottish poet buried in Westminster Abbey.
His memorial bust was taken from a portrait by Vandyke.
INCONSTANCY UPBRAIDED
LOVED thee once, I'll love no more;
Thine be the grief as is the blame:
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain;
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.
Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom didst recall,
That it thou might elsewhere inthrall;
And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain?
When new desires had conquered thee,
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so;
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.
Yet do thou glory in thy choice,
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice
To see him gain what I have lost.


## p. 1108 (#534) ###########################################

1108
ROBERT AYTOUN
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging to a beggar's door.
LINES TO AN INCONSTANT MISTRESS
DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair,
I
And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak had power to move thee.
But I can let thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou'rt sweet, yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favors are but like the wind
Which kisseth everything it meets!
And since thou canst love more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be loved by none.
The morning rose that untouched stands,
Armed with her briers, how sweet she smells!
But plucked and strained through ruder hands,
Her scent no longer with her dwells.
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like fair flowers to be thrown aside;
And thou shalt sigh while I shall smile,
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
BURNS'S ADAPTATION
I DO Confess thou art sae fair,
I wad been ower the lugs in love
Had I na found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, thy heart could move.
I do confess thee sweet - but find
-
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,
Thy favors are the silly wind,
That kisses ilka thing it meets.


## p. 1109 (#535) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1109
See yonder rosebud rich in dew,
Among its native briers sae coy,
How sune it tines its scent and hue
When pu'd and worn a common toy.
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide,
Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile;
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside
Like any common weed and vile.
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
(1813-1865)
YTOUN the second, balladist, humorist, and Tory, in propor-
tions of about equal importance, one of the group of wits
and devotees of the status quo who made Blackwood's
Magazine so famous in its early days, was born in Edinburgh, June
21st, 1813. He was the son of Roger Aytoun, "writer to the Signet";
and a descendant of Sir Robert Aytoun (1570-1638), the poet and
friend of Ben Jonson, who followed James VI. from Scotland and
who is buried in Westminster Abbey. Both Aytoun's parents were
literary. His mother, who knew Sir Walter Scott, and who gave
Lockhart many details for his biography, helped the lad in his
poems. She seemed to him to know all the ballads ever sung. His
earliest verses were praised by Professor John Wilson ("Christopher
North"), the first editor of Blackwood's, whose daughter he married
in 1849.
At the age of nineteen he published his 'Poland, Homer,
and Other Poems (Edinburgh, 1832). After leaving the University
of Edinburgh, he studied law in London, visited Germany, and return-
ing to Scotland, was called to the bar in 1840.
He disliked the pro-
fession, and used to say that though he followed
could overtake it.
the law he never
While in Germany he translated the first part of 'Faust' in
blank verse, which was never published. Many of his translations
from Uhland and Homer appeared in Blackwood's from 1836 to 1840,
and many of his early writings were signed "Augustus Dunshunner. »
In 1844 he joined the editorial staff of Blackwood's, to which for
many years he contributed political articles, verse, translations of
Goethe, and humorous sketches. In 1845 he became Professor of
Rhetoric and Literature in the University of Edinburgh, a place
which he held until 1864. About 1841 he became acquainted with
Theodore Martin, and in association with him wrote a series of light


## p. 1110 (#536) ###########################################

IIIO
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
papers interspersed with burlesque verses, which, reprinted from
Blackwood's, became popular as the 'Bon Gaultier Ballads. ' Pub-
lished in London in 1855, they reached their thirteenth edition in 1877.
"Some papers of a humorous kind, which I had published under the
nom de plume of Bon Gaultier," says Theodore Martin in his 'Memoir of
Aytoun,' "had hit Aytoun's fancy; and when I proposed to go on with others
in a similar vein, he fell readily into the plan, and agreed to assist in it. In
this way a kind of a Beaumont-and-Fletcher partnership commenced in a
series of humorous papers, which appeared in Tait's and Fraser's magazines
from 1842 to 1844. In these papers, in which we ran a-tilt, with all the reck-
lessness of youthful spirits, against such of the tastes or follies of the day
as presented an opening for ridicule or mirth,—at the same time that we
did not altogether lose sight of a purpose higher than mere amusement,
appeared the verses, with a few exceptions, which subsequently became pop-
ular, and to a degree we then little contemplated, as the Bon Gaultier
Ballads. ' Some of the best of these were exclusively Aytoun's, such as The
Massacre of the McPherson,' (The Rhyme of Sir Launcelot Bogle,' (The
Broken Pitcher,' (The Red Friar and Little John,' The Lay of Mr. Colt,'
and that best of all imitations of the Scottish ballad, The Queen in France. '
Some were wholly mine, and the rest were produced by us jointly. Fortu-
nately for our purpose, there were then living not a few poets whose style
and manner of thought were sufficiently marked to make imitation easy, and
sufficiently popular for a parody of their characteristics to be readily recog-
nized. Macaulay's 'Lays of Rome' and his two other fine ballads were still
in the freshness of their fame. Lockhart's 'Spanish Ballads' were as familiar
in the drawing-room as in the study. Tennyson and Mrs. Browning were
opening up new veins of poetry. These, with Wordsworth, Moore, Uhland,
and others of minor note, lay ready to our hands, -as Scott, Byron, Crabbe,
Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Southey had done to James and Horace Smith
in 1812, when writing the Rejected Addresses. ' Never, probably, were
verses thrown off with a keener sense of enjoyment. »
-
With Theodore Martin he published also 'Poems and Ballads of
Goethe' (London, 1858). Mr. Aytoun's fame as a poet rests on his
'Lays of the Cavaliers,' the themes of which are selected from stir-
ring incidents of Scottish history, ranging from Flodden Field to the
Battle of Culloden. The favorites in popular memory are 'The Exe-
cution of Montrose' and 'The Burial March of Dundee. ' This book,
published in London and Edinburgh in 1849, has gone through
twenty-nine editions.
His dramatic poem, 'Firmilian: a Spasmodic Tragedy,' written to
ridicule the style of Bailey, Dobell, and Alexander Smith, and pub-
lished in 1854, had so many excellent qualities that it was received
as a serious production instead of a caricature. Aytoun introduced
this in Blackwood's Magazine as a pretended review of an unpub-
lished tragedy (as with the 'Rolliad,' and as Lockhart had done in


## p. 1111 (#537) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
IIII
the case of "Peter's Letters," so successfully that he had to write the
book itself as a "second edition" to answer the demand for it). This
review was so cleverly done that "most of the newspaper critics
took the part of the poet against the reviewer, never suspecting the
identity of both, and maintained the poetry to be fine poetry and
the critic a dunce. ” The sarcasm of Firmilian' is so delicate that
only those familiar with the school it is intended to satirize can fairly
appreciate its qualities. The drama opens showing Firmilian in his
study, planning the composition of Cain: a Tragedy'; and being
infused with the spirit of the hero, he starts on a career of crime.
Among his deeds is the destruction of the cathedral of Badajoz,
which first appears in his mental vision thus:-
·-
"Methought I saw the solid vaults give way,
And the entire cathedral rise in air,
As if it leaped from Pandemonium's jaws. "
To effect this he employs—
"Some twenty barrels of the dusky grain
The secret of whose framing in an hour
Of diabolic jollity and mirth
Old Roger Bacon wormed from Beelzebub. »
When the horror is accomplished, at a moment when the inhab-
itants of Badajoz are at prayer, Firmilian rather enjoys the scene:-
"Pillars and altar, organ loft and screen,
With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed,
Whirling in anguish to the shuddering stars. »
<<< Firmilian," to quote from Aytoun's biographer again, "deserves
to keep its place in literature, if only as showing how easy it is for
a man of real poetic power to throw off, in sport, pages of sonorous
and sparkling verse, simply by ignoring the fetters of nature and
common-sense and dashing headlong on Pegasus through the wilder-
ness of fancy. " Its extravagances of rhetoric can be imagined from
the following brief extract, somewhat reminiscent of Marlowe :-
―――
"And shall I then take Celsus for my guide,
Confound my brain with dull Justinian tomes,
Or stir the dust that lies o'er Augustine?
Not I, in faith! I've leaped into the air,
And clove my way through ether like a bird
That flits beneath the glimpses of the moon,
Right eastward, till I lighted at the foot
Of holy Helicon, and drank my fill
At the clear spout of Aganippe's stream;


## p. 1112 (#538) ###########################################

1112
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
I've rolled my limbs in ecstasy along
The selfsame turf on which old Homer lay
That night he dreamed of Helen and of Troy:
And I have heard, at midnight, the sweet strains
Come quiring from the hilltop, where, enshrined
In the rich foldings of a silver cloud,
The Muses sang Apollo into sleep. "
In 1856 was printed 'Bothwell,' a poetic monologue on Mary Stu-
art's lover. Of Aytoun's humorous sketches, the most humorous are
'My First Spec in the Biggleswades,' and 'How We Got Up the Glen
Mutchkin Railway'; tales written during the railway mania of 1845,
which treat of the folly and dishonesty of its promoters, and show
many typical Scottish characters. His Ballads of Scotland' was
issued in 1858; it is an edition of the best ancient minstrelsy, with
preface and notes. In 1861 appeared Norman Sinclair,' a novel
published first in Blackwood's, and giving interesting pictures of
society in Scotland and personal experiences.
<
After Professor Wilson's death, Aytoun was considered the lead-
ing man of letters in Scotland; a rank which he modestly accepted
by writing in 1838 to a friend: "I am getting a kind of fame as the
literary man of Scotland. Thirty years ago, in the North countries,
a fellow achieved an immense reputation as 'The Tollman,' being
the solitary individual entitled by law to levy blackmail at a ferry. "
In 1860 he was made Honorary President of the Associated Societies
of the University of Edinburgh, his competitor being Thackeray.
This was the place held afterward by Lord Lytton, Sir David Brew-
ster, Carlyle, and Gladstone. Aytoun wrote the 'The Life and
Times of Richard the First' (London, 1840), and in 1863 a 'Nuptial
Ode on the Marriage of the Prince of Wales. '
-
Aytoun was a man of great charm and geniality in society; even
to Americans, though he detested America with the energy of fear —
the fear of all who see its prosperity sapping the foundations of their
class society. He died in 1865; and in 1867 his biography was pub-
lished by Sir Theodore Martin, his collaborator. Martin's definition
of Aytoun's place in literature is felicitous:-
-
"Fashions in poetry may alter, but so long as the themes with which
they deal have an interest for his countrymen, his 'Lays' will find, as they
do now, a wide circle of admirers. His powers as a humorist were perhaps
greater than as a poet. They have certainly been more widely appreciated.
His immediate contemporaries owe him much, for he has contributed largely
to that kindly mirth without which the strain and struggle of modern life
would be intolerable. Much that is excellent in his humorous writings may
very possibly cease to retain a place in literature from the circumstance that
he deals with characters and peculiarities which are in some measure local,


## p. 1113 (#539) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1113
and phases of life and feeling and literature which are more or less ephem-
eral. But much will certainly continue to be read and enjoyed by the sons
and grandsons of those for whom it was originally written; and his name will
be coupled with those of Wilson, Lockhart, Sydney Smith, Peacock, Jerrold,
Mahony, and Hood, as that of a man gifted with humor as genuine and
original as theirs, however opinions may vary as to the order of their relative
merits. »
'The Modern Endymion,' from which an extract is given, is a
parody on Disraeli's earlier manner.
THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE
From the 'Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers >
I
SOUND
SOUND the fife and cry the slogan;
Let the pibroch shake the air
With its wild, triumphant music,
Worthy of the freight we bear.
Let the ancient hills of Scotland
Hear once more the battle-song
Swell within their glens and valleys
As the clansmen march along!
Never from the field of combat,
Never from the deadly fray,
Was a nobler trophy carried
Than we bring with us to-day;
Never since the valiant Douglas
On his dauntless bosom bore
Good King Robert's heart-the priceless-
To our dear Redeemer's shore!
Lo! we bring with us the hero-
Lo! we bring the conquering Græme,
Crowned as best beseems a victor
From the altar of his fame;
Fresh and bleeding from the battle
Whence his spirit took its flight,
'Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,
And the thunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
As we march o'er moor and lea!
Is there any here will venture
To bewail our dead Dundee ?
-


## p. 1114 (#540) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1114
Let the widows of the traitors
Weep until their eyes are dim!
Wail ye may full well for Scotland -
Let none dare to mourn for him!
See! above his glorious body
Lies the royal banner's fold -
See! his valiant blood is mingled
With its crimson and its gold.
See how calm he looks and stately,
Like a warrior on his shield,
Waiting till the flush of morning
Breaks along the battle-field!
See- oh, never more, my comrades,
Shall we see that falcon eye
Redden with its inward lightning,
As the hour of fight drew nigh!
Never shall we hear the voice that,
Clearer than the trumpet's call,
Bade us strike for king and country,
Bade us win the field, or fall!
II
On the heights of Killiecrankie
Yester-morn our army lay:
Slowly rose the mist in columns
From the river's broken way;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
And the Pass was wrapped in gloom,
When the clansmen rose together
From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,
And our bonnets down we drew,
As we felt our broadswords' edges,
And we proved them to be true;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
And we cried the gathering-cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
And we swore to do or die!
Then our leader rode before us,
On his war-horse black as night-
Well the Cameronian rebels
Knew that charger in the fight! -
And a cry of exultation
From the bearded warrior rose;


## p. 1115 (#541) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1115
*
For we loved the house of Claver'se,
And we thought of good Montrose.
But he raised his hand for silence -
-
"Soldiers! I have sworn a vow;
Ere the evening star shall glisten
On Schehallion's lofty brow,
Either we shall rest in triumph,
Or another of the Græmes
Shall have died in battle-harness
For his country and King James!
Think upon the royal martyr—
Think of what his race endure-
Think on him whom butchers murdered
On the field of Magus Muir:*
By his sacred blood I charge ye,
By the ruined hearth and shrine-
By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
By your injuries and mine
Strike this day as if the anvil
Lay beneath your blows the while,
Be they Covenanting traitors,
Or the blood of false Argyle!
Strike! and drive the trembling rebels
Backwards o'er the stormy Forth;
Let them tell their pale Convention
How they fared within the North.
Let them tell that Highland honor
Is not to be bought nor sold;
That we scorn their prince's anger,
As we loathe his foreign gold.
Strike! and when the fight is over,
If you look in vain for me,
Where the dead are lying thickest
Search for him that was Dundee! "
III
Loudly then the hills re-echoed
With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosoms of us all.
For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
Not a man who heard him speak
Archbishop Sharp, Lord Primate of Scotland.


## p. 1116 (#542) ###########################################

1116
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek.
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,
And they harder drew their breath:
For their souls were strong within them,
Stronger than the grasp of Death.
Soon we heard a challenge trumpet
Sounding in the Pass below,
And the distant tramp of horses,
And the voices of the foe;
Down we crouched amid the bracken,
Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
Panting like the hounds in summer,
When they scent the stately deer.
From the dark defile emerging,
Next we saw the squadrons come,
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers
Marching to the tuck of drum;
Through the scattered wood of birches,
O'er the broken ground and heath,
Wound the long battalion slowly,
Till they gained the field beneath;
Then we bounded from our covert,—
Judge how looked the Saxons then,
When they saw the rugged mountain
Start to life with armèd men!
Like a tempest down the ridges
Swept the hurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald -
Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel!
Vainly sped the withering volley
'Mongst the foremost of our band-
On we poured until we met them
Foot to foot and hand to hand.
Horse and man went down like drift-wood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling
In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us—
Living foe there tarried none
On the field of Killiecrankie,
When that stubborn fight was done!


## p. 1117 (#543) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
IV
And the evening star was shining
On Schehallion's distant head,
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
And returned to count the dead.
There we found him gashed and gory,
Stretched upon the cumbered plain,
As he told us where to seek him,
In the thickest of the slain.
And a smile was on his visage,
For within his dying ear
Pealed the joyful note of triumph
And the clansmen's clamorous cheer:
So, amidst the battle's thunder,
Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
In the glory of his manhood
Passed the spirit of the Græme!
Open wide the vaults of Athol,
Where the bones of heroes rest-
Open wide the hallowed portals
To receive another guest!
Last of Scots, and last of freemen
Last of all that dauntless race
Who would rather die unsullied,
—
Than outlive the land's disgrace!
O thou lion-hearted warrior!
Reck not of the after-time:
Honor may be deemed dishonor,
Loyalty be called a crime.
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes
Of the noble and the true,
Hands that never failed their country,
Hearts that never baseness knew.
Sleep! and till the latest trumpet
Wakes the dead from earth and sea,
Scotland shall not boast a braver
Chieftain than our own Dundee!
1117


## p. 1118 (#544) ###########################################

1118
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE
From 'Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers'
Co
OME hither, Evan Cameron!
Come, stand beside my knee-
I hear the river roaring down
Toward the wintry sea.
There's shouting on the mountain-side,
There's war within the blast-
Old faces look upon me,
Old forms go trooping past.
I hear the pibroch wailing
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night.
'Twas I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.
I've told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,
And how we smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlochy's shore;
I've told thee how we swept Dundee,
And tamed the Lindsays' pride:
But never have I told thee yet
How the great Marquis died.
-
A traitor sold him to his foes;-
A deed of deathless shame!
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
With one of Assynt's name,
Be it upon the mountain's side
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,
Or backed by armèd men,
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man
-
-
-
Who wronged thy sire's renown;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down!
They brought him to the Watergate,
Hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a fenceless man.


## p. 1119 (#545) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1119
They set him high upon a cart,-
The hangman rode below,
They drew his hands behind his back
And bared his noble brow.
Then, as a hound is slipped from leash,
They cheered, the common throng,
And blew the note with yell and shout,
And bade him pass along.
―
It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,
To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.
There stood the Whig West-country lords
In balcony and bow;
And every open window
There sat their gaunt and withered dames,
And their daughters all arow.
Was full as full might be
――――――
With black-robed Covenanting carles,
That goodly sport to see!
But when he came, though pale and wan,
He looked so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout forbore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder
――――
Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him
Now turned aside and wept.
But onwards-always onwards,
In silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant labored,
Till it reached the house of doom.
Then first a woman's voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,
And an angry cry and hiss arose
From the heart of the tossing crowd;
Then, as the Græme looked upwards,
He saw the ugly smile


## p. 1120 (#546) ###########################################

II20
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
Of him who sold his king for gold-
The master-fiend Argyle!
The Marquis gazed a moment,
And nothing did he say,
But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale,
And he turned his eyes away.
The painted harlot by his side,
She shook through every limb,
For a roar like thunder swept the street,
And hands were clenched at him;
And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,
"Back, coward, from thy place!
For seven long years thou hast not dared
To look him in the face. "
Had I been there with sword in hand,
And fifty Camerons by,
That day through high Dunedin's streets
Had pealed the slogan-cry.
Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailèd men—
Not all the rebels in the South
Had borne us backward then!
Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,
Or I, and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there!
It might not be. They placed him next
Within the solemn hall,
Where once the Scottish kings were throned
Amidst their nobles all.
But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor,
And perjured traitors filled the place
Where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warriston
To read the murderous doom;
And then uprose the great Montrose
In the middle of the room.
"Now, by my faith as belted knight,
And by the name I bear,
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross
That waves above us there,
-


## p. 1121 (#547) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1121
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath -
And oh, that such should be! -
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies 'twixt you and me,
I have not sought in battle-field
A wreath of such renown,
Nor dared I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr's crown.
"There is a chamber far away
Where sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have named for me
Than by my father's grave.
For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,
This hand hath always striven,
And ye raise it up for a witness still
In the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower
Give every town a limb-
And God who made shall gather them:
I go from you to Him! "
The morning dawned full darkly,
The rain came flashing down,
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town.
The thunder crashed across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;
Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat,
The larum of the drum.
There was madness on the earth below
And anger in the sky,
And young and old, and rich and poor,
Come forth to see him die.
Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal 'tis to see
The great tall spectral skeleton,
The ladder and the tree!
Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms
The bells begin to toll-
"He is coming! he is coming!
God's mercy on his soul! »
One long last peal of thunder-
The clouds are cleared away,
-
-
II-71


## p. 1122 (#548) ###########################################

1122
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
And the glorious sun once more looks down
Amidst the dazzling day.
"He is coming! he is coming! "
Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero from his prison,
To the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead,
There was lustre in his eye,
And he never walked to battle
More proudly than to die;
There was color in his visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marveled as they saw him pass,
That great and goodly man!
He mounted up the scaffold,
And he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But looked upon the heavens
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether
The eye of God shone through:
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,
As though the thunder slept within
All else was calm and still.
The grim Geneva ministers
With anxious scowl drew near,
As you have seen the ravens flock
Around the dying deer.
He would not deign them word nor sign,
But alone he bent the knee,
And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace
Beneath the gallows-tree.
Then radiant and serene he rose,
And cast his cloak away;
For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.
A beam of light fell o'er him,
Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder
As it were the path to heaven.


## p. 1123 (#549) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dared to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky-
The work of death was done!
THE BROKEN PITCHER
From the Bon Gaultier Ballads'
T WAS a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what that maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
When by there rode a valiant knight, from the town of
Oviedo -
Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.
"O maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring?
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide,
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side? »
"I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
But why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.
"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is-
A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke,
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.
"My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home,
And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come.
I cannot bring him water, the pitcher is in pieces;
And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces.
-
1123
༥
"O maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me?
So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;
And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè. "
He lighted down from off his steed- he tied him to a tree-
He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three:
"To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin! »
He knelt him at the fountain, and dipped his helmet in.
―――


## p. 1124 (#550) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1124
Up rose the Moorish maiden - behind the knight she steals,
And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels;
She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling
water,
"Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daugh-
ter! »
A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo.
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.
SONNET TO BRITAIN
"BY THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON»
H
ALT! Shoulder arms! Recover! As you were!
Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at
ease!
O Britain! O my country! Words like these
Have made thy name a terror and a fear
To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks,
Assaye, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo,
Where the grim despot muttered, Sauve qui peut!
And Ney fled darkling. —Silence in the ranks!
Inspired by these, amidst the iron crash
Of armies, in the centre of his troop
The soldier stands - unmovable, not rash
Until the forces of the foemen droop;
Then knocks the Frenchmen to eternal smash,
Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!
A BALL IN THE UPPER CIRCLES
From The Modern Endymion >
'TWAS
WAS a hot season in the skies. Sirius held the ascendant,
and under his influence even the radiant band of the
Celestials began to droop, while the great ball-room of
Olympus grew gradually more and more deserted.
For nearly
a week had Orpheus, the leader of the heavenly orchestra, played
to a deserted floor. The elite would no longer figure in the
waltz. Juno obstinately kept her room, complaining of headache


## p. 1125 (#551) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1125
and ill-temper. Ceres, who had lately joined a dissenting con-
gregation, objected generally to all frivolous amusements; and
Minerva had established, in opposition, a series of literary soirées,
at which Pluto nightly lectured on the fine arts and phrenology,
to a brilliant and fashionable audience. The Muses, with Hebe
and some of the younger deities, alone frequented the assem-
blies; but with all their attractions there was still a sad lack of
partners. The younger gods had of late become remarkably dis-
sipated, messed three times a week at least with Mars in the
barracks, and seldom separated sober. Bacchus had been sent
to Coventry by the ladies, for appearing one night in the ball-
room, after a hard sederunt, so drunk that he measured his
length upon the floor after a vain attempt at a mazurka; and
they likewise eschewed the company of Pan, who had become
an abandoned smoker, and always smelt infamously of cheroots.
But the most serious defection, as also the most unaccountable,
was that of the beautiful Diana, par excellence the belle of the
season, and assuredly the most graceful nymph that ever tripped.
along the halls of heaven. She had gone off suddenly to the
country, without alleging any intelligible excuse, and with her
the last attraction of the ball-room seemed to have disappeared.
Even Venus, the perpetual lady patroness, saw that the affair
was desperate.
"Ganymede, mon beau garcon," said she, one evening at an
unusually thin assembly, "we must really give it up at last.
Matters are growing worse and worse, and in another week we
shall positively not have enough to get up a tolerable gallopade.
Look at these seven poor Muses sitting together on the sofa.
Not a soul has spoken to them to-night, except that horrid
Silenus, who dances nothing but Scotch reels. "
eye.
"Pardieu! " replied the young Trojan, fixing his glass in his
"There may be a reason for that. The girls are decidedly
passées, and most inveterate blues. But there's dear little Hebe,
who never wants partners, though that clumsy Hercules insists
upon his conjugal rights, and keeps moving after her like an
enormous shadow. 'Pon my soul, I've a great mind- Do
you think, ma belle tante, that anything might be done in that
quarter? "
"Oh fie, Ganymede-fie for shame! " said Flora, who was sit-
ting close to the Queen of Love, and overheard the conversation.
"You horrid, naughty man, how can you talk so? "


## p. 1126 (#552) ###########################################

1126
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
"Pardon, ma chère! " replied the exquisite with a languid
smile. "You must excuse my badinage; and indeed, a glance of
your fair eyes were enough at any time to recall me to my
senses. By the way, what a beautiful bouquet you have there.
Parole d'honneur, I am quite jealous. May I ask who sent it? "
«< What a goose you are! " said Flora, in evident confusion:
"how should I know? Some general admirer like yourself, I
suppose.
"Apollo is remarkably fond of hyacinths, I believe," said
Ganymede, looking significantly at Venus. "Ah, well! I see how
it is. We poor detrimentals must break our hearts in silence.
It is clear we have no chance with the preux chevalier of
heaven. "
"Really, Ganymede, you are very severe this evening," said
Venus with a smile; "but tell me, have you heard anything of
Diana ? »
"Ah! la belle Diane? They say she is living in the country
somewhere about Caria, at a place they call Latmos Cottage, cul-
tivating her faded roses- what a color Hebe has! -and studying
the sentimental. "
"Tant pis! She is a great loss to us," said Venus.
« Apropos,
you will be at Neptune's fête champêtre to-morrow, n'est ce pas?
We shall then finally determine about abandoning the assemblies.
But I must go home now. The carriage has been waiting this
hour, and my doves may catch cold. I suppose that boy Cupid
will not be home till all hours of the morning. "
"Why, I believe the Rainbow Club does meet to-night, after
the dancing," said Ganymede significantly. "This is the last
oyster-night of the season. "
"Gracious goodness! The boy will be quite tipsy," said
Venus. "Do, dear Ganymede! try to keep him sober.
But now.
give me your arm to the cloak-room. "
"Volontiers! " said the exquisite.
As Venus rose to go, there was a rush of persons to the
further end of the room, and the music ceased. Presently, two
or three voices were heard calling for Esculapius.
"What's the row? " asked that learned individual, advancing
leisurely from the refreshment table, where he had been cram-
ming himself with tea and cakes.
"Leda's fainted! " shrieked Calliope, who rushed past with her
vinaigrette in hand.


## p. 1127 (#553) ###########################################

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
1127
"Gammon! " growled the Abernethy of heaven, as he fol-
lowed her.
"Poor Leda! " said Venus, as her cavalier adjusted her shawl.
"These fainting fits are decidedly alarming. I hope it is nothing
more serious than the weather. "
"I hope so, too," said Ganymede. "Let me put on the
scarf. But people will talk. Pray heaven it be not a second
edition of that old scandal about the eggs! "
How can you? But after
There now, have done.
"Fi donc ! You odious creature!
all, stranger things have happened.
Good-night! " and she stepped into her chariot.
"Bon soir," said the exquisite, kissing his hand as it rolled
away. Pon my soul, that's a splendid woman.
I've a great
but there's no hurry about that.
mind-
Revenons à nos œufs.
I must learn something more about this fainting fit. " So saying,
Ganymede re-ascended the stairs.
«<
-
A HIGHLAND TRAMP
From Norman Sinclair'
W
HEN summer came- for in Scotland, alas! there is no
spring, winter rolling itself remorselessly, like a huge
polar bear, over what should be the beds of the early
flowers, and crushing them ere they develop-when summer
came, and the trees put on their pale-green liveries, and the
brakes were blue with the wood-hyacinth, and the ferns unfolded.
their curl, what ecstasy it was to steal an occasional holiday, and
wander, rod in hand, by some quiet stream up in the moorlands,
inhaling health from every breeze, nor seeking shelter from the
gentle shower as it dropped its manna from the heavens! And
then the long holidays, when the town was utterly deserted—
how I enjoyed these, as they can only be enjoyed by the possess-
ors of the double talisman of strength and youth! No more
no more trouble - no more task-work no thought even
of the graver themes suggested by my later studies! Look —
standing on the Calton Hill, behold yon blue range of mountains
to the west-cannot you name each pinnacle from its form?
Benledi, Benvoirlich, Benlomond! Oh, the beautiful land, the
elysium that lies round the base of those distant giants! The
forest of Glenfinlas, Loch Achray with its weeping birches, the
grand defiles of the Trosachs, and Ellen's Isle, the pearl of the
care


## p. 1128 (#554) ###########################################

1128
WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
one lake that genius has forever hallowed! Up, sluggard! Place
your knapsack on your back; but stow it not with unnecessary
gear, for you have still further to go, and your rod also must be
your companion, if you mean to penetrate the region beyond.
Money? Little money suffices him who travels on foot, who can
bring his own fare to the shepherd's bothy where he is to sleep,
and who sleeps there better and sounder than the tourist who
rolls from station to station in his barouche, grumbling because
the hotels are overcrowded, and miserable about the airing of
his sheets. Money? You would laugh if you heard me mention
the sum which has sufficed for my expenditure during a long
summer month; for the pedestrian, humble though he be, has
his own especial privileges, and not the least of these is that he
is exempted from all extortion. Donald-God bless him. -- has
a knack of putting on the prices; and when an English family
comes posting up to the door of his inn, clamorously demanding
every sort of accommodation which a metropolitan hotel could
afford, grumbling at the lack of attendance, sneering at the
quality of the food, and turning the whole establishment upside
down for their own selfish gratification, he not unreasonably
determines that the extra trouble shall be paid for in that gold
which rarely crosses his fingers except during the short season
when tourists and sportsmen abound. But Donald, who is de-
scended from the M'Gregor, does not make spoil of the poor.
The sketcher or the angler who come to his door, with the sweat
upon their brow and the dust of the highway or the pollen of the
heather on their feet, meet with a hearty welcome; and though
the room in which their meals are served is but low in the roof,
and the floor strewn with sand, and the attic wherein they lie is
garnished with two beds and a shake-down, yet are the viands.
wholesome, the sheets clean, and the tariff so undeniably mod-
erate that even parsimony cannot complain. So up in the
morning early, so soon as the first beams of the sun slant into
the chamber-down to the loch or river, and with a headlong
plunge scrape acquaintance with the pebbles at the bottom; then
rising with a hearty gasp, strike out for the islet or the further
bank, to the astonishment of the otter, who, thief that he is, is
skulking back to his hole below the old saugh-tree, from a mid-
night foray up the burns. Huzza! The mallard, dozing among
the reeds, has taken fright, and tucking up his legs under his
round fat rump, flies quacking to a remoter marsh.


## p. 1129 (#555) ###########################################

MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO
1129
"By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes,"
and lo! Dugald the keeper, on his way to the hill, is arrested
by the aquatic phenomenon, and half believes that he is witness-
ing the frolics of an Urisk! Then make your toilet on the green-
sward, swing your knapsack over your shoulders, and cover ten
good miles of road before you halt before breakfast with more
than the appetite of an ogre.
In this way I made the circuit of well-nigh the whole of the
Scottish Highlands, penetrating as far as Cape Wrath and the
wild district of Edderachylis, nor leaving unvisited the grand
scenery of Loch Corruisk, and the stormy peaks of Skye; and
more than one delightful week did I spend each summer, explor-
ing Gameshope, or the Linns of Talla, where the Covenanters
of old held their gathering; or clambering up the steep ascent
by the Grey Mare's Tail to lonely and lovely Loch Skene, or
casting for trout in the silver waters of St. Mary's.
MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO
(1798-1866)
M
ASSIMO TAPARELLI, Marquis d'Azeglio, like his greater col-
league and sometime rival in the Sardinian Ministry,
Cavour, wielded a graceful and forcible pen, and might
have won no slight distinction in the peaceful paths of literature and
art as well, had he not been before everything else a patriot. Of
ancient and noble Piedmontese stock, he was born at Turin in Octo-
ber, 1798. In his fifteenth year the youth accompanied his father to
Rome, where the latter had been appointed ambassador, and thus
early he was inspired with the passion for painting and music which
never left him. In accordance with the paternal wish he entered on
a military career, but soon abandoned the service to devote himself
to art. But after a residence of eight years (1821-29) in the papal
capital, having acquired both skill and fame as a landscape painter,
D'Azeglio began to direct his thoughts to letters and politics.
After the death of his father in 1830 he settled in Milan, where
he formed the acquaintance of the poet and novelist Alessandro Man-
zoni, whose daughter he married, and under whose influence he
became deeply interested in literature, especially in its relation to
the political events of those stirring times. The agitation against
Austrian domination was especially marked in the north of Italy,


## p. 1130 (#556) ###########################################

1130
MASSIMO TAPARELLI D'AZEGLIO
where Manzoni had made himself prominent; and so it came to pass
that Massimo d'Azeglio plunged into literature with the ardent hope
of stimulating the national sense of independence and unity.
In 1833 he published, not without misgivings, Ettore Fiera-
mosca,' his first romance, in which he aimed to teach Italians how
to fight for national honor. The work achieved an immediate and
splendid success, and unquestionably served as a powerful aid to the
awakening of Italy's ancient patriotism. It was followed in 1841 by
'Nicolo de' Lapi,' a story conceived in similar vein, with somewhat
greater pretensions to literary finish. D'Azeglio now became known
as one of the foremost representatives of the moderate party, and
exerted the potent influence of his voice as well as of his pen in dif-
fusing liberal propaganda. In 1846 he published the bold pamphlet
'Gli ultimi Casi di Romagna' (On the Recent Events in Romagna),
in which he showed the danger and utter futility of ill-advised
republican outbreaks, and the paramount necessity of adopting there-
after a wiser and more practical policy to gain the great end desired.
Numerous trenchant political articles issued from his pen during the
next two years. The year 1849 found him a member of the first
Sardinian parliament, and in March of that year Victor Emmanuel
called him to the presidency of the Council with the portfolio of
Foreign Affairs. Obliged to give way three years later before the
rising genius of Cavour, he served his country with distinction on
several important diplomatic missions after the peace of Villafranca,
and died in his native city on the 15th of January, 1866.
In 1867 appeared D'Azeglio's autobiography, 'I Miei Ricordi,'
translated into English by Count Maffei under title of 'My Recol-
lections, which is undeniably the most interesting and thoroughly
delightful product of his pen. "He was a character,'»
(
said an
English critic at the time: "a man of whims and oddities, of hobbies
and crotchets. . . . This character of individuality, which impressed
its stamp on his whole life, is charmingly revealed in every sentence
of the memoirs which he has left behind him; so that, more than
any of his previous writings, their mingled homeliness and wit and
wisdom justify the epithet which I once before ventured to give
him when I described him as 'the Giusti of Italian prose.