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NARRATIVE OF NATHAN ADAMSON,

STUDENT OF DIVINITY.

Now may it please thee, my most learned youth,
To quote nor Horace, nor Quintilian, nor
The hard dry chips of pert and pithy Seneca;
But look me in the face-cast to the kites
Thy morsels of the heathen-think not, man,
Of golden learning in a homely story.
Now I know men who from the illustrious Greek,
And scarce less lofty Latin, are not worthy
To wipe the dust, nor watch the spinning spiders,
Yet make a learn'd stir in this little world;
Call Horace their sworn brother; to Longinus
They pull the cap off "Hail, my Cousin Critic,"
And call sweet Shakspeare an inspired savage-
And Scott and Spenser two most gentle Goths-
And much of classic grace and force they speak,
As if sweet Nature, wheresoe'er she dwells,
Were not that mighty classic, whence the Greeks
Drew grace and inspiration.

SINCE it hath pleased the sheriff, and some of the greater portioners of the county who patronize religious professors and have kirk-livings in their gift, to request of me, Nathan Adamson, Student of Divinity, a clear and circumstantial narrative of all that I know concerning the last days and death of that singular old man, John Corson, I take up my pen in my little chamber, with the brown moors of Dryfesdale and the love of truth before my eyes. During the summer in which I delivered my probationary discourse, and had, as the peasantry somewhat quaintly but aptly term it, my mouth opened for the edification of mankind, vacant pulpits and empty kirks happened to be scarce, and patrons-may heaven mend their judgment ! somewhat blind, and I was compelled for a time to turn my attention and my gifts to less important things. Now it happened that I sojourned for a time with that sedate and worthy person, Walter Halliday, at his house on Dryfebank; let it not be surmised that I put forth my hands, accustomed to holier things, to the shafts of the plow, or busied myself in the unclean though primitive vocation of tending cattle. The land, a pastoral and a pleasant land, was guiltless of producing the luxuries of roots and corn; the flocks of sheep had many shepherds, who led a sweet and a joyous life, sunning themselves on the hillsides, and stimulating their natural drowsiness by reciting pastoral bal

The Courtly Critic.

lads. I had nothing to put forth my hands to, therefore, save to pluck and to eat of that small round red delicious wild fruit called by the maidens Cranberries, which wasted their sweetness and strength among the moors and mosses of Dryfesdale.

Now it came to pass, that while I busied myself in the instruction of the children, in number seven, and introduced them to the riches of that precious book, Crumbs of Comfort, and other meritorious works, there came towards our abode a certain man of the border, a cunning dealer in bonebodkins, ivory busks for maiden's boddice, sedate books for the grave and the old, and romantic tales and traditions, and specimens of profane minstrelsy for the giddy and the young-and his name was John Corson. And when I saw him afar off, I said to myself, I shall surely become the possessor of some of this man's rare and curious tracts, which, filled with proverbial wisdom, sage remark, and deep controversy of the ancient heads of the reformed kirk, will be to me as the honey-comb. For be it known, that those erratic booksellers (their vocation has been superseded of late by little pitiful productions called newspapers) dealt largely in small works of spiritual edification, and moral amusement, and lyrical hilarity, which our peasantry obtained for a small price, and thus instruction flew through the land;-woe to the cause which has stayed this pure and healthy stream,

and presented to peasants' lips the poisoned current of politics! As I looked I heard one of the youngest of my pupils exclaim, as freed from discipline he breathed the free air on the threshold, "Eh, see! see! here comes auld John Corson who sold our schoolmaster the tawse and my mother the Proof Catechism, plague on him." "Plague on him, indeed!" responded a menial damsel, Ellen Macgowan by name,-a rosy and a kindly quean, whose deluding eyes, exercised on my fellow collegian, the youngest son of the laird of Kissancumagain, deprived the kirk of one of its fairest ornaments and chief pillars, "Troth and atweel it's him! the false

deceiving loon-he made me pay sweetly for my new gown-a primrose bloom and a Glasgow patternand what was't but a kind of a yellow, woven at Lockmaben and dyed at the Murray what-mill, and it threw its primrose bloom to the soapsuds at the very first washing."

The object of the maiden's anger now approached-but he came with a changed step, an altered look, and a subdued tone of voice. Formerly the pleasant old man passed gaily over the threshold, threw the door against the wall, and chaunted the following rhyming summary of his articles of merchandise:

JOHN CORSON'S CHAUNT.

1.

Now peace be here to the damosels fair,
Who lack busks for boddice or combs for hair;
And mirth and joy to the cannie young lad,
Who loves pleasant songs and ballads so sad;
And peace by day, sweet dreams by night,
And love in the dark, and joy in the light,
To those whose witty tongues scorn to wrong
The merry man's tale or the poet's sweet song.

2.

Here's gowns the like were ne'er wet with water;
Here's songs far sweeter than lips can utter;
Books of wisdom and sage remark;

Books of mirth that out-carol the lark;

A brooch for the bosom of bonnie young lasses,
Beads for their necks and combs for their tresses;
And all as cheap, and as good, and as true,
As a lover's tale, or a maiden's vow.

But now, instead of advancing with song and with joy, the abstract and brief chronicle of the district came pale and staggering, and would have fallen on the threshold had not the menial maiden supported him in her arms. "Preserve me, man, John Corson, now this is one of your queer fits; have ye been harried, or have ye wrestled with a ghost and had the worst on't? Hout man, ye mauna die till I get a good pennyworth from ye, the first I ever got." The old man answered not a word, but with an unequal step and a suppressed groan made his way to the langsettle, which was spread soft for his accommodation; and, seating himself, looked with an eye of thanks to the groupe of sympathizing faces collected around him. A fine sheep-dog, the wandering man's comrade for

many years, stationed itself before him, looked in his face, and the motion of its tail and the brightness of its eyes increased as it observed its master's recovery. "Ah! Whitefoot, lad," said the old man in a low voice, and stroking with a palsied hand the smooth glossy fleece of his favourite,

many a weary step have we walked together, many a wild place have we found our bed in,-and many a cold night hast thou lain at my feet when the sacks were damp and the farmers churlish-but we maun part soon-I maun go to the cauld grave, and thou maun seek a master." The dog gave a low and melancholy whimper-licked the old man's hands, and seemed to understand the import of his words. Its master proceeded

"Ah! my auld white-bosomed friend, I never feared the face of man

in my youth with three feet of a good Tinwald oak in my hand-nor did I dread him in my old age when I had thee by my side; bread I never broke but thou hadst thy share; meat I never tasted but thou wert a partaker; but bread shalt thou receive from thy master's hand no more, and meat shall be no longer parted between us. The ellwand of time hath measured my days - and the hours of my existence are sold off to a nail and a little remnant." The dog renewed again itsmelancholy whimpering, and licked its master's hand held out to caress it.

"I wonder what's the matter with my eyes," said a shepherd, removing the moisture which the old man's address to his dog had brought to his eye-lids." And I marvel what possesses us all," said the mistress of the mansion, "to stand gazing on the afflicted man, without seeking to cherish or comfort him."-" Mony thanks," said the old man, 66 mony braw thanks and bonnie, my kindly dame-a mouthful of clear cauld water to myself, and a bite of bread to my poor aald faithful and famished companion here," laying his hand on the dog's head as he spoke, "would, through grace from aboon, do us baith good." So sensible seemed the old man of the grace and favour which his habitual pleasantry obtained him, that he endeavoured to smile as two whitehanded maidens placed abundance of the luxuries of pastoral life before him. But the gravity with which ill health clouds the merriest brows darkened down upon his smile; and, taking off his bonnet, he blessed the food before him. From the glance with which he regarded his dog, we imagined he included the companion of his wanderings in his intercession, nor did any of the shepherds feel scandalized by this association, for a sheep-dog in a pastoral district obtains something of the distinction of an adopted child of the family.

When John had refreshed himself, "Ah, gudewife," said he, "for fifty years and five-from foolish fifteen to silly seventy, have I scattered the blessings of bone-combs and ballads over the mountains of Nithsḍale and Annandale, and never had a pang at the heart save once, and that was when Nancie Corrie forsook me for the sake of three yards of red ribbon

-nor a sore head, save when it was broke at Lockerbie market by the ellwand of Rob Somerville. Ellwand did I say!-that an auld man like me should lie!-it wanted three thumbs' breadths of that honest length. Nor had I ever such a visitation as a dwam or a cholic, saving the time I was suppered on sour sowans and Lochmaben milk at the laird's of Cummercraft. Ye'll have heard of Lochmaben milk, goodwife? It is a kind of whig that stands and ferments, till it gathers a top or mantle, over which the cat can walk dry shod, and when it is shaken it roars and soughs like loch-reeds. From all such fermentations may all honest travellers be delivered! Eh, praise to gude! but I think I am a hantle better-my blessing on the home of Walter Halliday! The sick and the lame shall sing and leap under the righteous man's roof,-a saying that merits a place in a sermon-and in a sermon shall it be though I should preach it myself."

"Indeed,

"I wish," said the wife of Walter Halliday, pleased perhaps, though she affected to be scandalized with the odd kind mixture of profane and serious things in which John Corson's speech abounded; " Iwish ye would mind the weight of seventy years that press ye so sorely-that the grave may be your next house of refuge-that ye are aneath a devout man's roof, and just escaped, I suspect, from the perils of damp straw and wet sacks in the barn of Jock Jillock of Wasterha." goodwife, and that's a true tale," said the wandering man, with a sigh, and a look half serious and half comic-"this is a land of misery and mirth, of lamentation and joy-we come screaming into the world, and go wailing out of it. I have often thought as I lay among the long blooming broom on the braes of Dalswinton, and looked down on the religious multitude of Cameronians in the green glen below, that the world, broad and wide as it is, was aptly typified by a hill-preaching. There stands the man of God

his hands uplifted-his grey hairs glistening in the summer sun, and the golden words of admonition and gospel-chastening, and consolation and spiritual grace, flowing from his unwearied lips. Beneath him-in

rank succeeding rank-groupe breathing on the neck of groupe,-sit in silence and sore trembling all those whose heads are bald, whose locks are grey, and for whom the ripe and ready grave is gaping. But all around, the young, and the ripe, and the rosy, are poured in glittering array;-the maiden who wears the ribbons of seven lovers, and sighs as she looks about for more, and the youth whose feet are familiar with the midnight way to damsels' windows, and whose glory it is to have tasted the lips and obtained the benediction of half the fair maids of the parish. Ah, good wife, well I remember ye myself some thirty years and three ago, sitting on a Sunday morning on Quarrelwood brae;-a sweeter face and two fairer eyes were never turned on old John Farley, the Cameronian preacher;—and I have heard him often say that your een so bright, and your looks so bonnie, and your locks so long and so curling, had nearly spoiled one of the sappiest spiritual sermons he ever poured forth. But John Farley's in his grave, and John Somebody else is travelling the like road, and the eyes of the wife of Walter Halliday will never commit the sin of spoiling a hill

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"Bodie, foolish bodie," said the dame, in a tone less churlish than kindly, "keep your breath to bless yourself, nor suffer your lips to utter those frivolous stories. Youth is a pleasant and a gladsome time, and we cannot hinder our fancy from flying back to the days of our teens, and presenting to our eyes many a scene, where wisdom runs round the bush after folly, and lips which should praise the Most High, and limbs which should kneel in prayer, sing wanton songs, and leap and dance, and make profane gestures to the sound of idle instruments." "Aye, aye, good wife," said the rebuked dealer in ballads, "the wisest and most devout can remember by a time the joys of their youth; and that brings to my mind how in a small vessel I have a drop of that creature-comfort called brandy-a piece of that treacherous sweetener of deceiving drink called sugar; and were a drop of the one and a tasting of the t'other mingled in a cup of warm water, I might aiblins take it,

and I might aiblins no, but through grace I should try."

This cup of comfort was speedily prepared, and presented to the old man by the hand of the wife of Walter Halliday herself. "She brought me drink with her lily-white hand," said he, "and she blest me with her kind eye as she held it to my lips ;-I have seen the day I could have sung a song for this, and I may have breath enough yet to try;" and muttering a brief grace, he emptied the cup at a draught. "Blessings on thy right hand, goodwife, for it has mixed up one of the sweetest mouthfuls that ever passed atween my lips. And now I think I shall be able to spread out before this devout young man, Nathan Adamson, preacher of the word, some of the singular stores of learning with which my pack is so largely endowed." So saying, he unlocked his repository, and submitted to my examination a singular mixture of worldly-wise and profane things, and many matters of a higher and purer import. "Here," said he, "is that remarkable volume,-a book written in a grand time, and by one of the princes of the calling-The Last Battle of Zechariah Boyd. Young man, art thou an admirer of the richest poesie? I mean not poesie clipt into quantities and pointed with rhyme at the ends. I mean not that wanton and witty damsel with gold in her ears, and fringes at her mantle, and a bell hung behind which ringeth ever as she goeth, and which men mistake for melody--but I mean that dame, sedately beautiful and demurely charming, whose garb is fine and costly but glittereth not, and whose footstep has a music like the melody of the sublimest hymn. Such is the poesie thou wilt find in the book of our venerable worthy. But thou art young, and there is a light in thy looks which may sometimes wish to shine on less austere things. Here is a book which charms the maiden at her task and the dame in her chamber-where youth learns lessons of love, and age finds food for devotion, even that dubious auxiliary to sanctity, Rutherford's Letters. What ails ye, man, at honest Rutherford? I'm thinking I have mistaken my cus tomer-and that for all your devout exterior ye want to shake your sides with the rustic glee and familiar hu

mour of merry Allan Ramsay-and here's the book as I shall answer for't -I thought I had long since dismissed the cheerful Bard of Glengonar from the society of the graver worthies of Caledonia."

I may not enter upon all the light and frivolous matters over which our discourse wandered; we soon laid written and elaborate learning aside, and touched upon those floating and traditional things which were wont to be the chief solace of our winter nights,-the parables and allegories of the church, and the wild narratives in prose and verse of a people who sought after mirth and amusement. In those things the old man discovered a knowledge extensive and varied, and seemed not a little vain of his oral wisdom, and even ventured to prefer it to the cold and dead information of books. "Books," said the wandering wise man, are fine things truly, and many an honest man makes his bread by them; therefore, it behoves us to bless them. But between you and me, one hour of good warm controversy is well worth a dozen chosen chapters of any work, save the inspired one. When men address a multitude, or converse one with another, they warm themselves up with debate, and utter things of inimitable beauty, and brevity, and vigour; but who can take the heat and the burning brow of a popular assembly into the chamber? We grow cool with the pen and paper before us; and instead of the warmth and freshness of original genius, we spread over our sheets the frozen beauties of laborious learning. Indeed, my young and reverend friend, wise men and witty men have closed the boards of their books when they heard my steps in the porch, and declared they would rather hear auld John Corson read a chapter of his own curious life, than seek for amusement and so

lace among the smooth words, and exact and measured periods, of the learned and the polite.'

To this I answered, and said, "Old man, since thy adventures are so amusing and instructive, why dost thou not write them, and circulate them for thine own emolument, and the edification of mankind? They would be of a ring-straked, speckled, and spotted kind, even as human life is." He shook his head, and replied, "My tongue is ready, but my hand is slow, and I could relate in an hour what would take me a twelvemonth to write. It took me once two full hours by the sun dial to make out the account of three penny histories which I sold to the penurious portioner of Kirkmafen; and since the humiliation of that unhappy hour, I have bid farewell to the pride and vanity of scholarship."

As I sat pondering on the style and probable extent of this rustic narrative, and imagining it strewn with remnants of old-world wisdom, and brief and pithy proverbial remark, pursuing at one time the onward and even tenour of its way, and anon luxuriating in graphic and episodical digressions, I was interrupted by the voice of one of the menial maidens. I looked up, and beheld a girl seated beside ancient John; her sweet warm breath on his withered cheek softened down the displeasure with which he would have otherwise regarded the intrusion of two pretty white hands among the lyrical commodities of his scrip; while two bright eyes, and a melodious voice, completed the triumph of youth and beauty over the querulousness of age. She held up a printed slip of paper, which she selected from many others of the same shape, and the following is the rhyme to which the maiden's voice added a sweetness and a grace, at once natural and moving:

MAY MACFARLANE.

1.

Spring comes with pleasant green,
And herbs of every odour;
The silver stream sings glad
With gowans on its border ;
The lark lilts 'mang the clouds,
On castle top the starling,

As lonesomely I wauk,

And sigh for May Macfarlane.

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