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FOR a variety of reasons,
it is a difficult matter to reflect in a single chapter any true idea of
the variety and value of the contributions which Scotsmen in America
have made to the poetic wealth of the continent. We hold that, even
though the Scottish poets domiciled in America continue to write in
their native Doric, and though their utterances are redolent of
Scotland, it is American literature that is enriched by their song. Time
has shown that it is seldom the song uttered on the soil of the New
World is carried back across the sea: indeed, the instances of that
could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and the Scot in America who
commits the sin of rhyme has mainly to look to the land in which he
lives for a clientage, and for that need of praise which he regards as
his due.
Scottish-American singers
have been, in proportion to their numbers, as plentiful as their
brothers at home, and, while for none can be claimed the possession of
the very highest gifts, yet there are not a few whose songs have added
to the pleasantness of life and the brightness of the world: and by the
Scottish-American writers of the passing clay there are many songs being
contributed to the national anthology which will live for, at least,
some years after the singers have laid down the harp and Joined the
silent realms—to us—of the great majority. We do not join in the cry
against mediocre poets and poetasters and the like. Every honest effort,
no matter in what direction, ought to be encouraged rather than sneered
at, and even if a man's song does no more than soften and mellow his own
heart, or afford a glint of happiness to his ain ingleside, the song has
not been written in vain. By constantly tuning the harp a song might be
evolved, even by chance, to which the world will listen; but, if not,
there is an exalted pleasure in the work for the worker. Men who even
"dabble" in poetry are rarely found in any ranks but those who are
earnestly striving to make the world better. Even when they are not, the
moral of their fall is so evident that the life-story is of some value
to the world.
Except for the fact that he wrote one song—"Rural Content"—which is
still a favorite in the south of Scotland, Andrew Scott would doubtless
have been forgotten long ere this. But he was a sweet singer whose whole
life was cast in hard lines. Born in 1757, in the parish of Bowden,
Roxburghshire, a shepherd's son, he died, in 1839, an agricultural
laborer, although his appointment as church officer, or "minister's
man," in his later years eked out his scanty means a little and
recognized the worthiness of his life. When he grew to manhood, Scott
got tired of herding sheep and waiting on cattle, and enlisted in the
Eightieth Regiment. Before this, however, he had begun to rhyme, the
desire thereto being inspired by a copy of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd" he
had managed to buy, and with which he beguiled many an hour in the
fields. Soon after he enlisted he accompanied the regiment to the
fighting Colonies in America, and while in camp on Staten Island,
Scott's poetical abilities became generally known among his comrades,
and he was ever ready to weave a rhyme to express their sentiments, or
compose a song to lighten their hearts. He served in five campaigns, and
was with the army that surrendered under Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown in
1783. On retiring from "sodgerin'," Scott returned to Bowden, and there
passed his remaining years, the monotony of life being varied by the
publication on three occasions of a volume of his poems, all of which
were favourably received and won him many friends, but yielded no
alleviation of the hardships of his condition; yet he never grumbled and
continued singing to the end of his journey.
Mrs. Anne Grant of Laggan, by her "Memoirs
of an American Lady," has won a place in American literature that
undoubtedly is permanent, for her descriptions of American life before
the Revolution are so vivid and so full of character that their value
will remain, no matter how much literary fashions may change. Mrs. Grant
was the slaughter of Duncan McVicar, an officer in the British Army.
Although born in Glasgow, in 1755, Mrs. Grant's first impressions were
of America, for, having been sent to the Colonies with his regiment,
McVicar's family followed him across the Atlantic when Anne was only
some three years of age. Quick in observation and unusually receptive in
her studies, the young girl's early education was sufficiently attended
to by her mother and by a Sergeant in her father's company so that she
lost nothing by the want of ordinary school facilities, and during the
years in her girlhood when she resided with the Schuyler family at
Albany—of whom she afterward wrote so lovingly—she acquired not only the
usual accomplishments and graces of young women of her time, but became
an adept in the Dutch tongue, then generally spoken among the grandees
of Albany society. Ill health compelled her father to return to Scotland
in 1768 with his family, even at the cost of sacrificing some land he
had purchased, for it remained unsold, and was confiscated when the
Revolution broke out. In Scotland he secured the position of
Barrackmaster at Fort Augustus, and it was while residing there that
Anne met her future husband, the Rev. James Grant, the military chaplain
of the fort. Shortly after their marriage, in 1779, Mr. Grant became
minister of Langan. There his wife's happiest years were spent. She
acquired a knowledge of the Gaelic tongue, was beloved by her husband's
people, and her own large family idolized her as they grew to appreciate
her tenderness and devotion. Her happy home, however, was broken up by
the death of her husband, in 1801, and, past the meridian of life, Mrs.
Grant had to face the world and enter upon a struggle for existence,
with eight children depending on her for support. She secured the lease
of a small farm, and, with it as a standby, commenced her literary
career in 1803 by publishing a volume of her Poems. This was so well
received that it enabled her to pay off all her debts and purchase
several necessary articles for the farm, and by this much her anxieties
and troubles were lessened. Her "Letters from the Mountains," published
in 1806, soon passed through several editions, and gave her a place
among contemporary writers that henceforth made her depend solely upon
her pen. In 1810 she settled in Edinburgh, where her home became a
literary centre, and Henry Mackenzie, Walter Scott, and the Scottish
literary lights of those days were among its visitors. Every work which
she published deepened the hold she had upon the reading public,
especially in Scotland, for, as Sir Walter Scott once wrote: "Her
writings derive their success from the Scottish people; they breathe a
spirit at once of patriotism and of that candor which renders
patriotism, unselfish and liberal." But their great charm is that it is
always an educated, refined woman who speaks, one who knows the world
and is full of shrewd common sense and of that sympathy for others which
is inseparable from the highest type of womanhood. In 1825 Mrs. Grant
was awarded a pension from the Crown of £100 per annum, and that, with
the income from her books, made her last years free from pecuniary care,
and the sunset of her life had no shadows except the kindly ones of the
gathering night. She died, in 1838, when in her eighty-fourth year, and
her faculties remained unimpaired to the end.
Mrs. Grant will be remembered by her prose
writings rather than by her poetry, though at least one of her lyrics,
"O Where, Tell .Me Where," has won a place in all the collections of
Scottish song and in the popular anthologies. Her "Memoirs of an
American Lady" has run through many editions here, and is still
reprinted. Its sale in America far exceeded what it enjoyed in Scotland,
as might naturally be expected, but from that sale she failed to realize
a dollar. That may be natural and legal, but it is not honest.
Few men outside of the fighting professions
have had to undergo more changes in their lifework than did John Burtt.
The peculiarity about his career is that it is sharply divided into two
parts, the one in the Old World being a constant scene of trouble,
ignominy, and despair, while in the New his path was one of quiet
usefulness and dignity. He was born at Knockmarlock, near Kilmarnock,
Ayrshire, in 1790, and after receiving the usual country school
education was apprenticed to a weaver in "Auld Killie." His few spare
hours were devoted to supplying the deficiencies of his scholastic
training, or, rather, to carrying it beyond the point at which the
village teacher was forced by circumstances to stop, and what Burtt
accomplished during these leisure hours in the way of study was really
wonderful. When sixteen years of age he was ":pressed" into the navy
while on a visit to Greenock, and compelled to serve his sovereign at
sea for five years. Then he managed to escape, and, making his way back
to Kilmarnock, he worked at the loom for a while, and then taught school
there and afterward in Paisley.
Soon after settling in Paisley, Burtt became
prominent among the local Radical leaders, and his position among them
was, in time, so marked that for his own personal safety, to say nothing
of his welfare, he determined to leave Scotland and try to win fortune
in the young Republic. He arrived in America in 1817. After studying
theology at Princeton, he was licensed to preach, and became minister of
a Presbyterian church at Salem, N. J. In 1831 he edited a religious
newspaper at Philadelphia, and two years later he moved to Cincinnati,
where he continued his ministry and edited a religious paper called the
"Standard." After a year or two spent as professor in a theological
seminary at Cincinnati, he took pastoral charge of a church at
Blackwoodtown, which he held until 1859, when he retired on account of
his advancing years. He returned to Salem, and resided in that village
till his death, in 1866.
Burtt published two volumes of his poetry.
The first was issued at Kilmarnock in 1816, and the second appeared at
Bridgeton, N. J., under the title of "Florae Poeticae: Transient Murmurs
of a Solitary Lyre."
A name now almost forgotten, that of John
Beveridge, for many years Professor of Languages in the College of
Philadelphia, deserves remembrance for his own abilities as a Latin
scholar and poet as for the indirect influence lie had upon the shaping
of the career of Robert Burns. Iie was born in the south of Scotland,
and taught school in Edinburgh and other places. Among his pupils was
Thomas Blacklock, and Beveridge took a particular interest in directing
the blind lad's thought to poetry, thinking that the pleasures of fancy
might atone, in some degree, for his deprivation of sight. It was
Beveridge who first brought out and fixed in Blacklock's mind the poetic
impulse that made him cling to poetry as the solace of his life, and it
was this poetic impulse that carried Blacklock to write the letter
commendatory of Burns's writings which turned the thoughts of that
brilliant genius from Jamaica to Edinburgh. In 1752 Beveridge emigrated
to New England, and, after drifting around for several years, settled in
Philadelphia in 1757 as a teacher. He could hardly be called a success
in this profession, for he was a poor disciplinarian, and his short
stature, shabby dress, and awkward manners made his pupils feel anything
for him but reverence. Yet he turned out some excellent scholars, and he
was always willing to encourage and applaud their efforts, although
sometimes his good intentions in this regard were thwarted by his own
unintentional indiscretions. Thus, in 1765, he published at Philadelphia
a volume of his Latin poems, with English translations by his pupils. In
the preface he announced: "They [the translations] are done by students
under age, and if critics will only bear with them until their
understandings are mature, I apprehend they are in a fair way of doing
better." The pupils might be proud to see their efforts in print, but
their pride would certainly receive a sharp fall when they read these
apparently contemptuous words.
Literary theorists who are fond of asserting
that the poetic spirit, or, rather, the faculty of giving expression to
it, never descends from a father to his children would be well to
consider the history of the humble Paisley family of Picken. The father,
Ebenezer, was a poet of more than ordinary ability, and some of his
lyrics rank among the indispensables in every Scottish collection. His
son, Andrew B. Picken, inherited all his father's genius; his muse even
essayed higher flights, but its full soaring was unquestionably retarded
by the vicissitudes of his life. Poverty undoubtedly chained him to the
earth, while his fancy might have been roaming through the spheres. In
1822, when in his twentieth year, he was induced to take an interest in
a silly expedition to Poyais, on the Mosquito Coast, and his sufferings
and adventures in that unfortunate episode formed afterward the themes
for a series of vivid sketches in poetry and prose from his pen. From
that scene of desolation Picken made his way to the West Indies, and,
after getting employment there for some time, saved enough money to
convey him back to Scotland, in 1828. But even there the fates were
against him, and two years later he sailed for the United States. His
fortunes did not improve by the change, and he suffered dire
vicissitudes, and tried his fortune in many cities. His last field of
operations was Montreal, and there he earned a fairly decent livelihood
as a teacher of drawing until his death, in 1849. In poetry, Picken's
best work is his "Bedouins," a production running through three cantos,
which ought to be better known than it is at the present day, while his
"Plague Ship" shows that he was a graceful, forceful, and interesting
writer of prose. During the latter part of his life he was a regular and
welcome contributor to Canadian newspapers and magazines.
Picken's footsteps were directed to Montreal
by the fact that an elder sister resided there, supporting herself by
teaching music, and doubtless it was her influence that induced him to
settle down in that beautiful city and give up his weary wanderings.
Joanna Pelfrage Picken was born at Paisley in 1798, and arrived in
Montreal in 1842. She was a writer of verses of at least respectable
merit, and was a regular contributor to the "Literary Garland" and other
publications. Her writings were never gathered together and issued in
book form, although there was some talk of this being done shortly after
her death, in 1859.
One of the strongest personalities in
Scottish literary history of the eighteenth century was James Tytler,
better known to readers of Scottish poetry, probably, as "Balloon Tytler."
He was born in 1747 at Fern, Forfarshire, of which parish his father was
minister. He studied medicine, made two voyages to Greenland, tried to
build up a practice in Edinburgh, and finally became a literary hack,
and in that capacity compiled, abridged, and wrote many books, and
prepared others for the press, although he is now remembered mainly as
the writer of a couple of fairly good songs. He was a most ingenious
man, invented several mechanical contrivances, and had invariably on
hand some grand scheme by which his own fortunes, or those of the world
in general, were to be improved. He was also a busy man; always
devising, always writing, and always in extreme poverty. Sometimes he
was glad to seek refuge from his creditors by confining himself within
the limits of the debtors' Sanctuary at Holyrood, although it seems
impossible to imagine how the most optimistic creditor could even dream
of ever recovering money from him. While in Edinburgh, in the Winter of
1786-7, Robert Burns formed the acquaintance of Tytler, and was
frequently thrown into, his society. In 1792, when the latter issued the
prospectus of a newspaper, to be called the "Political Gazetteer," and
which was intended to show up the shortcomings and denounce the
repressive policy of the ruling powers against the people, the poet
wrote to him: "Go on, Sir; lay bare, with undaunted heart and steady
hand, that horrid mass of corruption called politics and statecraft."
The prospects for the issue of the
"Political Gazetteer" did not pan out very well, and that same year
Tytler tried to arouse the people to a sense of their wrongs by a
manifesto addressed to them. The publication of this handbill was very
obnoxious to the Government. Its language was impassioned and
intemperate, and its sentiments were clearly seditious, as the laws of
sedition were then interpreted. A warrant was at once issued for his
arrest, but he escaped prison by flying to Ireland, and when his case
was called, in his absence, for trial on January 7, 1793, he was
outlawed. From Ireland Tytler managed to sail to America. We first hear
of him in the New World at Salem, Mass., where he edited the "Salem
Register." He turned his medical skill to account by publishing, in
1799, a "Treatise on the Plague and Yellow Fever," but the newspaper was
his mainstay, and he continued to edit it until his death. This took
place in 1804, and was the result of an accident. He was making his way
home one dark night, and fell into a clay pit, where his body was found
the next morning. Surely his was a career strange and wayward enough to
form a basis for a dozen romances. Except for his few years in America,
life was, at best, but a desolate road for him, and had he not been
buoyed up by strong sentiments of hope, we can easily understand how the
gloom might have caused his descent into the most abject poverty and
defiant sin. An
even sadder story is that of John Lowe, who may he called the foremost
of Scotland's single-poem poets. There are doubtless in Tytler's career
many things which command our respect, for he was so much the victim of
circumstances, so much a product and victim of the ill government of his
times, that we can pity his misfortunes while we admire his undoubted
genius. But in the case of John Lowe there is no room for pity, and all
the misfortunes which came upon him he richly deserved. He was born at
Kenmure, in Galloway, in 1750. His father was a gardener, and, like most
of the Scottish peasants, desired to see his son engage in the ministry,
and denied himself so that the necessary education might be provided. In
due time young Lowe graduated, and found his first employment in the
family of Mr. MacGhie of Airds as a tutor. The family included several
beautiful daughters, one of whom captured the heart of the young tutor,
or thought she did. He certainly captured hers. Another of the young
ladies was engaged to be married to a young gentleman named Miller, and
it was the news that Miller had been drowned at sea that inspired the
song which has given Lowe a prominent place in the ranks of Scotland's
song writers. Like every other heartless man, he could pour out any
amount of sympathy for other people's sorrows, but had none to spare for
woes of which he himself was the cause. He tried hard to get a church in
Scotland, but somehow failed, and despairing of obtaining either
position or preferment in his native land, he resolved to seek them in
the American Colonies. With the fondest vows, and professions of undying
affection, he parted from his love at Airds and sailed for America in
1771. So far as can be seen, he forgot all about his plighted love very
soon. Settling at Fredericksburg, Va., he tried to earn his living by
teaching, but was only moderately successful. Then he fell in love, or
professed to fall in love, with a Virginian lady, but she would have
nothing to do with him, and married another. Her sister, however, seemed
to have an attachment for him, and he married her out of gratitude.
Meanwhile he had taken holy orders in the Episcopal Church, and was
established as rector of a congregation at Fredericksburg, but he did
not prosper in a worldly way. He speedily tired of his wife, she
discovered he was by no means the angel she had believed him to be
before marriage, and her conduct was certainly not conducive to his
comfort, to say nothing of his happiness. Everything went wrong with
him, somehow, and to soothe his misery, like many a fool, he took to
drink. Then the end came rapidly, and he laid down the burden of life at
Windsor Lodge, Va., in 1798, leaving behind him as his most useful
legacy only the moral of a shipwrecked life—a life which would not have
been shipwrecked if truth had only been its rudder. Lowe wrote several
poems, but they are all forgotten with the exception of "Mary's Dream,"
yet that alone is sufficient to give him immortality.
A pathetic memory is that of John Graham,
once well known in New York as the "Blind Scottish Poet," but of whose
career little can now be gathered. Some of the old Scotch residents of
whom the writer made inquiries in the seventies remembered him well, and
spoke kindly of him, but their recollection was simply that of a
respectable old man, a man of quick, intelligence, who earned a scanty
living by selling books, especially those compiled or written by
himself. He was blind, but made no complaint on that score or sought
charity on account of his affliction, and his features were readily
aroused into expressive play from the usual placid repose of total
blindness by any reference to Scotland or mention of anything pertaining
to Scotsmen. So far as could be gathered, he was a native of
Stirlingshire, and settled in America in early life. How or when he lost
his eyesight is not known. He resided in New York, making a livelihood
of the poorest sort, until 1830, when he migrated to the vicinity of
Albany and managed a small property which had been bequeathed to him,
and there his later years were spent in comparative comfort. He died
about the year 1860.
One of Graham's principal works was
published in 1833, and, under the title of "Flowers of Melody," gave a
capital selection of Scottish songs. The notes, critical, biographical,
and illustrative, with which he graced the work stamped him as being a
man of taste, research, and intellect. It is a valuable book, and
capable of ranking with later and more pretentious publications. With
another of his works, however, we have more to do. This is his "Scottish
National Melodies," published in 1841, with music. Although his verses
were pleasing, we cannot rank Graham very highly as a poet. His rhythm
is far from perfect, while his imagery is commonplace or tame. But
throughout the whole there runs a deep patriotism which forces us to
admire the writer and read his productions with great interest.
Another intensely patriotic poet, whose
connection with America was, however, exceedingly brief—he crossed the
Atlantic only to find a grave—was Robert Allan of Kilbarchan. He was
born in that poetically famous Renfrewshire village in 1774, and was by
trade a muslin weaver. He commenced writing verse in early life, and his
inclinations in that direction were much encouraged by the friendship of
Robert Tannahill and Robert A. Smith. The latter not only inserted
several of Allan's songs in his "Scottish Minstrel," but set most of
them to music. Allan also contributed several poems to Motherwell's
"Harp of Renfrewshire," and a volume of his writings appeared at Glasgow
in 1836. In his edition of Tannahill (which is full of references to
Allan) the late Mr. David Semple wrote: "The reception the volume met
with greatly disappointed the author. He supposed his merits as a poet
had been overlooked, and, brooding over the disappointment, he became
irritable in his temper and gloomy in appearance. Some of his friends
had emigrated to America and succeeded, and he was determined to follow
them. As he was in the sixty-seventh year of his age, several of his
acquaintances remonstrated with him, but without success, and he sailed
on 28th April, 1841, from Greenock for New York. All went well until the
ship reached the banks of Newfoundland, where the vessel was detained
eight days by foggy weather, and the poet during that time caught a
cold. He landed on the 1st and died on the 7th June, 1841."
From the consideration of such lives as
Tytler, Lowe, and Allan, with their inevitable sadness, we turn, for the
sake of the change, to the happy and perfectly rounded career of the
Rev. Dr. George Scott, one of the many sacred singers whom Scotland has
given to America. Dr. Scott was born at Langside, Glasgow, in 1806,
studied for the ministry, mainly in Glasgow, and emigrated to America in
1832. Two years later he became pastor of a church at German Valley, and
afterward had charge of the First Reformed Dutch Church at Newark, N.
J., where he remained till his death, in 1858. He received the degree of
D. D. from Lafayette College in 1844, and in 1,848 published a keenly
critical and decidedly able dissertation "On the Genius of Robert
Pollok." The labor of his life, and latterly its greatest earthly
solace, was his lengthy poem of "The Guardian Angel," which saw the
light of print about the time of his death. "It is," says the author,
"in the form of a dream, a series of conversations concerning the
invisible state, the existence and ministry of holy angels, as well as
their guardianship over men, held by persons who met accidentally at
different places, connected by a slender thread of story." This is not a
promising theme for a poem; one would need the genius of John Runyan to
build a popular work on such a foundation, and the poem as a whole is,
it must be confessed, rather tedious. But it is full of many fine
passages, and breathes throughout a deep religious feeling—the phase of
religious feeling which, somehow, possibly because it is a true
interpretation, inspires hope and peace in the heart of the reader.
Religious poetry, it must be confessed, except it be brief productions
in the nature of hymns or Sabbath school recitations, or work of
surpassing genius like "Paradise Lost," seems to be soon forgotten. All
between these extremes appears to serve its day and generation—the
generation that knew that writer—and then quietly to pass into the
shadows of neglect. There is one peculiarity of this poem, however,
which should in this place be pointed out. It is the result of thoughts
conceived in Edinburgh and enlarged and extended at such places in
America as Niagara Falls and the Mississippi, and therefore owes its
inspiration directly to both countries—a true Scottish-American
production. Beyond
question the sweetest and best of all the Scottish-American lyrists was
Hew Ainslie, who died at Louisville, Ky., in 1878. His "Ingleside" has
long been a favorite in America, and the lines beginning "It's dowie in
the hint o' hairst" have been popular among all classes in Scotland,
especially since they were introduced so pathetically in Dr. Norman
Macleod's beautiful story of "Wee Davie." Ainslie was born at Bargeny,
Ayrshire, in 1792, his father being a farmer. After being educated at
Ballantrae, he was put to work on the Bargeny estates for the benefit of
his health, and when eighteen years of age became apprenticed to a
lawyer at Glasgow. But he had become enamored of the life he had been
leading in the woods, and to escape beginning his apprenticeship he fled
from his father's house and took refuge with some relatives at Roslin,
near Edinburgh. There his father soon followed, and took up his own
residence. Young Ainslie's first employment was that of a bookkeeper in
an Edinburgh brewery, and then he got a position as copyist in the
General Register Office in the Scottish capital. He also married about
that time, and soon was busy solving the oft-attempted puzzle in human
life of supporting a wife and weans on a small salary. A short season
employed as amanuensis to Professor Dugald Stewart was a pleasant
interlude in a life which seemed to carry nothing but gloom in its
future, and then, in 1821, Ainslie made up his mind to emigrate to the
United States. Before doing so, he paid a farewell visit to Ayrshire in
company with two friends, and the story of the trip was told in a little
volume—his first—entitled "A Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." It
appeared in 1822, and was reprinted in the memorial volume, containing
Ainslie's memoirs and a selection from his writings, published at
Paisley in 1891. The work has some fine descriptive prose passages and a
few good songs. Shortly after its publication Ainslie bade farewell to
Scotland, and settled on a small farm in Rensselaer County, N. Y. A year
later he was joined by his wife and children. In 1842 he moved to New
Harmony, Ind., as he had thrown himself with all his heart into Robert
Oven's social schemes, and thought he saw in the settlement at New
Harmony the beginning of an earthly paradise. The practical working of
the scheme did not, however, come up to his expectations, and after a
while he removed to Shippensport, Ohio, where he established a small
brewery. After brief residences in various towns, he finally settled in
Louisville, which became his home in 1829, and was regarded as such
until the end. In 1852, however, he visited New York at the invitation
of the Wellstood family, (the well-known engravers already referred to,)
and continued with them for over ten years. In 1862 he revisited
Scotland, and spent there two very happy years among scenes that had
long been but a memory. He was warmly welcomed on every side, and
carried back with him over the Atlantic a host of fresh reminiscences
and the good wishes of many new as well as old friends, which made
Scotland dearer to him than ever. Soon after returning, he settled again
at Louisville, and his declining years were tempered by the devoted care
of his family, then all grown up and "weel-daein."'
Ainslie will ever hold a place among the
poets of Scotland—not in the foremost rank, certainly, but along with
Beattie, Wilson, Motherwell, Rodger, and others in the second circle, He
wrote much, and often carelessly, but sufficient came from his pen to
make a volume of verse excellent enough in quality to give him a
recognized position as a poet in any literature. He delighted in the use
of the Doric; his years of toiling and excitement and worrying in
America seemed to make it dearer to him as he advanced in life, and it
uplifted his muse out of the levels, for everything which he wrote which
was not "in guid braid Scots" seems flat and tame and little else than
rhymed prose—prose that would have been better expressed had it not been
hampered by rhyme. "Mr. Ainslie," wrote Dr. John D. Ross in a memoir in
his valuable volume on "Scottish Poets in America," "was a poet in the
truest sense of the word. His love for Scotland, no doubt, stimulated
his muse to sing forth her praises in songs which will ever retain a
place in the hearts of his countrymen, but apart from this he has left
us numerous ballads and lyrical pieces which we could not willingly let
die. Many of these are of a very pathetic nature, and, in addition to
their being very beautiful, they contain excellent sentiments expressed
in the simplest of words." Three editions of his poems were published in
this country during his lifetime, and contributions from his pen
appeared in "Whistlebinkie," and selections from his writings in all
modern collections of Scottish poetry or song.
William Wilson, bookbinder and bookseller,
Poughkeepsie, N. Y., is still remembered as a pleasing writer, some of
whose songs will long keep his memory green and give him a place in
American literature. He was born at Crieff in 1801. His father having
died in infancy, William began, at the age of seven years, the hard
battle of life by being sent to help in herding sheep, and when fourteen
years of age was apprenticed to a "cloth lapper" in Glasgow. He
afterward removed to Dundee, where he varied the tedium of his trade by
contributing to the local papers. Then he went to Edinburgh, where he
was enabled to start in business as a dealer in coal. In 1833 he
emigrated to the United States, and, a year later, settled in
Poughkeepsie, where he conducted a book business successfully until his
death, in 1860. His son, James Grant Wilson, has done good literary work
as editor of several important publications, as well as by much original
writing. William
Wilson's poems have twice been published, and received very considerate
treatment at the hands of the critics. One of them wrote: "He was a
genuine son of song, and his genius is deserving of even wider
recognition than it receives at present. Simplicity and kindness are his
greatest characteristics, and are shown in every line he writes. He is
earnest and direct in his teaching, and whether singing the praises of
his native land or the glories of the land in which he died, whether
mourning beside the grave of a loved one, or warbling Stanzas to a
Child, the hearty, whole-souled character of the man shines clearly
forth." A truly
gentle life was that of Mrs. Margaret Maxwell Martin, who died a few
years ago at an advanced age at Columbia, S. C. She was born at Dumfries
in 1807, and crossed the Atlantic with her parents in 1815. They settled
at Columbia, S. C., and there Margaret not only received her education,
but married William Martin and spent her many years of useful life. For
over seventeen years she managed and taught a female seminary at
Columbia, and she published many volumes of poetry and prose, among
which her "Religious Poems" (1858) and "Scenes and Scenery of South
Carolina" (1869) must hold a prominent place.
A man of much promise, full of poetic spirit
and rich fancy, but which, however, never developed at all in keeping
with early hopes, was William Kennedy, who is better known to readers of
Scottish poetry as the friend of William Motherwell than for anything he
contributed to the minstrelsy of his native land. He was born at
Paisley, or near it, in 1799; contributed, with Motherwell, to the "
Paisley Magazine," and published in 1827 a volume of poems, which was
flatteringly received. He afterward removed to London and entered upon
the career of a man of letters. Although fairly successful, lie gladly
accepted an offer to accompany Lord Durham, Governor General of Canada,
to his post in the capacity of private secretary. When Lord Durham's
term of office expired Kennedy was appointed British Consul at
Galveston, Texas, and held that office for many years. His observations
at this pleasant post were published in two volumes, at London, in 1841,
under the title of "Rise, Progress, and Prospects of the Republic of
Texas." In 1847 he left America, and, with the aid of a government
pension, took up his residence near London. He died in 1849. His
best-known poem is one he wrote after a visit to the grave of
Motherwell, in the Glasgow acropolis, and a set of stirring lines to
Scotland, written on leaving it. One or two of his songs, notably "The
Serenade" and the "Camp Song," were once very popular in the United
States, and are still favorites in Texas.
It seems a pity that the exacting jealousy
of journalism should have kept David Gray, long editor of the Buffalo
"Courier," from devoting time to poetical composition; otherwise, there
seems no reason to doubt he might have obtained a foremost place among
the world-renowned poets of America. But a man must live, and the
thousand and one cares and anxieties of journalistic life are not
conducive to the peace which permits the muse to essay lofty flights. So
what we have to show for the poetic gift in Gray is mainly fragmentary
compositions, "verses of occasion," although here and there his soul
fairly gave itself up to the reign of fancy and, in the case of the
verses called "The Last Indian Council on the Genesee," we have
something that arrests attention, that carries us with the spirit of the
author into realms beyond the veil, something that is bound to hold a
place in literature. Gray was born at Edinburgh in 1836, and settled in
America when a boy. In 1859 he secured a position on the Buffalo
"Courier," and in 1867 became its editor in chief. He held that position
until 1882, when his health compelled his retirement. Afterward he acted
as secretary to the Niagara Park Commission, and in that capacity did
good work in restoring that great example of nature's mighty handiwork
to a condition as free from evidences of the commercial instincts of
mankind as possible. But his health continued poor, and in 1888, when he
had just started on a proposed journey to Cuba for rest, he was killed
in a railroad accident near Binghamton, N. Y. Soon after that sad
accident two elegant volumes, containing his life, letters, and poems,
were published at Buffalo, and sufficiently indicate how valuable was
the life thus summarily ended. Gray was proud of his Scotch birth and
parentage, and took an active interest in Scotch affairs in Buffalo. As
a journalist, he was the equal of any man of his time, while in private
life his home was long one of the literary centres of Buffalo—a city of
which literature is by no means one of its distinguishing features.
At the principal of the many enthusiastic
celebrations, in January, 1859, of the centenary of the birthday of
Robert Burns in New York Henry Ward Beecher, then in the very zenith of
his marvelous power as an orator, was selected to deliver one of the
speeches. There was some dubiety in many minds as to how he would treat
the memory of the bard as a whole, and how he would view some of his
shortcomings. At that juncture before the centenary festival came off,
the following lines formed part of a Poem which appeared in one of the
New York papers and created considerable discussion:
His few sma' fau'ts ye need na tell;
Folk say ye're no o'er guid yoursel;
But De'il may care:
Gin ye're but half as guid as Rab,
We'll ask nae mair.
A century hence, an' wha can tell
What may befa' yer cannie sel'?
Some holy preacher
May tak' the cudgels up for ane
Ca'd Harry Beecher."
Mr. Beecher did the poet all the justice
that his fondest admirers could desire. The history of the poem did not
cease, however, with the event which suggested it. It appeared at
irregular intervals and in a desultory fashion until Mr. Beecher and his
old friend Theodore Tilton had their memorable struggle in the law
courts. Then some one remembered it. Several expressions in the verses
quoted were deemed peculiarly applicable, and it was felt that the
prophecy of the poet had been realized within a quarter of the century
she had allotted for the need to arise for a defender of the preacher.
So the lilies were then reprinted in nearly every paper in the land and
sagely commented on. Very little seems to be known of Mrs. J. Webb, the
authoress, except that she was a resident of New York, frequently
contributed to the poets' corners of the New York papers, and died in
this city about 1862. She was a woman of undoubted genius, a true poet,
and every one of her effusions we have seen are of more than ordinary
merit. A
contemporary of Mrs. Webb's in New York City, and who was well known not
alone as a writer of poems, but as a sculptor, was George W. Coutts, a
native of Edinburgh, who settled in New York about 1856. He was one of
the early members of the Caledonian Club, and not only took a deep
interest in its welfare, but executed several exceedingly lifelike and
skillfully modeled busts of its prominent members. During the visit of
the Prince of Wales to America Coutts published a volume of his poems,
which he dedicated to the Prince, and of that transaction he was very
proud. He did not prosper in America for various reasons, and early in
1870 returned to Scotland. His death took place at Colchester, Essex, in
1895. Many years
ago a family of musicians used to give entertainments throughout the
United States, in Canada, and long were general favorites. The Fairbairn
Family was known all over the continent, and clever they all were—the
father and two, perhaps three, daughters. But the style of their
programmes did not vary much, and the craving for something new that
possesses the amusement world—Scottish as well as other sorts—drove them
to the wall. Their last appearances in New York—in the seventies—were
dismal failures, although every one admired the cleverness displayed,
and soon after they left that city they got stranded somewhere in the
upper part of the State of New York, and were finally heard from as
living quietly—from necessity—on a small farm they had secured or bought
in Canada. The father of the family, Angus Fairbairn, was an undoubted
man of genius, and had he only possessed some share of business tact
ought to have made a fortune by his own talents and those of his family.
But life seemed to be for him a continual struggle, a constant present
disappointment, with plenty of hopes, however, in the future—only they
always remained there. He was born near Edinburgh in 1829. While
comparatively a young man he began his career as a lecturer and vocalist
in London, and the success of his efforts led to his making a tour
through the United Kingdom, giving similar entertainments, combining
lecture and music, as Wilson, the "king of Scotch vocalists," and which
were afterward introduced all over the world by David Kennedy. In 1868
Fairbairn published in London a volume of his verses under the title of
"Poems by Angus Fairbairn, the Scottish Singer." Very soon afterward he
removed to Canada and commenced the career of public entertainer which
ended in the melancholy and unsatisfactory manner which has been
related. Poor Fairbairn was worthy of a better fate. He was a
warm-hearted man, full of national enthusiasm, and possessed a rich vein
of fancy—a vein that colored his whole life and gave him many glints of
sunshine in spite of the clouds that hovered around him from the dawn to
the darkness. In
1872 the Scottish community at Montreal was startled by news of the
death by accident of John Fraser, better known among them as "Cousin
Sandy" the poet. He had been on a visit to Ottawa, and while enjoying a
ramble among some rocks near the Parliament Buildings fell into the
river and was drowned. He was a native of Portsoy, Banffshire, where he
was born in 1810. A tailor by trade, he early imbibed pronounced
political opinions, for the tailor's "board" was then often transformed
into a forum, and Fraser became a Chartist. He also began writing for
the press, and such publications as "Reynolds's Newspaper," "The
Northern Star," and "Lloyd's Weekly" received his contributions gladly.
But somehow things went against him, and he concluded, in 1860, to
settle in Canada, where his father had taken up his abode some years
previously. He arrived at his father's home at Stanstead, P. Q., only to
find that his parent had died a few days before. He started in business
as a tailor, and did very well, but he got tired of life in the country
and removed to Montreal, where he became traveling agent for a
bookselling and publishing concern. In that capacity his business took
him all over Canada, and he made friends everywhere. In 1870, after
being known for many years as a poet by his contributions to newspaper
and periodical literature, he published a volume of his poems, a slender
volume, printed on only one side of each page and entitled a "Tale of
the Sea," the name of its opening and lengthiest piece. He sold the
volume as he went along on his journeys, and the edition, which met with
a very kindly reception at the hands of the newspaper critics, was soon
exhausted. Fraser might have held political office but for his known
advanced Radical opinions, and for the fact that in his Poems he
mercilessly ridiculed whoever or whatever displeased him—whatever he
thought was wrong—in party or individual, statesman or politician. He
was by no means a great poet, and he expended too much of what ability
he had in merely passing themes, though it is easy to see that his
ability was great enough to have won for him a higher and more popular
position in the ranks of Canada's poets than is now even likely to be
accorded to him. His principal poem, the "Tale of the Sea," contains
many stirring—even beautiful—passages, its story is graphically told,
but its theme hardly becomes the dignity of poetry. So, too, with much
of his political pieces, their "snap " and vitality have departed with
the causes which inspired them.
There died in Brooklyn on May 12, 1894, a
Scottish poet and song writer who had long enjoyed considerable
popularity on both sides of the Atlantic and been awarded a prominent
place among the lyrical writers who have given to Scotland the richest
body of song in the world. This was Thomas C. Latto, one of the original
"Whistlebinkians," who for many years prior to his death led a life of
comfortable leisure amid the companionship of his books, and beguiling
the days to the end by adding to his own literary work. Latto was born
at Kingsbarns, Fifeshire, where his father was schoolmaster, in 1818.
After studying law for five sessions at St. Andrews he went to
Edinburgh, where for some time he was employed in the office of the late
Sheriff Aytoun. He also resided in Dundee for a time, and for two years
was engaged in Glasgow in a commission business. From the time he went
to Edinburgh he became known as a poet, and his contributions were
everywhere welcomed, as was a volume of his collected pieces which he
ventured upon publishing. His "Whistlebinkie" songs and several pieces
that appeared in Blackwood's Magazine showed he had caught the public
taste, and a bright literary future in Scotland seemed to be within the
grasp of the young writer. Burt fate ordained otherwise, and in 1854 he
crossed the Atlantic to begin life anew under strange conditions.
Settling in New York City, he soon made hosts of friends among his
countrymen, and so high was their appreciation of his genius that it was
in his interests the company was formed that started the Scottish
American Journal in 1857. Latto was editor, and the business management
was intrusted to William Finlay, another Scotsman, a newspaper man of
much enterprise, who afterward died under distressing circumstances in
Canada. The two men were ill matched, and the paper soon passed into
other hands, and ultimately won a high rank among American weeklies. Mr.
Latto finally moved to Brooklyn, and for a long time was connected with
the "Times" of that city. A volume of his poems was issued in 1892 at
Paisley under the title of "Memorials of Auld Lang Syne," but while it
met with a flattering reception at the hands of the critics, it failed
to command Public interest. It really contains some of his best work and
deserved a wider degree of popularity than seemed to be its fate. About
the same time Mr. Latto issued a substantial volume containing a memoir
and selection of poems of his old friend, Hew Ainslie, and it enjoyed a
wide sale. In a
memorial tribute to Latto, published soon after the poet's death in The
Edinburgh Scotsman and other papers, Dr. John D. Ross, who probably knew
more of his latest literary work and aspirations than any one else,
said: "As a man of letters his place at present may simply be among the
minor poets of his country, but he has left poems in manuscript superior
even to those acknowledged immortal effusions of his which have already
been Published, and these will ultimately procure for him a high
position among the prominent Scottish poets of the nineteenth century."
However this may be, we can simply judge by the record before us, and we
can only say that the memory of Latto and his other works will be kept
alive by his lyrical pieces, rather than by anything else from his pen
which is now before the world. Such pieces as "When We Were at the
Schule," "Sly Widow Skinner," "The Kiss Ahint the Door," and one or two
others will always hold a place in the literature of his country and in
the hearts of his countrymen.
The late Rev. Dr. Robert L. Kerr, for over
sixteen years a minister in the Congregational Church in this country,
was the author of at least one volume of poems and several volumes of a
devotional cast. He was horn in Kilmarnock, and for a time was minister
of a church in Forres. For seven years he was pastor of the
Congregational Church at Wakefield, Kan., and then accepted a call to
Tomah, Wis., and died in 1895, shortly after entering on his duties
there. A volume of poems, mostly in his native Doric, was found in his
desk ready for publication, but it has never appeared. Dr. Kerr was a
man of superior ability, but never seemed to rise in life in accordance
with his deserts.
There was a vein of true poetic sentiment in the mental equipment of
Donald Ramsay of Boston, who died at Liverpool while en route to
Scotland, in 1892. He was born at Glasgow in 1848, and started the
business of life by becoming a printer in a valentine-making
establishment. When he died he was managing Director of the Heliotype
Printing Company of Boston. Leading an active business life, ;\Tr.
Ramsay found little time to devote to the muses, but whatever he
permitted to appear in print testified to his gracefulness of diction
and the delicacy and exuberance of his fancy. He was proud of Scotland,
and, like so many others, when the muse was with him his heart was
across the sea. It seems a pity that lie did not gather his poems into a
volume before his untimely death. They are, most of them, too good to be
forgotten, and that seems now likely to be their fate, scattered as they
are through all sorts of publications.
In many respects the most thoughtful, the
most richly endowed, of all the Scottish American poets was Alexander
McLachlan of Amaranth, Ontario, who died suddenly at Orangeville on
March 20, 1836. Somehow his genius never seemed to find the heights into
which most people acquainted with the poet deemed it capable of
reaching, and though he had a wide circle of readers, it was mainly
limited to Canada, and he failed to win that general need of approbation
and popularity which has been so often accorded to men who did not
possess one tithe of his ability. Circumstances, seemingly, were against
him; how or why we cannot exactly determine, but in reviewing the career
of this man we cannot help from thinking that circumstances, or, to put
it flatly—luck—have as much to do with molding and shaping a man's life
career as have his own abilities and resplendent virtues. Of course,
this is rank moral treason, according to the Samuel Smiles school of
biographers, but no man who has had much practical knowledge of the
world will gainsay its truth or be unable to point to more than one
illustration in its support.
At all events, McLachlan's life was passed
without the recognition it deserved, and in a constant fight with
poverty, until, in his old age, the generosity of a number of his
benefactors cleared his farm at Amaranth from mortgage and debt, and so
made his closing years pass on to their fruition without the perpetual
worriment about making ends meet, which had for so long before been
painfully in evidence in connection with his literary and business
plans. McLachlan
was born at Johnstone, Renfrewshire, in 1820. Like most of the bards of
Renfrewshire, that county of poets, he was horn and reared in humble
circumstances, but from his earliest years lie imbibed that sturdy sense
of independence which is so marked a feature in the Scottish character.
When young he learned to be a tailor and worked for a time at that trade
in Glasgow. He was a studious young man, according to his opportunities,
and developed into a stanch adherent of Chartism. Glasgow and Paisley at
that time were strongly stirred by the political movement that promise
to enlarge citizen freedom, (and did enlarge it, in spite of Peterloo
massacres, prisons, hulks, and other weapons of contentment,) and as a
result the flood of oratory on such places as Glasgow Green and the
Braes o' Gleniffer was something extraordinary. Among others, young
McLachlan caught the art of public speaking, and was always listened to
with attention because his words were carefully thought out, and he was
a perfect master of every question on which he aired his views, a
compliment that cannot be paid to many political orators.
In 1820, seeing no chance for improving his
condition in Scotland, McLachlan emigrated to Canada, and soon after his
arrival settled on a farm. That occupation was the basis of his career
thereafter, but he was known a few years after settling there as a
lecturer on literary topics, and in poetry and prose was a frequent
contributor to the periodical press of the country. In 1862 he revisited
Scotland on a mission to speak upon the advantages of Canada as a field
for immigration, and his lectures on that theme were eagerly listened to
all over the country and attracted general attention. His reception in
his native country was an exceptionally flattering one. He was welcomed
on every side, received with many marks of honor, and presented with
quite a number of valuable tokens of love from admiring friends.
In 1855 he published his first volume of
poetry, and it was followed by two others at short intervals, while in
1875 a collected edition of his writings appeared in Toronto. All these
volumes were very highly praised by the press and by critics, but not
one of them added much, if anything, to the poet's financial resources.
His lecturing expeditions had made him well known all over Canada, and
he had friends in every section, but for the last ten or twelve years of
his life he confined himself mainly to the farm, beguiling the tedium of
each long wintry season by his pen. He continued to woo the muse to the
last, and age did not seem to weaken his fancy or to lessen his love for
the beautiful in nature. Latterly he soared into realms of thought at
which most poets, even the most gifted, enter with dread—the why,
wherefore, and whither of life; its mystery, its recompense; the meaning
of its signs, its promises; the present and the future, and if he did
not succeed in unraveling any of the secrets, if he did not succeed in
piercing the veil that separates the seen from the unseen, he at least
gives us the impression of one whose whole soul was in the quest of a
solution of the mystery of life; that of an intellectual pioneer of a
giant mold piercing through the forest and brushing aside all that
seemed to obstruct his view of the land that lay beyond, slimly
shimmering as at the end of a long and narrow vista among the trees.
In connection with the singers we may be
pardoned here for departing from a rule hitherto pretty generally
observed so far in this volume, and make reference to a few of those
who, in America, are still weaving their lays and adding, in greater or
less degree, to the poetical anthology of the land of their adoption.
Sons of song are seldom, somehow, overburdened with their store of this
world's goods, and as they are all doing something, or honestly trying
to do something, to add to the pleasures of existence, attempting it may
be to lift men from the contemplation of the mere things of this life to
the sweeter realms of fancy, or the still more practical purpose of
developing the good that is in them, calling into play, as it were, the
exercise of their higher nature, it may be not out of place to gratify
some of them at least by a slight reference here. Iii view of this, some
notice of the " living choir " may close his chapter. All those
mentioned, and others who might be mentioned if space permitted, will be
acknowledged as sweet singers, even if it be adnmitted that they have "
missed the highest gift in poetry," as a recent reviewer aptly put it in
estimating the value of the poetic gifts of the late Bayard Taylor.
The venerable "Bard of Lochfyneside," Evan
McColl, still resides in Toronto, enjoying the beautiful sun-set of a
life that has been passed in comparative quiet, and broken by no
ambition save recognition of his poetic merits, an ambition that was
fairly gratified many years ago. McColl was born at the clachan of
Kenmore, Argyllshire, in 1808, and received as liberal an education as
the parish of Inveraray afforded. By his twenty-third year he had become
famous throughout the Highlands for his poems in the ancient language of
that region, his mother tongue, which continued to be the tongue of his
thoughts throughout his career. His English writings, beautiful as most
of them are, are but translations, after all, from the Gaelic in which
they were conceived and fashioned and clothed.
In 1836 he published his first volume, a
collection of his English as well as Gaelic poems, under the title of
"The Mountain Minstrel." It was very heartily received, and the author
felt encouraged in 1839 to issue a volume, "Clarsach nam Beann," solely
devoted to Gaelic productions, and it widened the measure of his fame in
the north, while his other volume made him known to readers
un-acquainted with the language spoken in the Garden of Eden. In 1839 he
became a clerk in the Customs Service at Liverpool, and ten years later
paid a visit to Canada for the purpose of seeing his relatives. To his
native land he never returned. He secured a position in the Customs
Service at Kingston, Ontario, and there he remained until he was, by
dint of long service, permitted to retire on a small pension. He soon
became a prominent member of the Scottish colony at Kingston, was active
in the work of the St. Andrew's Society, and for many years honored it
by acting as its bard, and in that capacity seldom allowed a festival to
pass without hailing the occasion with a song. In Canada he has several
times published a volume of his poetical compositions, and to the
newspapers of the Dominion he has been and is a frequent contributor.
Alexander H. Wingfield, a resident of
Hamilton, Ontario, since 1850, is the author of at least one poem—"The
Crape on the Door"—that will live long after he has passed over to the
land where the poets never cease singing. At one time it was thought
that many gemes might be added to the poetry of the continent by his
pen, but somehow these high hopes have not been realized. Mr. Wingfield
has done some creditable work, and some of his lines, such as "A Shillin'
or Twa," are not only far above the average, but stamp him as a true
poet; yet he seems to us to have frittered away his gifts on themes that
were unworthy the attention of any but the most commonplace poetasters.
He was born at Blantyre, Lanarkshire, Dr. Livingstone's birthplace, in
1828, and was early sent to work in a cotton factory in Glasgow. In 1847
he settled in the beautiful town of Auburn, N. Y., and three years later
removed to Hamilton, where he secured employment as a mechanic in the
shops of the Great Western Railway. In 1877 he received an appointment
in the Canadian Customs Department, and in that vocation his days are
still passed.
For many years E. N. Lamont, a native of
Argyllshire, was one of the best-known writers on the New York press,
and for a time was one of the editors of the `'Inter Ocean" of Chicago.
A graceful, fluent writer, full of humor and strange conceits, he had
the happy art of telling a newspaper story with those little indefinable
touches of gracefulness in style and appositeness in thought which is
not generally regarded as appertaining to the rush and excitement of
newspaper work. As an essayist pure and simple Mr. Lamont was without an
equal while in harness, but he has for some years been living a life of
placid retirement in Guernsey, one of the Channel islands. During his
years of newspaper activity Mr. Lamont was wont to woo the muse as a
relaxation from the vexations and heartbreaks incidental to such a
career, and many of his verses have been frequently reprinted, often
without his name.
Mr. D. M. Henderson, bookseller, Baltimore,
is another writer who has done much to make beautiful the strains of the
Scottish-American harp. Born in Glasgow in 1851, Mr. Henderson settled
in Baltimore in 1873, and found employment as clerk until he was able to
enter into business for himself. In 1888 he published a volume
containing a selection of his poetical writings, and was gratified at
the kindly treatment it received from the critics, as well as its ready
acceptance by the public. One of the sweetest of the living
Scottish-American poets is Mr. Robert Whittet, one of the best-known
citizens of Richmond. Va., and a gentleman whose assistance has often
been evoked by the writer of this work in connection with many
individuals. Mr. Whittet was born at Perth in 1829, and was long engaged
in business as a printer there. In 1869, although his business was
fairly successful, he desired a change, and he crossed the Atlantic.
Purchasing some four hundred acres of land near Williamsburg, Va., he
essayed an agricultural career, but after a time he realized that "there
was nothing in it," and he removed to Richmond, started again in his old
trade, and now is at the head of one of the best-equipped printing
plants in the South. In 1882 he published a volume of verse under the
title of "The Brighter Side of Suffering, and Other Poems," which met
with a large sale and stamped him as a poet of no ordinary merit.
Mr. D. MacGregor Crerar, ex-President of the
New York Burns Society and its Secretary for over twenty-five years, is
a writer of no mean ability, whose lines display a fullness of thought,
a carefulness of diction, and a concentration of sentiment which are the
very essence of poetic composition. Beyond a poem on "Robert Burns,"
printed at the request of the Burns Society, Mr. Crerar has published
nothing in book form, although often requested to do so, especially
since he appeared as one of the poetic heroes in Mr. William Black's
novel of "Stand-fast, Craig-Royston." Possibly his strongest pieces are
his sonnets, although in such lyrics as "Caledonia's Blue Bells" he
touches the heart of every reader who possesses even a spark of
sentiment, while his lines entitled "The Eirlic Well" and "My Bonnie
Rowan Tree" are classical in their beauty. But whatever this author
writes has a certain standard below which he never falls, for he
believes that the muse is one of the best gifts heaven vouchsafes to
men, and that for the gift men should in return clothe its utterances
with the utmost care. He is a native of Amulree, Perthshire.
Dr. J. M. Harper of Quebec, one of the
best-known educationalists in Canada, is also one of that country's
poets. He was born in Johnstone, Renfrewshire, in 1845, and has been not
only a frequent contributor to the press, but the author of a number of
historical and biographical works, while as a lecturer he has won many
hearty encomiums. All his poems, whether Scotch "or otherwise," betray a
keen sense of the human heart, an intense love for nature, and a hearty
appreciation of all that is beautiful and true. He sings frequently of
Scotland and on Scottish themes, but his muse is mainly cosmopolitan,
and deals with humanity irrespective of land or clime. It might be said
that he judges the world through Scotch spectacles, but if that be a
fault, this work is not likely to admit it. There is not a namby-pamby
line in all Dr. Harper's verses, nothing that is not worth reading for
its thought and sentiment, and nothing that will not elevate the reader.
Mr. James D. Crichton of Brooklyn, who was
born in Edinburgh in 1847, is a writer very similar in his tastes and
sympathies to Dr. Harper. A man of superior intellect, widely read, and
investing every subject on which he writes with a peculiar charm, the
reading public have a right to expect more from him than has yet
appeared. He has not written much, but what he has written is full of
melody, and confirms in us the impression that in him poetry—song—is a
natural gift, which the world as a right to expect to see utilized to
its fullest extent. Another Brooklyn poet who has not written as much as
he should have written is Andrew McLean, editor of the "Citizen" and for
many years managing editor of "The Brooklyn Eagle." He is a native of
Dumbartonshire, but has resided in America since his fifteenth year, and
his devotion to journalism has checked his inclination to wander into
other fields in which he might have made his mark in literature. Mr.
William M. Wood is also a Scotch Brooklyn journalist whose abilities as
a poet have never been fully cultivated. As editor of "The Brooklyn
Daily Times" his days are fully occupied, but what he has written has
stamped him as undeniably capable of yet higher flights. Mr. Wood is a
native of Edinburgh and started in life as a printer.
Robert Reid, ("Rob Wanlock,") the "laureate
of the Scottish moors," has resided in Montreal for several years and
has won an honorable position in Canadian as well as in Scottish
literature. It cannot be said that the Dominion has influenced his muse
to any extent. He lives in Canada, but his heart is in Scotland, and
when his muse is stirred it is by a breeze wafted from the old green
hills and dine gray muirs of his ain countree. Born in the pleasant
village of Wanlockhead, right on the boundary between the counties of
Lanark and Dumfries, it is of the South of Scotland he sings, and the
scenery and landscapes of that section give to his lines their peculiar
color, just as Argyllshire has colored the Scottish landscape in the
poems of that older bard, Evan McColl. Mr. Reid is one of nature's
poets, that is to say, he finds his best themes in the lilt of the
laverock, the wild cry of the whaup, the brown heather, and the simple
affections of the heart, and to read his lines is to get, as it were, a
fresh and delightful glimpse of the land he loves so well.
Andrew Wanless, bookseller in Detroit, has
published several volumes of his poetry and won a wide circle of
readers. He was born at Longformacus, Berwickshire, in 1825. In 1851 he
settled in Toronto, where he engaged in business as a bookbinder, but
was burned out and lost his all. In 1861 he removed to Detroit, and
slowly but surely recovered his losses. He is not only a poet, but an
authority on poets, particularly Scotch, and he discusses their merits
with rare critical acumen and with a fund of story and illustration
which makes him a delightful conversationalist. All his own poems are
Scotch, and he handles "our mither tongue" with the ease of a master.
James Kennedy, a native of Forfarshire and
many years a resident of New York City, has published a couple of
volumes of verse and written much that has appeared in fugitive form.
His best effort, "Doran Water," is a pure idyll, redolent of the
Scottish countryside and evincing a wealth of imagery that delights the
reader. Another New York poet is John Paterson, a native of Inverness,
most of whose productions have appeared only in newspapers, where they
have attracted marked attention and been frequently reprinted, and Mr.
H. Macpherson, a younger bard hailing from the Highlands, has also won
recognition as a poet from his efforts in Gaelic as well as in English
during his residence in New York.
Mr. W. C. Sturoc, who was born in the auld
toon of Arbroath in 1822, has written a large number of verses which
speak plainly of the goodness of his heart, the depth of his affection
for his native land, and the ripe scholarship and Christian spirit which
direct his daily thoughts. An estimable man in every way, a loyal
American citizen, and a leader in the society in which he moves, Mr.
Sturoc is passing through the sunset of life in his home at Sunapee, N.
H., in a way that proves the truth of the promised reward that comes
from a well-spent youth and manhood. His poems are equally divided
between the old land and the new, and every line he has written shows
how equally dear both are to him. John Imrie of Toronto has published
two volumes of his poems, and several of his songs, set to music, have
become justly popular. He has the lyrical genius strongly developed, and
is equally felicitous in his Canadian and Scotch themes. William Murray
of Hamilton, Ontario, a Breadalbane Highlander, is a ready and pleasant
writer of Scottish verse, mainly on historical themes, which have made
his name known far beyond the confines of the town in which he has his
home. Mr. William Anderson of Auburn, N. Y., a native of Duntocher, has
written several stirring songs, one of which, "Old Glory," has become
very popular. An industrious writer is Mr. J. Porteous Arnold of Quebec,
and so is William Lyle, too industrious to give his rhyming qualities an
opportunity to rise to the heights they seem capable of attaining.
The Rev. William Wye Smith of Newmarket,
Ontario, a native of Jedburgh, has become known on both sides of the St.
Lawrence as a writer of hymns, as well as of tuneful verses. He is also
an adept of the Doric, and probably no man in America has given the
language of Robert Burns more patient or critical study. Mr. T. D. Law
of Philadelphia is another writer who has a firm grasp of the Doric and
can use it with remarkable facility, he is a poet of no mean order, and
soon after his arrival in the Quaker City, in 1886, became noted among
the Scots resident there for his rhyming gifts. Since then he has become
more widely known, for his volume of poems, issued in Paisley a few
years ago under the title of "Dreams o' flame" won golden opinions from
the press both in Scotland and America, and the edition was speedily
disposed of. Mr. Law is a native of Lumsden, Aberdeenshire.
As an example of a purely Scottish-American
writer, that is to say, of a writer born in America of Scottish
ancestry, we might mention Wallace Bruce, who for several years was
United States Consul at Edinburgh, and even now, although his home is
again in America, holds the office of Poet Laureate of Canongate
Kilwinning Lodge, Edinburgh, in succession to Robert Burns, the Ettrick
Shepherd, and other well-known Scottish poets. Born in Columbia County,
N. Y., Mr. Bruce was educated at Yale University, and afterward traveled
over Scotland, England, and a goodly part of Europe. Then, on his
return, he ascended the lecture platform and gradually rose in
popularity until he was regarded as one of the most brilliant orators of
the lyceums. Such themes as "Robert Burns," "Walter Scott," and
"Washington Irving" showed that the bent of his mind leaned toward the
land of his ancestry, and from time to time the poems which appeared
from his pen in various periodicals proved that Scottish literature had
been made by him a special field of study. The success which his various
volumes of verse--"Old Homestead Poems," "Wayside Poems," "In Clover and
Heather" among the number—has met with is satisfactory assurance to his
many admirers and friends that his poetic merit is generally
appreciated.
This theme, however, might easily be
extended through a number of chapters, but a limit must be made, and it
is as well to close with the gifted son of song whose merits we have
just discussed. It seems hard to pass over with brief mention such
undoubted singers as James Linen of California and New York, P. Y. Smith
of Wilkinson, Mass.; William Murdock of St. John, N. B., and a score of
others; but perhaps the entire subject will some day receive full and
fitting attention and treatment.
What has been written, however, imperfect as
it is, is sufficient to prove the theory with which the chapter
started—that the Scots in America did not leave their harps behind them
when they crossed the Atlantic, and that they are as busy helping to
build up the literature of America as they are in building up all its
other interests.
But the Scot at home has also had a great
deal to do with molding and shaping American literature. No poet not a
native of the soil is more studied or appreciated than Robert Burns, and
nowhere are the lesson of his life and the significance of his mission
better understood. Hundreds of editions of his works have been printed
in America, and in such compilations as the annual volumes of "Burnsiana"
and the monograph on Highland Mary, and in the tributes of such men as
Whittier, Longfellow, Emerson, Holmes, and Beecher the national love and
reverence for the great poet of the Scottish people has found fitting
expression. Every Scotch poetical work of eminence from the days of
Ramsay has been reprinted in the States, and sometimes, as in the case
of Motherwell's collected writings and Pollok's "Course of Time," the
number of American editions exceed those of the old land. Sir Walter
Scott's writings in prose, as in poetry, are as thoroughly familiar on
the banks of the Hudson as by the side of the Clyde, and, indeed, in
reviewing a list of American reprints of Scotch poetical works recently
the writer was almost forced to think that the United States had simply
adopted the modern poetical literature of his native land and quietly
appropriated it as her own.
So, too, with Scotch songs. "Auld Lang Syne"
is as much the popular anthem of America as of Scotland, as much adopted
and naturalized as though it had passed through a dozen courts of
record, and the same might be said of several other lyrics. America as
yet has hardly produced a native minstrelsy, but there is no doubt that
gradually some volkslied peculiar to herself will be evolved, and we may
be sure also that it will be more after the manner of the songs of
Scotland than any other. No songs can charm even a cultivated American
audience like the simple ditties that first awoke the echoes on the
north side of the Tweed, and "Annie Laurie," "Bonnv Doon," "The Lass o'
Gowrie," "O' a' the Airts," and "Robin Adair" are as great favorites in
America as though they were indigenous to the soil. Indeed, the only
approach to a native minstrelsy in America was that introduced by the
minstrel troupes—now going out of fashion—and their melodies, on the
authority of George Christie, the founder and greatest of all these
singers, were most popular when they were re-echoes of, or reminiscent
of the songs which were and are the favorites of the people in the Land
of Robert Burns. |
