author of "An Ode to the Cuckoo," a poem which has delighted thousands of readers wherever the language of England is spoken; and as that person published as his own many of the known productions of Bruce, there are good grounds for asserting that "The Cuckoo" was written by the youthful poet, and stolen bodily from him by Logan. The works of Bruce have attracted considerable attention among literary circles in Scotland of late years, and a copy of them now before me, edited by a distinguished literary gentleman, contains the poem on the merit of which rests the poetical reputation of Logan. Many of the acknowledged odes of Bruce are equal to the "Cuckoo," and that much cannot be said of the writings of the assumed author of the poem. It is a little remarkable that Logan should have written but one ode in the measure adopted in the beautiful composition attributed to him, while Michael Bruce left behind him several of the same prosodical construction. Logan published a collection of his works shortly after the death of his friend, and incorporated in the volume, as his own, a number of odes written by Bruce, among which, there is no doubt in the minds of competent judges at this day, was the "Ode to the Cuckoo." But whether Bruce was the author of that production or not, his fame does not rest upon the doubt connected with it, nor upon the poem if it be his. He was naturally of a weak constitution, and by close application to study and his duties as an instructor of youth, he fell into a rapid decline, and while in the last lingering stages of consumption, possessed the calmness of spirit and fortitude of soul to contemplate his approaching dissolution in a poem, which, for gentleness of thought, beauty of language, and fine imagery, equals, in some respects, the sublime elegy of Gray. Witness the following lines, and imagine the youthful bard quietly contemplating the certain approach of the angel of death, and then say whether my estimation of his character is too high, or my visit to his tomb a foolish journey: "Now spring returns, but not to me returns The vernal joys my better years have known; "Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, And count the silent moments as they pass." How beautiful the picture, and how appropriate the thought! A vigorous tree shivered by the blasts of spring, and beneath its shattered arms a dying youth silently noting the passing moments, with a full consciousness that his race is near at end, and his soul will soon wing its flight to realms beyond the grave. Death, at all times, is a solemn thing, and but few have the fortitude to witness its sure approach without a shudder, and none to welcome it with more calmness than did the gentle and talented poet of Loch Leven. I left Edinburgh in the morning and proceeded to Granton Pier, from which place I crossed the Frith of Forth, and took rail to Markinch, the nearest station to Portmoak, the burial-place of Bruce. The morning was cloudy and rain impended; but as the wind was high, I was not deterred from my journey, and set out on a walk to the place of my destination. My road lay toward Loch Leven, through a hilly country, and as I was alone I enjoyed without interruption the beauties of the landscape and my own reflections. I passed through the extended village of Leslie, and afforded the denizens of that place something to talk about, for they evidently considered me a wonder, and flocked to the doors with as much eager curiosity as if I had been Prince Albert. The way became more rugged and mountainous as I approached the highlands, and the heavy Scotch mists occasionally settled around me, but no rain fell, and after a walk of but little less than ten miles, I entered the secluded village of Portmoak and inquired for the sexton of the kirk. The inhabitants and myself were on a par so far as a knowledge of each other's language 64tended, as they understood about one-half of what I said, and I about a corresponding amount of what they uttered. I succeeded, however, without much difficulty, in finding the house of him I sought, and his wife, a plain and intelligent Scotch woman, accompanied me to the church. The building is a square, prosylooking edifice, as solemn and sour in appearance as were the vinegar-visaged Puritan parsons of old; no ornaments, no spire, no beauty-it is the "most straitest of its sect," and as dreary as a tomb. The Scotch are wofully deficient in their modern churches, and fall immeasurably behind the English in ecclesiastical structures. They want a love for the splendid in church architecture-its religion, if you please; and less of that solemn, square, four-walled style of building which prevails to so great an extent among them. Their villages are not handsome; there is no beautifully designed place of worship, with its tall and graceful spire pointing to heaven, to attract the stranger's gaze, and add a charm to the hamlet. All is plain, level, and devoid of ornament. The monks of old knew the glories of a splendid Gothic edifice and its religious influences; but the Scotch, in their great reformation, swept both the beautiful in church architecture and the monks away together, and now bend the knee in temples as devoid of the beautiful, in most cases, as the structures they razed were remarkable for it. I followed my guide into the burial-ground, and as the old lady was well informed respecting the history of the poet, I spent a pleasant half hour in her company, near the urn placed over his remains. The memento was erected by some literary gentlemen as an evidence of their appreciation of the worth of the bard, and numbers of the countrymen of Bruce usually visit the place during the summer months, when making the circuit of Loch Leven. The churchyard is immediately below the craggy summit of the Lomond Hills, and in full view of the island castle in the lake, so long the prison of Mary Queen of Scots, and which furnished the subject of the longest poem of the lamented and pious bard. The scenery around is picturesque and rugged, though not so much resorted to as the more famed locality of Loch Lomond. On the urn is the subjoined inscription, which is by no means an exaggeration of either the character or talents of him who rests below: THE BODY OF MICHAEL BRUCE, Who was born at Kinneswood in 1746, and died While a student in connection with the Secession Church in the 21st Year of his Age. Meek and gentle in spirit, sincere and unpretending in his Christian deportment; refined in intellect, and elevated in character, he was greatly beloved by his friends, and won the esteem of all; while his genius, whose fire neither poverty nor sickness could quench, produced those odes, unrivalled for simplicity and pathos, which have shed an undying lustre on his name. Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, he sparkled and exhaled, and went to heaven. The name of Michael Bruce is unknown except to literary men, and but few strangers, if any, visit his grave. No foreigners go to Portmoak, and I was probably the first that ever visited the place with the main purpose of seeing the poet's tomb. The old lady looked at me with a puzzled gaze, and appeared at a loss to know who and what I was. She was aware that I was a stranger, and said to me, half doubtingly, half inquiringly, "Ye'r no' English, and I dinna ken what ye be." I purposely kept her in ignorance of the land of my birth until on the eve of my departure, when I told her I was an American. Her face brightened up, and she exclaimed, "Ay! I thought they were a' black; but how a body may be mista'en. But were you born there?" she asked rather eagerly, supposing she had made an error by a too ready expression of opinion. I told her I was, and my ancestors before me. "Weel, weel," she continued, "I'm glad ye cam', for I'd ne'er believed but that they were a' black, had I na' seen ye;" and with a smile at her simple innocence I bade her goodby, and returned to Markinch, past the ruins of Arnot Castle, and through the beautiful valley of the River Leven, and arrived at the Scottish capital, after a pleasant day's excursion to the birth and burial-place of Michael Bruce. CHAPTER XIX. MELROSE-ABBOTSFORD-DRYBURGH, THE BURIAL-PLACE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. ABBOTSFORD, Melrose, and Dryburgh are sacred names to the admirers of the genius of Sir Walter Scott, and the places to which they belong are now Meccas of the mind. Thousands annually resort to their walls, drawn there by the wizard-like influence of the great novelist and poet; and but few make the tour of Scotland without including in their journey a visit to one or the other of these celebrated places. I left Edinburgh in company with a young Englishman, who was, like myself, a pilgrim to the shrine of genius, and after an agreeable travel of thirty miles or more, during which we passed the ruined castles of Bothwell and Crichton, arrived at the quiet village of Melrose. A pleasant walk of three miles brought us to the turreted and picturesque mansion of Abbotsford, and on presenting ourselves at the lodge, we were admitted to the grounds and most attractive portions of the house. The building is very irregular, but singularly imposing, and well calculated to force remembrance upon the mind. In the court-yard, immediately in front of the entrancedoor, in the centre of a circular grass-plot, stands the urn which flowed with wine at Holyrood at the time James the Sixth visited that royal abode after he had been crowned King of England; and in the wall of the building are shown the door of the Old Tolbooth of Edinburgh, and the pulpit of Ralph Erskine. Several petrified antlers, of enormous size, adorn the porchway leading into the entrance-hall, and at the side of the approach is a marble figure of the celebrated dog Maida, while the garden inclosure abounds in the fragments of broken columns and nameless sculpture. We were politely ushered into the vestibule of the mansion by an agreeable lady of some forty years, and conducted |