The Press. — London, England, 1856-08-16 00:00:00

784 dog in the world. Very well ! Never mind ! Now what is your opinion about him ? " " Well, sir, if you ask me my candid opinion," replied he Englishman, " I should say the dog is a mongrel." t " A what, sare?" " I mean he is not what the French call pur sang. He may be a good dog, but he is not thorough-bred. Com pare him with those English dogs on hoard. You will soon see the difference. They are thorough-bred. Why ! his tail is as thick as my wrist " " What, sare," reiterated the Count, in a foaming fury, "I am a Danish ;.3ount, sere, and a sportsman. As it I did not know better than you!" " Pellicle Albion," he went on : here another gentleman interposed to pacify bim ; but he never forgave the strictures on his pointerre. He was overheard more than once, muttering to himself, " Bought in Regent street—thorough-bred—perfide Albion ; very well—never mind." The author rapidly notices the most striking fea tures of the Norwegian coast to the end of his voyaging, describes the peculiar attractions of the tour, throws out many useful hints to the traveller, and relates in a lively manner anec dotes characteristic of the people. In his enthusiasm there is nothing sur prising. The whole coast of Norway, with its innumerable gulfs, rivers, islands, and moun tain ranges, seems created for picturesque effect. It is a kind of anglers' paradise; and we must recollect that in the height of summer the sun never sets on these natural beauties; the glories of the Arctic Circle are illuminated by a sun which scarcely dips beneath the horizon, and never rises to a bei;.;lit which deprives the spectator or the angler of the shade he loves. One fault which we have to find with most books of travel, we must partieularise in Mr. Metcalfe. He is not nearly so precise as he should be. An impression seems to prevail among tourists that it would be beneath their dignity to print their expenses and note the exact details of their journeying& Their reserve is very absurd. This information is exactly what the reader would most prize. A note, at least, should be attached to each chapter, stating the distance traversed, the mode of travel, and the cost. Every tour of this kind should be a form of handbook. We are sure the plan would greatly conduce to the popularity of this class of books. Bothwell. A Poem. By W. E. Aytoun, London: Blackwoods. Tnxs poem is a monologue spoken by the guilty and unfortunate husband of Mary Stuart in his solitary dungeon at Malmoe. After his short-lived sovereignty, Bothwell, deserted by the Queen and by his par. tisans at Carberry-hill, fled for a time to his relative, the Earl of Huntley, but being after a time cast off by him also, sought refuge in the Island of Orkney, of which Mary had created him duke. The inhabitants of Kirkwall, how ever, rose up against him, and compelled him to retire, and after subsisting for a while by piracy, he was taken by the Danes and thrown in prison, where he died. The poem is a nar rat►ve of his adventures, interspersed with be fitting reflections, from the time of Mary's marriage with Darnley up to his own captivity in Denmark. The reader will easily under stand that such a career presents fine oppor tunities for poetry, though we doubt whether the Professor has chosen the pal tieular form best adapted to his subject. The dark de bates of conspirators, the misfortunes of a young and beautiful queen, the violence of a fierce aristocracy, and the horrors of midnight murder, would have found, we think, more forcible expression through some dramatic me dium. The effect is weakened in a monody. The character which Professor Aytoun has drawn of his hero is such as most impartial readers will be inclined to assent to. He was literally the slave of his passions. Their bidding must be performed at all risks, and whoever would aid him in doing so became at once his master. The more astute spirits of the day took advantage of this to accom plish their own ends. None in reality gained so much by the murder of Darnley, and the marriage of the Queen to Bothwell, as Both well's worst enemies. But the two passions of ambition and love blinded his reason no less than his conscience, and led him on to the perpetration of crimes which a little re flection might have convinced him could only recoil upon himself. At the 8111116 time he was THE PRESS. not without his good points. He was a man of high personal courage, and, compared with the wretches who surrounded him, of immaou late honesty. Even his enemies confess that he never took English gold, and never be trayed his associates. His own retainers adored him, and Queen Mary at one time placed the highest confidence in his vigour and loyalty. He was not one of those whom nothing apparently can save from guilt. He had in him the elements of goodness, and under happier auspices might have proved a virtuous and able supporter of Queen Mary's throne. Had he been the Queen's second husband, both their fates might, indeed, have been widely different. _ . . In accordance with this view of his charac ter, Professor Aytoun has described him as indulging in various tender and simple re miniscences of his early life, when he was yet unseared by guilt, and unbroken by disasters. The following lines are very musical and poetical: Fair is the sight, yet strange to me; No memories I recall, While gazing on the headland cliffs, And waves that leap and fall; No visions of my boyish days Or manhood's sterner prime Arise from yonder watery waste, To cheer me fur a time. For I was reared among the hills, Within a Border home, Where, sweeping from their narrow glens, The mountain torrents come; And well I know the bonny braes Where the first primrose blows, And shrinking tufts of violets Rise from the melting snows, Ere yet the hazel leaf is out, Or birches grow their green, Or, on the sad and sullen ash, A kindling bud is seen. 0 Hermitage, by Liddel's side, My old ancestral tower ! Were I again but lord of thee Tot owning half the power That in my days of reckless pride I held, but cast away— I would not leave thee, Border keep, Until my dying day! Wise was Buccleuch, and Cessford too, Who stoutly held their own, And little cared, amidst their clans, For threat from either throne. They range at will the mountain paths, They hear the falcon ory, And here, within a loathly cell, A fettered slave am I. Who owns thee now, fair Hermitage ? Who sits within my hall? What banner flutters in the breeze Above that stately wall ? Does ye' the courtyard ring with tramp Of horses and of men ; Do bay of hounds and bugle•note Sound merry from the glen ? Or art thou, as thy muter is, A rent and ruined pile, Once noble, but deserted now By all that is net vile ? What matters it? These eyes of mine Shall never see thee more; Still in my thought must thou abide As stately as of yore, When, Warden of the Marches three, In Mary's right I came, To still the rugged Border feuds, And trample out the flame. Tice' sentiments assigned to Bothwell are always appropriate, and managed so skilfully as to excite our sympathy with the speaker's misfortunes without lessening our detestation of his crimes. It i 3 necessary to the interest of a poem that the principal character should not be wholly beyond the pale of human re gard ; and this the Professor has effected in the case of Bothwell without the violation of historical truth. Of the language and versification we need only say they are worthy the author of "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers." The one is as vigorous and pure as the other is sustained and spirited. The Professor's poetry is romantic and soul-stirring, and perhaps more pleasing on a cursory perusal—which is all that the multitude can afford to poetry—than works of much loftier pretension. Without being exactly original, the ideas and images which he employs, recast in the mint of his own genius, strike upon our minds with the force of novelty. Without reaching the sublime, he is often solemn and affecting; and his imaginative power is of a high order, with out attaining that point at which men call it inspiration. After one or two short extracts SATURDAY, in confirmation of these views we shall pass on to the historical aspect of the poem : I've heard that poison sprinkled flowers Are sweeter in perfume Than when, untouched by deadly dew, They opened in their bloom ; I've hear I that men, condemned to die, Have quaffed the fatal wine With keener relish than the juice Of the untampered vine ; I've heard that with the witches' song, Though harsh and rude it be, There blends a wild mysterious strain Of weirdest harmony, So that the listener far away Must needs approach the ring, Where, on the savage Lapland moors, The demon chorus sing. And I believe the devil's voice Sinks deeper in the ear Than any whispers sent from heaven, However soft and clear. Again Pardon ! I sought it not from men; I would not take it at their hand! I owned no judge, no master then; I was the lord within the land. Pardon ! the word was made for slaves, Not for a Sovereign Prince like me. Lost is the man who pardon craves From any baser in degree. ala i ") There is a peak of guilt so high, That those who reach it stand above The sweep of dull humanity, The trail of passion and of love. The lower clouds that dim the heaven Touch not the mountain's hoary crown, And on the summit, thunder•riven, God's lightning only smites them down ! This last metaphor is just the reversal of the famous one in Goldsmith's " Deserted Village." The two main points for our consideration in the historical narrative are these—Was Mary innocent of the murder of Darnly? Was she a consenting party to her abduction by Bothwell? Both are decided by Professor Aytoun iu favour of the Queen. Without pre tending ourselves to have studied the subject with the same closeness, and consequently to have reached the same plenitude of conviction, we fully acknowledge that the preponderance of evidence is on the side of her innocence. There is no legal evidence whatever to impli cate her in her husband's death. And the only thing which can at all draw suspicion upon her is her subsequent conduct,—her apparent want of sorrow, and her refusal to bring Bothwell to trial. But she 'could not be expected to feel any genuine grief for the loss of Darnley, how ever shocked at the horrible nature of his death. He had violated every bond of conjugal love or manly sympathy by assisting at the murder• of Riccio. He had been de tected in a plot for deposing herself; and he had neglected and insulted her by conduct which no woman can forget. On the other hand, Bothwell had ever been her• faithful ser vant. He had shed his blood in her• cause, and his whole character up to that time had been such as to render him an unlikely agent in a secret and diabolical murder of a sick and defenceless man. That public rumour attri buted the deed to him would concern Mary but little. Did it not also accuse herself? When calumny is once raging through the land, stimulated by fear and superstition, as in Scotland then and in England at the time of the Popish plot, the clamour of the popu lace is worse than worthless That Mary did not succumb to that we think greatly to her honour. Had she refused to listen to the advice of men like the French Ambassador and others of cool judgment and experience, her• conduct would have been justly deemed suspicious. But as soon as she became con vinced that it was mall% necessary to bring Bothwell to trial, the thing was done. And that Bothwell was able to come attended by four thousaad gentlemen and secure an ac. quittal was not the fault of Mary, but of the turbulent state of the period. We may ob serve, however, that the evident popularity of Bothwell, even after Darnley's death, is no small justification of Mar•y's confidence. In addition to this, we have the death-bed con fession of Bothwell, acquitting Mary of ail participation in the c►ime. This is often stated to be a forgery ; but then, as Professor Aytoun well says, it is strange that it should never have been heard of till after Mary's death. For what other• purpose could it have been forged than to exculpate her and pro-