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PREFACE.
(Ed.—English spelling has been restored where
appropriate.)
THE following "Tales and Sketches" were written at
an early period of the author's career, during the first years of his
married life, before he had attempted
to carry any part of the world on his shoulders in the shape of a public
newspaper, and found it by no means a comfortable burden. Yet
possibly the period earlier still, when he produced his "Scenes and
Legends," had been more favourable for a kind of writing which required in
any measure the exercise of the imagination. The change to him was
very great, from a life of constant employment in the open air, amid the
sights and sounds of nature, to "the teasing monotony of one which tasked
his intellectual powers without exercising them." Hence, partly, it
may be imagined, the intensity of his sympathy with the poet Ferguson.
The greater number of these Tales were composed literally over the
midnight lamp, after returning late in the evening from a long day's work
over the ledger and the balance-sheet. Tired though he was, his mind
could not stagnate—he must write. I do not mention these
circumstances at all by way of apology. It has struck me, indeed,
that the Tales are nearly all of a pensive or tragical cast, and that in
congenial circumstances they might have had a more joyous and elastic
tone, in keeping with a healthier condition of the nervous system.
Yet their defects must undoubtedly belong to the mind of their author.
I am far from being, under the delusion that he was, or was ever destined
to be, a Walter Scott or Charles Dickens. The faculties of plot and
drama, which find their scope in the story and the novel, were among the
weakest, instead of the strongest, of his powers. Yet I am deceived
if the lovers and students of Hugh Miller's Works will not find in the
"Tales and Sketches" some matter of special interest. In the first
three there are, I think, glimpses into his own inner life, such as he,
with most men of reserved and dignified character, would choose rather to
personify in another than to make a parade of in their own person, when
coming forward avowedly to write of themselves. And, then, if he
could have held a conversation with Robert Burns, so that all the world
might hear, I think there are few who would not have listened with some
curiosity. In his "Recollections of Burns" we have his own side of
such conversation; for it seems evident that it is himself that he has set
a travelling and a talking in the person of Mr. Lindsay.
But of Burns's share in the dialogue the reader is the best
judge. Some may hold that he is too like Hugh Miller himself,—too
philosophic in idea, and too pure in sentiment. In regard to this,
we can only remind such that Burns's prose was not like his poetry, nor
his ideal like his actual life.
Unquestionably my husband had a very strong sympathy with
many points in the character of Burns. His thorough integrity; his noble
independence, which disdained to place his honest opinions at the mercy of
any man or set of men; his refusal to barter his avowal of the worth and
dignity of man for the smiles and patronage of the great, even after he
had tasted the sweets of their society, which is a very different matter
from such avowal before that time, if any one will fairly think of it, all
this, with the acknowledged sovereignty of the greater genius, made an
irresistible bond of brotherhood between Miller and Burns. But to
the grosser traits of the poet's character my husband's eyes were
perfectly open; and grieved indeed should I be if it could for a moment be
supposed that he lent the weight of his own purer moral character to the
failings, and worse than failings, of the other. Over these he
mourned, he grieved. I believe he would at any time have given the
life of his body for the life of his brother's soul. Above all, he
deplored that the all-prevailing power of Christian love was never brought
to bear on the heart of this greatest of Scotland's sons. If Thomas
Chalmers had been in the place of Russell, who knows what might have been?
But, doubtless, God in his providence had wise purposes to serve. It
is often by such instruments that he scourges and purifies his church.
For let us not forget, that scenes such as are depicted in the "Holy
Fair," however painful to our better feelings, were strictly and literally
true. This I have myself heard from an eye-witness, who could not
have been swayed by any leanings towards the anti-puritan side; and,
doubtless, many others are aware of testimony on the sane side of equal
weight.
We may hope that the time is passing away when the more
exceptionable parts of Burns's character and writings are capable of
working mischief, at least among the higher and middle classes. It
is cause of thankfulness that in regard to such, and with him as with
others, there is a sort of purifying process goes on, which leaves the
higher and finer elements of genius to float buoyantly, and fulfil their
own destiny in the universal plan, while the grosser are left to sink like
lead in the mighty waters. Thus it is in those portions of society
already refined and elevated. But there is yet a portion of the
lower strata where midnight orgies continue to prevail, and where every
idea of pleasure is connected with libertinism and the bottle; and there
the worst productions of Burns are no doubt still rife, and working as a
deadly poison. Even to a superior class of working-men, who are
halting between two opinions, there is danger from the very mixture of
good and evil in the character and writings of the poet. They cannot
forget that he who wrote
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"The cock may craw, the day may daw,
Yet still we'll taste the barley bree,"
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wrote likewise the immortal song,
"A man's a man for a' that";
and they determine, or are are in danger of determining, to follow the
object of their worship with no halting step. Doubtless political
creed and the accidents of birth still colour the individual estimate of
Burns and his writings. It is but of late that we have seen society
torn, on occasion of the centenary of the poet, by conflicting opinion as
to the propriety of observing it; and many would fain have it supposed
that the religious and anti-religious world were ranged on opposite sides.
But it was not so. There were thoroughly good and religious men,
self-made, who could not forget that Burns had been the champion of their
order, and had helped to win for them respect by the power of his genius;
while there were others—religious men of old family—who could remember
nothing but his faults. I remember spending one or two evenings
about that time in the society of a well-born, earnestly religious, and
highly estimable gentleman, who reprobated Burns, and scoffed at the idea
that a man could be a man for a' that. He might belong to a limited
class; for well I know that among peers there are as ardent admirers of
Burns as among peasants. All I would say is, that even religious
feelings may take edge and bitterness from other causes. But to the
other class—those who from loyalty and gratitude are apt to follow Burns
too far—well I know that my husband would have said, "Receive all genius
as the gift of God, but never let it be to you as God. It ought
never to supersede the exercise of your own moral sense, nor can it ever
take the place of the only infallible guide, the Word of God."
But I beg the reader's pardon for digressing thus, when I
ought to be pursuing the proper business of a preface, which is, to state
any explanatory circumstances that may be necessary in connection with the
work in hand.
The "Recollections of Ferguson" are exquisitely painful—so
much so that I would fain have begun with something brighter; but these
two contributions being the most important, and likewise the first in
order of a series, they seemed to fall into the beginning as their natural
place. I have gone over the Life of Ferguson, which the reader may
do for himself, to see whether there is any exaggeration in the
"Recollections." I find them all perfectly faithful to the facts.
The neglected bard, the stone cell, the straw pallet, the stone paid for
by a brother bard out of his own straitened means are not flattering to
the "Embro' Gentry"; but amid a great deal of flattery, a little truth is
worth remembering. On the other hand it rejoices one to think that
Ferguson's death-bed, on the heavenward side, was not dark. The
returning reason, the comforts of the Word of Life, are glimpses of God's
providence and grace that show gloriously amid the otherwise enter
darkness of those depths.
The sort of literature of superstition
revived or retained in "The Lykewake," there are a great many good people
who think the world would be better without.
It chanced to me some three years ago, when residing in a
sea-bathing village, and sitting one day on a green turf-bank overlooking
the sea, to hear a conversation in which this point was brought very
prominently forward. A party consisting of a number of young people,
accompanied by their papa, a young French lady, who was either governess
or friend, and a gentleman in the garb of a clergyman, either friend or
tutor, seated themselves very near me; and it was proposed by the elder
gentleman that a series of stories should be told for the amusement and
edification of the young people. A set of stories and anecdotes were
accordingly begun, and very pleasingly told, chiefly by the clergyman,
friend or tutor. Among others was a fairy tale entitled "Green
Sleeves," to which the name of Hugh Miller was appended, and which evoked
great applause from the younger members of the party, but regarding which
the verdict of papa, very emphatically delivered, was, "I approve of
faries neither in green sleeves nor white sleeves.
However,"—after a pause, during which he seemed to be revolving in his
mind any possible use for the like absurdities,—"they may serve to show
us the blessings of the more enlightened times in which we live, when
schools for the young, and sciences for all ages, have banished such
things from the world." So, with this utilitarian view of the
subject let us rest satisfied, unless we are of those who, feeling that
the human mind is a harp of many strings, believe that it is none the
worse for having the music of even its minor chords awakened at times by a
skilful hand.
I am unable to say whether "Bill Whyte" be a real story, ever
narrated by a bona fide tinker of the name, or no. I am
rather inclined to think that it is not, because I recognize in it several
incidents drawn from "Uncle Sandy's" Experiences in Egypt, such as the
hovering of the flight of birds, scared and terrified, over the smoke and
noise of battle, the encampment in the midst of a host of Turks' bones,
etc.
With the " Young Surgeon " I was myself acquainted. It
is a sketch strictly true.
"The Story of the Scotch Merchant of the Eighteenth Century,"
which also is a true story, was written originally at the request of a
near relative of Mr. Forsyth, for private circulation among a few friends,
and is now for the first time given to the public by the kind consent of
the surviving relatives.
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