FROM CARLYLE TO IAN MACLAREN.

Evening Star, Issue 9889, 28 December 1895, Page 1 (Supplement)

FROM CARLYLE TO IAN MACLAREN.

At the last meeting of the Dtfnedio Barns Club the Rev. H. j. Lewis, of Morniogt.on, gave the following address on * Prom Carlyle to lan Maolaren 1 :—,

On the eve of the siege of Quebec, as General Wolfe and his officers were rowing up the Su Lawrence, the great soldier recited Gray's • Elegy in a Country Churchyard,' and at the close of it he said ; " There, gentlemen, I would rather be the author of that poem than the captor of Quebec" That was a soldier's tribute to the worth of a poet's work, and it is a tribute which I feel sure would be most unhesitatingly paid by every thoughtful mind to the worth of more than one of the works of the goodly fellowship of Scottish poets led by the noble vanguard of Walter Scott and Robert Sums. The man who wrote the ■• Lay of the Last Minstrel' or * The Cottar's Saturday Night' has laid the world under a deeper debt than the man who won Waterloo. There aro passages in the poems of both Burns and Scott which are. not simply exquisite gems of literary beauty, but chimes from the bells of a brighter sphere, the music of which falls ou the ear with at least a faint echo of that which rings through our 23rd Psalm. Take, for example, those immortal lines from * Tarn o' Shanter' : Pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm; Or like tbe snowflake in the river, A moment white—thcu melts for ever. Every line in that passage is not simply a felicitous image of poetry, but a mirror of human life, holding up before you a face you cannot forget. Or take again those thrilling lines: Scots wha hae wi" Wallace bled Scots wham Bvuee has often led. Tb« very sound of word 3 is a bugle blast, the inspiration of which in the hour of battle would be worth ten battalions. To preserve the memory and perpetuate the of such poetry as this is not simply a patriotic obligation "you Scotsmen o»ve to your country, it is a human obligation you owe to the whole race of man. To let the memory of such literature perish would be not merely a mistake, it would be a crime. The question i* What can we do to perpetuate its power in such days as these': We have been told lately that the nineteenth century is the age of "The twilight of the gods," that tho great poets and the great prophets have all passed away without leaving a single successor behind. Is this truo? Has a great frost swept over our literature, withering its fair bloom into faded blackness? Principal Campbell Shairp, than whom there is probably no higher authority on the subject, says: "The nineteenth century is distinctly the age of the great prose poets, and at no period have so many men, richly endowed with the poetic gift, expressed themselves in prose." Now, this year 1895 is at once the centenary of the birth of Carlyle and the year of the publication of the 'Bonnie Brier Bush.' We are therefore irresistibly reminded to-night of the place in literature which has been wou by Thomas Carlyle and the place in it which is being rapidly won by I*n Maclaren. At the head of the front rauk of the prose poets of the nineteenth century stands old Thomas of Chelsea. I am not aware th?'. his right to occupy that position is challenged by any competent critic. The attacks upon his reputation made by the small shot of euvious mediocrities and irritable imbecility have done it as much harm as the pellets of a boy's pop-gun would do the walls of Edinburgh Castle. Stem ami grim, sarcastic and cynical, bitter and misanthropic though he often was, the public opinion of the world will forget the cynicism and forgive the bitterness of any man Who has suffered half what Carlyle had to suffer or done one-tenth of what Carlyle did. Principal Shairp puts the pith of this matter in a nutshell when he Bays: "No doubt the nurrow though bracing atmosphere of his youth, the grinding poverty, the depressing ill-health, tho fierce struggle, the want of appreciation in his early years, worked on his naturally proud and violent temper, and made him the stern, rugged, ungenial man he seemed to be; but had he missed thi3 stern discipline and been reared insoftandpleasantpUvjeshowdifferent would hi 3 teaching have been. Would

if. have buret itself into the world'* heart as it has done? At any rate Carlyle's place in literature is unassailably established. As a picturesque, graphic, dramatic historian he has few rivals. As a faithful, painstaking, conscientious, sympathetic biographer of men like Cromwell and John Stirling he probably stands alone. As a keen, incisive critic and essayist he has seldom been equalled; but it is neither as historian, biographer, essayist; nor critic that he has achieved the greatness which will confer.the most undying lustre on his nam 3 . Above everything else he was, as Principal Shairp so well says, "a prophet of the soul of man." No man in England believed more firmly or proclaimed more passionately the worth of those eternal realities with which man will 6till have to do when the mere money-grub-bing and place-hunting arc over than Carlyle. "Against the mud philosophies, which with their protoplasms, their heredities, their nitural selections would have robbed him of his most cherished convictions, his life and works were one long indignant, uncompromising protest." His work bears throughout the stamp of one of the strongest and most original minds of the nineteenth century. From Carlyle to lan Maclarea may seem a far cry, and yet there are abundant signs of the fact that the mind which wrote the 'Bonnie Brier Bush' is a lineal descendant of the mind which wrote ' Sartor Resartus' and the 'French Revolution.' Making all allowance for the fact that lan Maclaren is still in his prime, and that there is good reason for hoping that his best work is yet to come—making all allowance for the further fact that his position as a clergyman has hitherto precluded his devoting his whole life to literature, without which no one can ever put forth the full swing of his literary power, there are several senses in which the work of lan Maclaren may be considered a continuation of that of Carlyle. Both these men are true prose poets. In the language of lan Maclaren there is the same melodious rhythm, tlje same musical ring as in that of Carlyle. His words are not mere expressions of thought, they are

mirrors in which you can see the very ripples of the Scottish streams, photographs iu which you can see the very features of the Scottish faces, phonographs in which you can hear the very roar of the storms among the Scottish hills, and the very tones of the voices of the Scottish elders as they walk home from church discussing the sermon. Jn the works of both there is the same subtle vein of humor, only the humor of lan Maclaren is brighter, healthier, more genial every way than that of Carlyle. The charm of la nMaclaren's humor is in its depth ; it suggests so much more than it says. Take, for example, that masterpiece of etching, THE CUNNING SPEECH OF DKUMTOCHTY. Spee hj in Druiatochty distilled slowly, drop by drop, and the fices of our men were carved in stone. Visitors without discernment used to pity our dulness, and lay themselves out for missionary work. Before their month was over they spoke bitterly of us as if we had deceived them, and departed with a grudge in their hearts. The Drumtochty men abjured superlatives. When one was seriously ill he was said to be "gey and sober," and no one died iu Drumtochty— he "sleppit avra." Hell and heaven were pulpit words; in private life we spoke of " the ill place and " oor lang hame." When the corn sprouted in the stocks one late wet harvest, and Bui nbrae lost half his capital, he only said : " It's nolichtsome,"and no congratulations on a good harvest ever extracted more from Drumsheugh than "A' daurna complain." No Drumtochty man would commit himself to a positive statement on any subjoct if he could And a way of escape. It was told for years in the Glen with much relish and almost funereal solemnity how a Drumtochty witness had held his own in an ecclesiastical court.

" You are beadle in the parish of Pitscourie?" began the advocate, with alight heart, not knowing the witness's birthplace. " It's a fac'," after a long pause and a careful review of the whole situation.

'" Vou remember that Sabbath when the minister of Netheraird preached ?' " Well, a'll admit that," making a concession to justice. " Did ye see him. in the vestry f " A' canna deny it.". " Was he intoxicated?"

" Losh, man, hoo cud ony richt-thinkin' man sweer tae sic an aw-fu' word ? Na, na» a' daurna use that kin' o' langidge; it's no cannie?* The advocate tried again, a humbler, wiser man. . " Was there a smell of drink on iiai f

" Noo, since ye press me, a'll juist tell ye the haU> truth; it wes doonricht stupid o' me, but, as sure as afcn livin', a* clean forgot tae try him." " Did he stagger?" " Na, I cudna say stagger, but he micht gie a bit trimmil."

" What did you consider the cause of the trim-

aMJipgf" asl«»fettj». innocent young: odvH&ctfte J aV WTOaked round the oou 1 1, in iriuw,.£ > hr6ammi i J > s"tncS yfe'mWn&e& ff be wes ftTOMranoa BAn> and ir em iraj&mfe mind that tSSWißbrew, which. a'mJtwLu a vim contrairy gaen'doon «4dwtjpys., hislc«s,.', Another charm w ,B«%Jjfee Maolaren possess iff ctWs||ta with those of' Carlyte 19 their of pa*ar. They never give the r««BfetJj[sMea that the author is exhausting uimself, • TBey always convey the impression that whal qe has said is nothing to what 'tie has to say;, sequently they irresistibly get the reader, like Oliver Twist, asking for more. > And there is bue respect in which lan Maolaren may'be Said to surpass Carlyle. There is no cynicism, no surliness, no pessimistic misanthropy in him. tlan MacWen is always healthy, gonial, bright. The keynote of Carlyle is strength ; the keynote of lan Maolaren is sweetness. One is a rugged block of granite, the other a polished marble column. We are proud of them both; we lay on the grave of the man whose' work is done our laurel wreath, bearing the motto " Well done," and we hang with loving reverence round' the neck, of the living worker a chain of gold inscribed with the motto " Go on."