Part 2
The river Clyde in the neighbourhood of the town of Lanark presents, according to the testimony of all travellers, some of the most romantic and picturesque scenery in the world. We shall confine ourselves at present to a short notice of the Linns or falls which have been so much celebrated. The word _Linn_, we may remark, is the Gaelic _Leum_, and signifies merely a fall or leap.[1] Its application to a cataract, or fall of water, is general throughout Scotland. Burns has introduced the word with very happy effect in his humorous and well-known song of Duncan Grey, where, in describing the perplexity and despair of the rejected suitor, he says--
“Duncan sighed baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer’d and blin’, Spak o’ loupin’ owre a linn; Ha, ha, the wooin’ o’t.”
“_Spak o’ loupin’ owre a linn_,” writes one of his correspondents, the Honourable A. Erskine, to the poet, “is a line of itself that should make you immortal.” But to return to the linns on the Clyde. The first precipice over which the river rushes, on its way from the hills, is situated about two miles above Lanark--and is known by the name of Bonnington Linn. It is a perpendicular rock of about twenty, or, as some authorities state, thirty feet in height, over which the water after having approached its brink in a broad sheet, smooth as a mirror, and reflecting the forests that clothe its margin, tumbles impetuously into a deep hollow or basin, where it is instantly ground into froth. A dense mist continually hovers over this boiling cauldron. From this point downwards the channel of the river assumes a chaotic appearance; instead of the quiet and outspread waters above the fall, we have now a confined and angry torrent forcing its way with the noise of thunder between steep and meeting rocks, and over incessant impediments. The scenery on both sides, however, is exquisitely rich and beautiful. A walk of about half a mile, which may be said almost to overhang the river, leads to the second and most famous of the falls, that called Corra Linn, from the castle of Corra, now in ruins, which stands in its neighbourhood. “The tremendous rocks around,” says the report on the parish of Lanark, published in Sir John Sinclair’s Statistical Account of Scotland, “the old castle upon the opposite bank, a corn-mill on the rock below, the furious and impatient stream foaming over the rock, the horrid chasm and abyss underneath your feet, heightened by the hollow murmur of the water, and the screams of wild birds, form a spectacle at once tremendous and pleasing. A summer-house or pavilion, is situated on a high rocky bank, that overlooks the linn, built by Sir James Carmichael, of Bonnington, in 1708. From its uppermost room it affords a very striking prospect of the fall; for, all at once, on throwing your eyes towards a mirror, on the opposite side of the room from the fall, you see the whole tremendous cataract pouring as it were upon your head. The Corra Linn, by measurement, is eighty-four feet in height. The river does not rush over it in one uniform sheet like Bonnington Linn, but in three different, though almost imperceptible, precipitate leaps. On the southern bank, and when the sun shines, a rainbow is perpetually seen forming itself upon the mist and fogs, arising from the violent dashing of the waters,”--as Byron has beautifully sung of the Cataract of Velino, in Italy:--
⸻“On the verge, From side to side beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn; Resembling, ’mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.”
A short distance below Corra Linn is another fall called Dundaff Linn, the appearance of which is also very beautiful, though it is only about three feet and a half high. About three miles farther down, and a considerable way past the town of Lanark, is the last of the falls, that called Stonebyres Linn. It is a precipice, or rather a succession of three precipices, making together a height of sixty-four feet. The same general features of rugged rocks, here appearing in all their dreary bareness, there concealed by trees and shrubs, of wild birds winging their flight over the bounding cataract and mingling their screams with its roar, and of cultivated nature in its most luxuriant beauty contending all around with the sublimity of the untamed torrent, which belong to Corra Linn, mark that of Stonebyres also, though with some diminution of the romantic effect. A peculiar phenomenon which is to be seen here, is that of the incessant endeavours of the salmon, in the spawning season, to mount the lofty barrier by which they now find their migration from the sea for the first time opposed. Their efforts, it is almost needless to say, are quite unavailing. It is also stated that the horse muscle, the pearl oyster, and some other species of fish, which are found in great numbers below this fall, are never seen above it. Trouts, however, have been observed to spring up the small ascent of Dundaff Linn apparently without difficulty.
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Footnote 1:
The word has also been derived from the Welsh _Linn_, signifying “a lake” or “water.” This root is likewise found in the Greek language, and its proper signification seems to be, “water.”
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COWPER’S LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER’S PICTURE.
Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine,--thine own sweet smile I see The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, “Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!” The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover’d thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss, Ah, that maternal smile! it answers--Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was.--Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown, May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; What ardently I wished, I long believed, And disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned, at last, submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot.
Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, ’Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed, All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humour interposed too often makes; All this, still legible in memory’s page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere; Not scorn’d in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart,--the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no, what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast, The storms all weathered, and the ocean crossed, Shoots into port at some well favoured isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, “Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar;” And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed-- Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current’s thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet O! the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now farewell--Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o’er again; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
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THE WEEK.
September 29.--This day, popularly called Michaelmas, has been observed in the Christian Church, at least since towards the close of the fifth century, as the “Feast of St. Michael and All Angels.” St. Michael has always enjoyed the reputation of preeminence over all the other angels and archangels--and some theologians, indeed, have held that he is the only archangel. The reverence paid to this name was equally great under the Jewish dispensation as it has been since the introduction of Christianity. The churches dedicated to St. Michael, in conformity to this notion of his superior dignity, have been usually erected upon elevated ground; that of St. Michael’s Mount, in Cornwall, is quoted as an instance in this country. Michaelmas is now observed in England principally as one of the four regular quarter days on which rents are paid: but both here and in other parts of Christendom the day was anciently, among all classes, one of distinguished hospitality and festive enjoyment. Our custom of dining on goose at Michaelmas has given occasion to the expenditure of a great deal of antiquarian ingenuity in the attempt to trace its origin: but it seems to have arisen merely from the circumstance of the bird being naturally in season at this time of the year. Evidence has been produced of its existence so far back as about the middle of the fifteenth century, and it may possibly be much older. The old poet Gascoigne, in the work called his ‘Posies,’ published in 1575, thus alludes to this and other similar customs, which appear to have originated in the same way:--
“And when the tenants come To pay their quarter’s rent, They bring some fowl at Midsummer, A dish of fish in Lent; At Christmas a capon, At Michaelmas a goose, And somewhat else at New-year’s tide, For fear their lease fly loose.”
September 29.--The anniversary of the birth of Nelson. Horatio Nelson was born in 1758, at the parsonage-house of Burnham-Thorpe, in Norfolk, of which parish his father was rector. He went to sea at the age of twelve, as a midshipman. In 1777 he was made a lieutenant, and in 1779 a post-captain. He now went out to the West Indies in command of the Hinchinbroke, and distinguished himself by several gallant exploits on that station. While here he married Mrs. Nesbit, the widow of a physician, by whom however he had no family. But the most splendid part of Nelson’s career commenced with the war of 1793. It would be altogether impossible for us here to present even the most rapid recital of the numerous actions in which he bore a part from this date till his death. Among many bright names which illuminate this part of the naval history of England, his shines the brightest of all. Wherever the cannon thundered on the deep, it might be said, there was Nelson. When early in 1798 he presented his claim for a pension, in consequence of the recent loss of his right arm in an attack on Teneriffe, he stated in his memorial that he had been present in more than a hundred engagements. On occasion of his receiving that wound, which nearly proved fatal, he came home for a short time to England; and Mr. Southey, by whom the story of the hero’s life has been told with singular fascination, relates the following anecdote in illustration of the popular feeling with which he was regarded, which we transcribe as equally honourable to all the parties concerned:--
“His sufferings from the lost limb were long and painful. A nerve had been taken up in one of the ligatures at the time of the operation; and the ligature, according to the practice of the French surgeons, was of silk instead of waxed thread: this produced a constant irritation and discharge; and the ends of the ligature being pulled every day, in hopes of bringing it away, occasioned fresh agony. He had scarcely any intermission of pain, day or night, for three months after his return to England. Lady Nelson, at his earnest request, attended the dressing his arm, till she had acquired sufficient resolution and skill to dress it herself. One night, during this state of suffering, after a day of constant pain, Nelson retired early to bed; in hope of enjoying some respite by means of laudanum. He was at that time lodging in Bond Street; and the family was soon disturbed by a mob knocking loudly and violently at the door. The news of Duncan’s victory had been made public, and the house was not illuminated. But when the mob were told that Admiral Nelson lay there in bed, badly wounded, the foremost of them made answer, ‘You shall hear no more from us to-night:’ and, in fact, the feeling of respect and sympathy was communicated from one to another with such effect, that, under the confusion of such a night, the house was not molested again.”
Nelson’s two greatest victories, as all our readers know, were those of the Nile and of Trafalgar. The first was gained on the 1st of August, 1798, and effected the complete destruction of the enemy’s force, all their ships, except two, being either captured or sunk. For this brilliant achievement he was elevated to the peerage by the title of Baron Nelson of the Nile. The battle of Trafalgar was fought on the 21st of October, 1805; and there this renowned captain fell amidst the blaze of the most splendid triumph ever gained upon the seas. In reference to Nelson’s character as an officer, Mr. Southey says, “Never was any commander more beloved. He governed men by their reason and their affections: they knew that he was incapable of caprice or tyranny; and they obeyed him with alacrity and joy; because he possessed their confidence as well as their love. ‘Our Nel,’ they used to say, ‘is as brave as a lion, and as gentle as a lamb.’ Severe discipline he detested, though he had been bred in a severe school; he never inflicted corporal punishment, if it were possible to avoid it; and when compelled to enforce it, he who was familiar with wounds and death suffered like a woman. In his whole life Nelson was never known to act unkindly towards an officer. If he was asked to prosecute one for ill-behaviour, he used to answer: ‘That there was no occasion for him to ruin a poor devil, who was sufficiently his own enemy to ruin himself.’ ... To his midshipmen he ever showed the most winning kindness, encouraging the diffident, tempering the hasty, counselling and befriending both.”
It is to be lamented that the private character of this gallant officer was in his later years, deeply stained by an infatuated attachment, which not only separated him from his wife, who ill deserved this desertion, but also hurried him on one occasion, in order to gratify the profligate and heartless woman who had obtained so unfortunate an ascendancy over him, into the perpetration of an act, as foreign, we may safely say, to his real nature, as it was opposed to humanity and to justice.
[Illustration: Horatio Lord Nelson.]
October 3.--The birth-day of Dr. John Tillotson, one of the most eminent of the English prelates. He was the son of Robert Tillotson, a clothier of Sowerby, near Halifax, in Yorkshire, and here he was born in 1630. His father, who was a rigid presbyterian, educated him in his own principles. After having studied for some years at Clare Hall in the University of Cambridge, young Tillotson became tutor in the family of Prideaux, Cromwell’s Attorney-General. He had also taken orders as a preacher among the Presbyterians; but, on the passing of the Act of Uniformity soon after the King’s return, he submitted, and was presented to the rectory of Cheshunt in Hertfordshire. Although, however, he had thus conformed to the Established Church, he attached himself to that party in it which was most favourably disposed to the communion he had left; not perhaps the most common course with those who pass over from one denomination, whether religious or political, to another. In 1664 he married Miss French, daughter of Dr. French, Canon of Christ Church, and of Robina, the sister of Oliver Cromwell. He had already obtained great distinction as a pulpit-orator, and had been chosen to the honourable office of preacher to the society of Lincoln’s Inn, from which so many eminent men have stepped to the highest preferments in the church. Soon after he was also made Dean of Canterbury and one of the Prebendaries of St. Paul’s. It was while he was residing at his deanery in 1677 that the incident occurred which first introduced him to the Prince of Orange. About the end of that year the Prince arrived in Canterbury from London, accompanied by his wife the Princess Mary, to whom he had just been united, and whom he was conducting to Holland. They had been hurried from London (in order to withdraw them from the entertainments and other marks of respect which the public enthusiasm was eager to bestow upon them) in such haste, that when they reached Canterbury they found themselves so scantily supplied with money that they were obliged to apply for a loan to the corporation. After deliberating upon the matter, however, that body declined advancing the required sum. In this emergency, Dr. Tillotson hastily collected all the plate as well as cash which he possessed or could borrow from his friends, and making his way with it to the Prince’s attendant, Mr. Bentinck, (afterwards Duke of Portland,) requested that he would accept of it for the service of his master. The Prince was extremely gratified by this proof of attachment, and Dr. Tillotson was immediately introduced to their Highnesses. On the Revolution, King William appointed him his Clerk of the Closet, and soon after allowed him to exchange the deanery of Canterbury for that of St. Paul’s. On the deposition of Archbishop Sancroft in 1691 for refusing to take the oaths of allegiance to the new sovereign, Tillotson was reluctantly prevailed upon to accept the See of Canterbury. His elevation, in the peculiar circumstances in which it took place, exposed him to a great deal of bitter obloquy from the high-church party, the virulence of whose animosity was not diminished by the liberality and toleration of his demeanour in his high office, and the desire he manifested rather to conciliate the adversaries of the establishment by the removal of all unnecessary barriers of separation, than to retain what occasioned their conscientious opposition for the mere sake of abiding by whatever had once been adopted, and attempting to preserve a formal and useless consistency. He was carried off by an attack of paralysis after an illness of five days, on the 24th of November, 1694, having held the primacy only about three years, during which short space, however, he had become completely wearied and disgusted with its cares and troubles. Archbishop Tillotson’s Sermons, commonly printed in three volumes folio, or in ten volumes octavo, are still perhaps more popular and more generally read than those of any other of our old theological writers, except perhaps Dr. South, &c. They are written rather in an easy than in a very polished style, and have no pretensions to eloquence of the highest sort; but they are marked by a manly character both of expression and of thought, and by very considerable powers of argument and persuasion. The author, as has been already noticed, was one of the most favourite preachers of his day.
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⁂ By the accidental substitution of one cut for another, we gave, in No. 28, a view described as the “Remains of the Parthenon,” which is really a representation of the Temple of Apollo Epicurius, near Phygalia, and which was intended to accompany an account of the Phygalian Marbles in the British Museum. We shall add a view of the Parthenon to the next article on the Elgin Marbles.
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⁂ The Office of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge is at 59, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
LONDON:--CHARLES KNIGHT, PALL-MALL EAST.
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