received all that could die of Alexander Smith. To the readers of this periodical, so often enriched by his musings, it cannot be uninteresting to receive some short account of his life and works, and some attempt to describe what kind of man he was, apart from his writings. of no vulgar rank. Portions of the "Life Drama" made their appearance, through his mediation, in the Critic, then a weekly literary journal of some mark. So far, the world and Smith were truly indebted to Mr. Gilfillan. But the poetry was accompanied by so much eulogistic comment, and such a superabundance of italics, not always discreetly used, as to lessen rather than increase the He was a native of Ayrshire, that birthplace of many poets, and was born at Kilmarnock on the last day of 1829. He was the first-born of highly re-impression of its real power and beauty. Of both, spectable parents, from whom he inherited his gentle feelings and good sense. His father was a pattern drawer his mother's maiden name was Murray. Both survive him. While he was still a child they removed to Paisley, and thence, after a few years, to Glasgow. Alexander having given early indications of talent was, as usually happens in such cases in Scotland, intended for the ministry. A severe illness combined with some change in his own inclinatious to alter that purpose, and he adopted, instead, the occupation of his father, in which he showed considerable skill and taste. Meantime, his education had not been neglected. It is common to speak of such men, who have not had the advantage of a University training, as more or less wonderful samples of self-education, and Smith has in this way been described as self-taught." In the sense in which it is true of every man of any force and originality, he was self-taught. But it would be a great mistake to forget that he had received the benefit of that wise provision which Scotland has for centuries made for the education of her children, Smith's early education embraced good knowledge of English, Arithmetic, and Geography, some History, and the elements of Mathematics and Latin. A youth so furnished, with the capacity and will to carry on his own education by the study of the best works in literature, need not perhaps form any subject of condescending wonder, when it is found that he can write good poetry and prose, and even prove himself in the kingdom of letters the peer of professors and senior wranglers. Smith was not only a great reader, especially of poetry, but he had the advantage in Glasgow of intimate intercourse with men of cultivated literary and poetic powers. Among these were the late Professor Nichol, Mr. James Hedderwick, and Mr. Hugh Macdonald. there was in the poem no lack: it glittered with fine imagery, and striking passages. Considered as the work of a very young man, it was indeed a wonderful production, and all the critical prejudice against anything recommended by Mr. Gilfillan, was powerless to prevent that fact from being recognised. The young poet had realised Byron's saying, about waking one morning and finding himself famous. For a time he was quite "the rage," his merits were eagerly canvassed in literary circles, and no poetically disposed young gentleman or lady at that date could be met who was not quite at home in the "Life Drama." And no wonder ; for with all its youthful imperfections of want of plot, and iteration, and offences against taste, it overflows with true passion and beauty.1 It would be difficult to name a first work of a modern poet entitled to rank above it. What was more remarkable even than the imaginative felicity, though it drew little attention compared with the individual images that stud the poem like gems, (such as that splendid line describing the Sphynx,— a' The young poet was industrious in his vocation, but the call to higher work was irresistible. While yet in his teens, he felt a mighty ambition stirring him to pour forth his soul in song, and to make the world hear his voice. He was both fortunate and unfortunate in his introduction to public notice. Mr. Gilfillan was then at the height of his fame as a discoverer and encourager of poetic genius. However faint its dawning, he hailed it with delight, and lost no time in proclaiming it to the world. He made mistakes, and fell into much exaggera. tion. But in the case of Smith he made at least no mistake in proclaiming to the world, with all possible emphasis, that here, singing amid the smoke and roar of Glasgow, was a genuine poet, and one Staring right on with calm eternal eyes,") was the intellectual pith and the subtlety of moral The "Life Drama” was published by Bogue, in 1852, and has now gone through ten "editions. Appended to it were some shorter poems, including J several sonnets, some of which will always rank among the most perfect in our language. Here is one of them,na "Beauty still walketh on the earth and air? 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old. So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending Within old starry-gated Poesy, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet Friend! Oh, dearer this to me ני About this time Smith paid a short visit to England, visiting London and Cambridge, and returning home, in company with a friend, through the Lake country, where he spent a day or two in the society of Miss Martineau, at Ambleside. Except another short visit to London some time after his marriage, this was the whole extent of his travels out of Scotland. And yet he describes English scenery with as much zest and fidelity as a native. He did so in the "Life Drama," before he had ever been out of Scotland. On his return home he resumed his former occupation, with no prospect beyond the bustle and din of Glasgow life, In 1854 the office of Secretary to the University of Edinburgh became vacant, and it occurred to some people interested in his career that the situation was one which might very fitly be bestowed on a young man of acknowledged genius, and in other respects perfectly qualified. There were a good many candidates, but Smith was elected by a considerable majority of the Town Council, who had the patronage. The Lord Provost, Mr. Maclaren, distinctly avowed, on the part of his supporters, their desire to use this opportunity for recognising genius, and acquitting their country so far from the blame of doing honour only to the dead. The salary attached to the office was only 150, but that was a desirable income for a young man of letters, and the duties at that time were light. They were afterwards much increased, without, however, any addition to the salary, the funds of the University being unfortunately in a very low condition. Some years afterwards, Smith was appointed Registrar to the University Council, for which he received 401. a year; and as Secretary to that body he received 101. a year. He had done the work of the latter office for five years before the fact became known that he had worked for nothing. His total official income was thus latterly 2004 For that money he gave good value in work. There were occasions when the preparation of University lists and accounts demanded extra time in his own house, and that was cheerfully given. At other times the actual labour was com paratively light, but the office was always attended with a good deal of worry. There were scarcely five minutes of the day, from 10 to 4, when the Secretary was not liable to be burst in upon by students and others, with all sorts of questions, relevant and irrelevant, to ask, sometimes about things quite beyond his duty or his power to answer. Nevertheless, though painfully alive to such annoyance, and sometimes laden with duties which he was not strictly bound to perform, he was always obliging, cheerful, and alert; never disposed to complain, or to regard himself as a martyr --he was much too magnanimous for that. As for composition, it was out of the question during office hours. No man, in fact, could have more heartily and conscientiously devoted himself to his work, of which the state of the books and accounts at the time when he was obliged to lay them aside afforded the strongest evidence. 1. This attention to duty was one of his noblest characteristics. Though largely endowed with the poetic sensitiveness and imagination, he was as careful, honest, and industrious, in the discharge of whatever task-work he had to do, as the most prosaic of men could be. Considering the brilliance of his literary avatar, and the flattering testimonies that greeted his reception into the high circle of poets, his unaffected humility was not less rare and beautiful. All the peans of his admirers had no effect whatever in disturbing the serene balance of his nature, resting as it did on a solid basis of common sense. No ambitious dreams ever shook his faith in honest work, as the lot of every man, poet or clown, and the ultimate test of his worth. In this respect his life and character are full of instruction to young literary aspirants, especially those who believe themselves poets, with a special mission to sing, and that only. They give the most emphatic contradiction also to the opinion, commonly enough entertained, that the children of genius are essentially wayward, unpractical, and self-indulgent. No man could deny genius to Smith. As a writer he was truly "of imagination all compact." He could hardly write a page of prose on the most common theme without some flashes of imagination, some out going of his intense love of beauty, and his sympathy with man and nature. But this man of genius was one of the quietest, most unassuming men that could be met in any company; most diligent and dutiful; slow to give or take offence; most tolerant of criticism, even when conscious that it was wrong; most gentle and charitable in his judgments about others. One might truly apply to him his favourite Chaucer's beautiful character of the knight : "And though that he was worthy, he was wise, And of his port as meke as is a mayde. He never yet no vilanie ne sayde In alle his life, unto no manere wight, He was a veray parfit gentil knight," In Edinburgh he soon became the centre of a warmly-attached circle of friends, chiefly men connected with literature and art. Most of them were associated in a small society, called the "Raleigh Club," which for a few years held weekly meetings for the purpose of social conversation and criticism. Short papers generally, but not invariably, formed the starting point of the evening's talk. To those who frequented these little gatherings, the memory of them is most pleasant, and most pleasantly of all rises to recollection the frank and genial aspect of Alexander Smith, the Secretary of the club, and the man whom all the members loved most. That winter another distinguished young poet, Sydney Dobell, took up his residence for some time in Edinburgh, and with him Smith was naturally much associated. In the following year, 1855, they produced an interesting joint work, consisting of a collection of songs and sonnets on topics connected with the Crimean war. At the same time Smith began to contribute in prose to various periodicals, and exhibited in that form of composition so much power and felicity as led many of his critics to favour him with the opinion that therein lay his strength, and that he should thenceforth devote himself to prose rather thau verse. But though ever open to good advice, and perfectly alive to his own weaknesses, Smith could no more abandon poetry than the lark cease to soar and sing. To use his own words, "He was one That could not help it-for it was his nature He was too sensible, however, to despise the warnings that had been addressed to him, on the necessity of tuning his lyre to a more subdued key, and devoting greater pains to the shaping of his themes, the perfection of his versification, and his choice of words. No critic, in fact, was so intensely conscious of that necessity as he was himself; for as his mind grew, his sense of his distance from the ideal at which he aimed grew with it. But his next publication clearly showed the effects of increased discipline and improved taste. This was the "City Poems," published by Macmillan in 1857. While quite equal to the "Life Drama" in the expression of passion and imaginative description, this volume indicates a great advance both in thinking and in artistic power. In each of the pieces there is a distinct and well-wrought-out purpose; and the expression, always musical, is never bombastic or forced. Some of these poems rise to a very high standard. Tried by any test of poetry received among critics, that on Glasgow is probably the finest poem on a city that has ever been written. It may be compared among works of art to such a picture as Turner's "Carthage.' But with the morning light, Again to faint in night. Wave am I in that sea of woes, Which, night and morning, ebbs and flows." The effect produced on the mind by this poem, as investing the great busy city with a kind of high and mysterious individuality; the intimate and solemn relations of the poet to it; the vivid picturing of its most striking aspects by day and night; the exquisite and longing appreciation of the charms of rural nature, combined with the sense of the deeper interest and pathos that lies in the heart of that populous home of human life—all these things combine to give this poem a wonderful charm, and a high place among works of ima gination. If cities were in the habit of erecting monuments to the men who have best celebrated them in song, Alexander Smith should not want his memorial in Glasgow. Another lyrical effusion in this volume, the verses to "Barbara," in the poem called "Horton," claims special notice, as one of the most sweet and moving strains in our language. It is difficult to select from it; but the last two verses may be given here: "Yet, love, I am unblest; With many doubts oppressed, I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more than all lore Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper In vain, in vain, in vain, rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded tree, sea, There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and Has the reader felt it necessary to pause at that! unspeakably sad close? I know no other that so compels silence. For some time after this he was engaged on an historical poem, selecting his theme in early English history. The result appeared in "Edwin of Deira," published in 1861 by Macmillan. Unfortunately for its popularity, it was immediately preceded by the How nobly it opens after the verse quoted above: "Idylls of the King," which led many to suppose that the choice of subject had been suggested by that work. This was not the case, however, Smith having chosen his subject and worked at it for at least two years before he heard of the Laureate's forthcoming work. The tidings greatly disheartened him, for he knew well what the result would be, imitation of Tennyson having been one of the stock-complaints brought against him from the be ginning. But though "Edwin of Deira" never attained the popularity of Smith's previous poems, it was recognised by all competent critics as a work in advance of them in constructive power, and entitled to rank among the best poetical productions of this generation. The character of Bertha in it is very beautifully conceived. She is worthy, as a good critic has remarked, "to claim a niche between Miranda and Hermione." In the spring of 1858 the poet married Miss Flora Macdonald, eldest daughter of Mr. Macdonald of Ord, in Skye, and soon after he took a house at Wardie, on the sea coast near Edinburgh. There he thenceforth lived, and there he died. The readers of this periodical cannot have forgotten the beautiful verses in which he has commemorated the scenery and associations connected with that pleasant home. It now became necessary for him to increase his income by literary labour. On prose composition, therefore, he was obliged to concentrate his powers, poetry not being always a paying article, even in the case of popular poets. The whole pecuniary benefit he derived from "Edwin of Deira," to compensate the labour of four years, was 15. 58. 3d. For his prose articles he found a ready market; latterly, indeed, he was rather oppressed by the calls made upon his power of production. He contributed at one time or other to Blackwood, Macmillan, The North British Review, The Museum, The West of Scotland Magazine, Good Words, The Argosy, and The Quiver. To Good Words his contributions were most frequent, both in prose and verse. He wrote several biographies for the last edition of The Encyclopædia Britannica, and for Mackenzie's Biographical Dictionary, and a large number of articles for Chambers's Encyclopædia. He also contributed more or less regularly to several newspapers, including The London Review, The Glangor Citizen, The Courant, and The Caledonian Mercury. In the last-mentioned paper he wrote for two or three years the notices of the Royal Scottish Academy's Exhibition-a branch of criticism for which he was admirably qualified. He knew what was good and bad in art, and he could give the reason why, in language that had the merit of being both intelligible and eloquent,-not a common accomIlishment. His papers were always worth reading, always genial and picturesque, worth any amount di mere connoisseur cant. They were indeed the ly good articles of the kind that have latterly sypeared in Edinburgh. The above list of publications will sufficiently indicate the extent of his literary labours. He was, in fact, never idle if he could help it. Not that he idn't appreciate leisure, and would not gladly have njoyed more of it. But his sense of duty was streng, and he felt the claims on his exertions to be paramount over all considerations of personal enjoy ment. Bearing in mind that his literary work had All to be done in the evening hours, and that a man of his attractive and social disposition could not, However fond of home, avoid some mingling in society, it may easily be imagined how much hard work was gone through in the last seven years of his life. For in addition to all the periodical work, he also produced several books. In 1863 appeared "Dreamthorp," published by Strahan, a collection of Essays, for the most part new. This volume alone would entitle Smith to a place among the best writers of English prose. It was well received; but will probably be more read and admired now that he is dead. Many things seem less weighty and admirable from the lips of a living man, especially a young man, than they do afterwards, when he has joined the immortals, and will speak to us no more. Some of the essays in this volume are worthy of comparison with those of our most classical authors. The "Lark's Flight" might have been owned by De Quincey, and "Dreamthorp," by Washington Irving: but each of them has a character of its own, belonging to the author alone, and constituting that which is called originality. The essay "On Death and Dying" reminds one of Sir Thomas Browne, in the pensive music of the sentences, freighted, for all the triteness of the theme, with true and deep thought. The essay "On the Literary Character" is full of grave and keen reflection, much of it drawn from personal experience, and invested now with a touching interest. The same remark applies to the essay "On the Importance of a Man to himself." Of all his best essays, indeed, it may be said, that they combine the charms of poetry with the advantages of prose. When collected they will take a secure position among the choice works of that class, in virtue alike of the quality of the thought, the beauty of the style, and the unaffected exhibition of the writer's personality. In so far as his own memory is concerned, it can be no matter of regret, but the opposite, that his energies were so much put forth in that form of composition, which brings the reader most directly and closely into sympathy with the author. To justify these remarks, let me quote a passage at hazard from the essay last mentioned: "Nature rolls on in her eternal course, repeating her tale of spring, summer, autumn, winter; but life in man and beast is transitory, and other living creatures take their places. It is quite certain that one or other of the next twenty springs will come unseen by me- -will awake no throb of transport in my veins. But will it be less bright on that account? Will the lamb be saddened in the field? Will the lark be less happy in the air? The sunshine will draw the daisy from the mound under which I sleep, as carelessly as she draws the cowslip from the meadow by the river side. The seasons have no ruth, uo compunction. They care not for our petty lives. The light falls sweetly on graveyards, and on brown labourers among the hay swathes. Were the world depopulated to-morrow, next spring would break pitilessly bright, flowers would bloom, fruit-tree boughs wear pink and white; and although there would be no eye to witness, Summer would not adorn herself with one blossom the less. It is curious to think how important a creature man is to himself. We cannot help thinking that all things exist for our particular selves. ... I think it cruel that the sun should shine and birds sing, and I lying in my grave. People talk of the age of the world! So far as I am concerned, it began with my consciousness, and will end with my decease." In 1865 he produced another original work, "A Summer in Skye," which soon passed into a second edition. There is much at the beginning and end of this book having no connection with Skye; but except for the sake of the artistic symmetry of the work, no reader can regret its being there. To write about Skye was for Smith a labour of love; for the happiest portion of his time, the Sabbath of the year, as he called it, was spent there with his wife and children in the autumn holidays. These seldom extended beyond a month, and in that month in Skye there must have been many rainy days. But to that month the tired poet looked forward every summer with intensest longing, and when it was over, the retrospect was full of charm. That island, with its grand misty peaks, its far-stretching lochs, its old traditions and superstitions, its still surviving vestiges of an ancient and picturesque life, completely entered into his "study of imagination;" and the "wonderful mountain of Blaavin," with his great shoulders mantled in mist, or glistening in sunshine, became as familiar to his mental vision as the countenance of a friend. His book on Skye is a vivid reproduction of his experiences and observations there, modified, necessarily, in some things by the hues of imagination. It has already taken its place as a poetical guidebook for Skye, though the descriptions embrace but a portion of the scenery of that remarkable island. In the same year he produced a new edition of Burns for Macmillan, with a memoir, and a glossary, on which he bestowed immense pains. This edition of Burns will always be a favourite one, for its neatness and accuracy; and difficult as it was, after Lockhart, and Wilson, and Carlyle, to write a life of Burns with any pretensions to new interest, the simple sad story is told by Smith with a tender truthfulness and grace that leave nothing to be desired." In that year also he made his first essay in fiction, in the pages of this periodical. Even to some of Smith's intimate friends the story of "Alfred Hagart's Household" was a surprise, showing, as it did, a hitherto undeveloped power. Out of very simple elements, and somewhat hackneyed materials, he had woven an exquisite and pathetic tale. The quietness and simplicity of it have probably misled some readers into thinking less of it than it deserves, especially at a time when hardly any story is reckoned complete without a fair seasoning of mystery and crime. The art of this tale is of a higher order, and differs from the violent kind as a landscape of Linnell from the "Last Judgment of Martin. The reader who can pause before he The gets to the end of the first volume of "Alfred Hagart" must be a very phlegmatic one; if his heart is not moved as he reads, and his best sympathies roused, it must be because he has none, character of Miss Kate Macquarrie is entitled to rank among original creations as truly as any of Mr. Dickens. The latter part is not so good as the first, having been composed under, disadvantages, when the writer was much fagged and out of sorts, needing repose in fact, which the exigencies of publication did not allow. But taken as a whole, the story is a charming one, and it gave distinct proof that, with longer life, and leisure, its author had the possibility in him of still higher things. WATUS That, however, was not to be. The illness which temporarily incapacitated him in 1865, accompanied with giddiness, and other symptoms of an unstrung and over-wrought system, left its effects in the succeeding year; for his autumn rest was broken by the demand for "copy," and he had to face the winter unrecruited. At the close of the summer he felt much exhausted. He took his holiday with his family, not in Skye, but in a pleasant place in the neighbourhood of Dingwall. On his return to town he looked well, and seemed to be quite strong again. But it was only in appearance, He did not feel well, and had a somewhat depressed air, as if burdened by the impending shadow of calamity. Shortly after the opening of the University Session in November, the fatiguing work incident to the season began to tell on him, and he went home daily, dull and jaded. At length on the 20th of November, a notice appeared on the door of his office, stating that the Secretary was unwell, and would be absent for a few days. He had taken to his bed, and from it never rose, save to be carried to an upper room for change of air. His illness proved to be gastric fever, complicated soon after with a severe attack of diphtheria. The latter was overcome, and in about three weeks he had so far recovered that the most sanguine hopes were entertained by his friends. In the course of another week, however, a relapse took place, and after various alternations of progress and decline, the disease assumed a typhoid form. During his illness he was assiduously attended by the family physician, Dr. Malcolm; latterly Dr. Christison was called in as consulting physician. Nothing was wanting that the most tender care and the highest skill could do; but in vain. He was never a talkative man, and during his illness he spoke little. He had intervals of delirium, in which his thoughts went back to the College, and the work that had to be done; but for the most part he was calm and quiet. Expressions of tender solicitude for his family were heard by the watcher in his silent room. The day and evening before his death he was thought to be wonderfully better, and the hopes of his friends began to revive. It was but the flicker of the expiring flame. Towards morning a change came, and in the dawning light of the 5th of January, his gentle spirit passed serenely away. Five days be |