Of his mother we have no means of forming a judgment, and suspect that her character was not particularly marked. It is his father to whom Michael himself, and the friends that knew him, chiefly refer in connection with his early studies and pursuits. Some indeed have intimated that the stern orthodoxy of the old man was called into requisition to repress the youthful aspirings of his son, particularly in the matter of books, but of this not the slightest evidence can be adduced.

He succeeded in procuring copies of Shakspeare, Pope, Milton, Fontenelle and Young, all of which he devoured with avidity and delight. The Scriptures he read at home and at school, and thus became familiar with the magnificent images and thrilling conceptions of oriental inspiration.

Michael was a great favorite at school, and made rapid progress in his studies. But he was frequently called away from school, partly by sickness, to which he was subject at an early age, and partly by his fathers straitened circ.u.mstances. On this latter account he was employed for a time as a shepherd, on the Lomond hills, which rise in verdant beauty behind his native village. This, however, was rather a benefit than an injury to his mind as well as body. His poem of "Lochleven" is made up of reminiscences of the romantic scenes with which at that time he became familiar:--

"Where he could trace the cowslip-covered bank Of Leven, and the landscape measure round."

"The late proprietor of the upper Kinneston, a small estate upon the south-west declivity of the Lomond hills, used to relate with much feeling, the amusing stories told him, and the strange questions put to him by Michael when herding his father's cattle, and how he would offer his services to carry the boys' meals to the hill, for the sake of having half an hour's conversation with this interesting youth."[158]

While his progress in learning was much interrupted in this way, his mind was advancing, nevertheless, by communion with nature and his own individual heart. Besides, his frequent absence from school was compensated by the prosecution of his studies on the hillside, or by his father's ingle, so that when he returned to school, it took him but a few days to reach the top of his cla.s.s. Though modest, and even shy, he had great influence with his school-fellows. Somehow they regarded him as a sort of superior being, and his word among them was law. This, doubtless, arose from the originality of his character, which developed itself at a very early age.

[Footnote 158: Memoir of Bruce, by Dr. Mackelvie, to which I am chiefly indebted for the facts of which the accompanying sketch is composed.]

"Silent when glad, affectionate though shy, And now his look was most demurely sad, And now he laughed aloud, and none knew why, And neighbors stared and sighed, and bless'd the lad; Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad."

BEATTIE'S MINSTREL.

The same deference, it is said, was paid him at home. Indeed, he was the pet of the family, and all vied to make Michael comfortable and happy, a homage to genius and worth infinitely more precious than the plaudits of the world.

While attending school, he formed some interesting friendships, particularly with William Arnot, a peculiarly amiable young man, who died in early life, and to whom Bruce makes a touching reference in "Lochleven." Through the son he became acquainted with the father, a wise and liberal man, who greatly a.s.sisted Michael in his studies, and gave him the free use of his library. It is to him the following description refers.

"How blest the man, who, in these peaceful plains, Ploughs his paternal field; far from the noise, The care and bustle of a busy world!

All in the sacred, sweet, sequestered vale Of solitude, the secret primrose path Of rural life he dwells; and with him dwells Peace and content, twins of the sylvan shade, And all the graces of the golden age.

Such is Agricola, the wise, the good; By nature formed for the calm retreat, The silent path of life. Learned, but not fraught With self-importance, as the starched fool Who challenges respect by solemn face, By studied accent, and high-sounding phrase, Enamored of the shade, but not morose, Politeness, raised in courts by frigid rules With him spontaneous grows. Not books alone, But man his study, and the better part; To tread the ways of virtue, and to act The various scenes of life with G.o.d's applause.

Deep in the bottom of the flowery vale, With blooming sallows, and the leafy twine Of verdant alders fenced, his dwelling stands Complete in rural elegance. The door By which the poor or pilgrim never pa.s.sed Still open, speaks the master's bounteous heart.

Then, O how sweet! amid the fragrant shrubs, At evening cool to sit; while, on their boughs The nested songsters twitter o'er their young; And the hoa.r.s.e low of folded cattle breaks The silence, wafted o'er the sleeping lakes, Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge Of western cloud; while converse sweet deceives The stealing foot of time!"

He found an opportunity of acquiring the Latin language and preparing for college, with a Mr. Dun, who, for the sake of his son, formed a cla.s.s of boys, of which Michael was decidedly the best scholar, as all acknowledged.

But he was of a slender make, and gave early indications of pulmonary consumption. In his personal appearance he is said to have resembled Sh.e.l.ley; having yellowish curling hair, a long neck and narrow chest, skin white and shining, and his cheeks "tinged with red rather than ruddy." He was "early smitten with the love of song," and began occasionally to write verses. Possessed of a fine musical ear, he was impatient to get hold of all sorts of old ballads and songs; and while the other children of the village or school were amusing themselves with play, or spending their money on trash, he was poring with delighted eyes over "Chevy Chase," or "The Flowers of the Forest." When he had made himself familiar with the music and sentiments of these ballads, he would endeavor "to supply his lack of novelty with verses of his own."

It is in this way, probably, that his fine ballad of "Sir James the Ross," and some of his pastorals originated.

After he had left school, and saw no way of pursuing his studies, a relative left him the sum of two hundred merks Scots, about sixty dollars, when it was resolved forthwith that Michael should repair to Edinburgh University. Mr. Arnot encouraged him in this enterprise, and promised some a.s.sistance, in the shape of provisions and so forth.

Accordingly he set out for the metropolis, and entered college. But he was often subjected to severe privations. Some of his fellow students who suspected his poverty were willing to share their meals with him, but he could not bear the thought of being fed out of pity, and whenever he imagined the invitation to proceed from this feeling he uniformly declined it. He was high-spirited; and yet he was truly pious. Indeed, he had devoted himself to Heaven in his boyhood, and never swerved from the high principles of Christian integrity.

At college Bruce became acquainted with several young men who subsequently acquired distinction. Dr. Lawson and the Rev. John Logan were his fellow students and warmly attached friends. His relations with Logan subsequently became involved, much to the discredit of the latter, who is suspected of having dealt ungenerously with his friend's poems, which, after the death of Bruce, were committed to his care. He is charged particularly with purloining the "Ode to the Cuckoo," and publishing it as his own. Logan was a singular man--an orator of a high order, an accomplished scholar, and an elegant poet. Some of his poems, particularly his "Visit to the Country in Autumn," "The Braes of Yarrow," "The Lament of Nature," and other odes and hymns, are beautiful and finished productions. Some of his discourses, preached at Leith, though not profound, are eloquent and effective. But he was imperfectly imbued with the high principles which he endeavored to recommend to others, and he has greatly tarnished his fair fame by the use which he is supposed to have made of the labors of Bruce. It is probable, however, that the "Ode to the Cuckoo" was only drafted by Bruce, and subsequently polished into its present state of perfection by the cla.s.sic pen of Logan.

The companion to whom, of all others, Bruce became the most attached at college, was Mr. William Dryburgh, from Dysart. Like Bruce, he was possessed of piety and genius, and like him, too, suffered from pulmonary disease, and died in early life. Both had a presentiment that they were destined to a premature grave. And this, with their bright hope of a blessed immortality, was the frequent subject of their conversations. Dryburgh died in his eighteenth year, and Bruce followed him in less than a year after. How keenly he felt this separation may be gathered from the following letter to a friend, written on receiving the intelligence of Dryburgh's death:--

"I have not many friends, but I love them well. Death has been among the few I have. Poor Dryburgh!--but he is happy. I expected to have been his companion through life, and that we should have stepped into the grave together; but Heaven has seen meet to dispose of him otherwise. What think you of this world? I think it very little worth. You and I have not a great deal to make us fond of it; and yet I would not exchange my condition with any unfeeling fool in the universe, if I were to have his dull hard heart into the bargain. Farewell, my rival in immortal hope!

My companion, I trust, for eternity! Though far distant, I take thee to my heart; souls suffer no separation from the obstruction of matter, or distance of place. Oceans may roll between us, and climates interpose in vain--the whole material creation is no bar to the winged mind.

Farewell! through boundless ages, fare thee well! May'st thou shine when the sun is darkened. May'st thou live and triumph when time expires! It is at least possible that we meet no more in this foreign land, in this gloomy apartment of the universe of G.o.d. But there is a better world in which we may meet to part no more. Adieu."

But the grief of a true poet embodies itself in verse. The following lines, on the death of Dryburgh, were found among Bruce's papers.

Alas! we fondly thought that heaven designed His bright example mankind to improve; All they should be was pictured in his mind, His thoughts were virtue, and his heart was love.

Calm as the summer sun's unruffled face, He looked unmoved on life's precarious game, And smiled at mortals toiling in the chase Of empty phantoms, opulence and fame.

Steady he followed virtue's onward path, Inflexible to error's devious way, And firm at last, in hope and fixed faith Through death's dark vale he trod without dismay.

Whence then these sighs? And whence this falling tear In sad remembrance of his merit just?

Still must I mourn! for he to me was dear And still is dear, though buried in the dust.

Bruce's father made great efforts, by means of saving and borrowing, to a.s.sist his son during his college course, and Mr. Arnot continued to send him occasional supplies from his farm and dairy. But he was sadly straitened in the matter of books. The following letter upon this subject is characteristic and striking.

"Edinburgh, Nov. 27, 1764.--I daily meet with proofs that money is a necessary evil. When in an auction, I often say to myself, how happy should I be if I had money to purchase such a book! How well should my library be furnished, 'nisi obstat res angusta domi,'

'My lot forbids, nor circ.u.mscribes alone My growing virtues, but my crimes confines.'

Whether any virtues would have accompanied me in a more elevated station is uncertain, but that a number of vices of which my sphere is incapable, would have been its attendants, is unquestionable. The Supreme Wisdom has seen this meet, and the Supreme Wisdom cannot err."

The annual session in the colleges of Scotland lasts only from six to eight months, and thus leaves considerable time for relaxation and private study, or for other occupations necessary to recruit the students' exhausted finances. At the end of each of these terms, Michael returned home, much exhausted by his application to study. His system, however, soon recovered its wonted energy in the congenial scenes of his boyhood, and the kind attentions of the proprietor of Portmoak. Still he was seldom in perfect health, and often complained of headache and depression of spirits. Most of his time during the summer months, the season of vacation, was spent either in reading or in writing poetry.

During his last session at College, Michael accepted a proposal to teach a small school at Gairney Bridge, which lies on a small stream running into Lochleven. He finished his collegiate studies honorably, having distinguished himself chiefly in _rhetoric_ and _belles lettres_. At Gairney Bridge he had some thirty or forty pupils under his care, whom he governed entirely without the rod, then pretty thoroughly used in Scotland. But the compensation was a mere trifle, not exceeding more than sixty or seventy dollars a year.

It was in this place that he wrote several of his poems, and became deeply attached to a beautiful young woman in the neighborhood, to whom, however, he never declared his pa.s.sion.

About this time he joined the church in Kinross, under the pastoral care of the Rev. Mr. Swanston, recently appointed professor of Theology in the United Secession Church. This learned and amiable man conceived a strong attachment for Michael, and ever treated him with the greatest consideration and kindness. Subsequently he engaged to teach a school at Forest Mill, a dreary sort of place, with miserable school accommodations. His health too, was declining. While fording the Devon on horseback, the horse stumbled and immersed him in the stream, a circ.u.mstance which greatly aggravated his consumptive tendency. Moreover he was disappointed in his school, and his health and spirits rapidly declined. In a letter to Mr. Arnot, he says, "I expected to be happy here, but I am not. The easiest part of my life is past. I sometimes compare my condition with that of others, and imagine if I was in theirs it would be well. But is not everybody thus! Perhaps he whom I envy thinks he would be glad to change with me, and yet neither would be better for the change. Since it is so, let us, my friend, moderate our hopes and fears, resign ourselves to the will of Him who doeth all things well, and who hath a.s.sured us that he careth for us.

'Si res sola potest facere et servare beatum Hoc primus repetas opus, hoc postremus omittas.'

"Things are not very well in the world, but they are pretty well. They might have been worse, and such as they are may please us who have but a few short days to use them. This scene of affairs, though a very perplexed, is a very short one, and in a little while all will be cleared up. Let us endeavor to please G.o.d, our fellow creatures and ourselves. In such a course of life we shall be as happy as we can expect in such a world as this. Thus you, who cultivate your farm with your own hands, and I who teach a dozen blockheads for bread, may be happier than he, who having more than he can use, tortures his brain to invent some new methods of killing himself with the superfluity." In this letter, worthy of Cowper or of Foster, we see a brave spirit struggling with the direst misfortunes, poverty and disease, and overcoming both by the silent might of a believing spirit.

Another thing which greatly afflicted Bruce at Forest Mill, was the total want of agreeable scenery, and it was only by an effort of memory and imagination that he could, in some measure make up this deficiency, by recalling the delightful scenery of his early home. To this combination of unfavorable circ.u.mstances he touchingly refers in the poem of Lochleven, which was actually produced under their influence, as a means of relaxation and enjoyment.

"Thus sang the youth amid unfertile wilds, And nameless deserts, unpoetic ground!

Far from his friends he strayed, recording thus The dear remembrance of his native fields, To cheer the tedious night, while slow disease Preyed on his pining vitals, and the blasts Of dark December shook his humble cot."

"Lochleven" is his longest, and in most respects, his most beautiful poem. It has defects, obvious enough to a critical eye, but its general excellence strikes every reader. Its descriptions and delineations are natural and striking, its imagery is simple and poetical, and its measure sweet and melodious. Nearly the whole of it has been "used up,"

in beautiful extracts by different writers of distinction.

But the composition of this poem seems to have been too much for Bruce's shattered frame; for he was compelled almost immediately to relinquish his school. He had just strength to walk home to Kinnesswood, a distance of nearly twenty miles, resting only a short time at Turf-hills on the way. Though nowhere on earth could he be happier than in the humble cottage of his parents, it was yet the worst place in the world for his disease. "The vapors rising from the lake," says his biographer, "particularly in spring, keep the atmosphere constantly in a state of moisture, whilst in the mornings and evenings the eastern haars, as the fogs which come up from the sea are called by the inhabitants, come rolling down the hills, and hang suspended over Kinnesswood like a dripping curtain."

He had expected, in the quiet of his father's home and in the vicinity of his dear Lochleven, a restoration of health; but in this hope he was disappointed. The mark of death was upon him. The heart of the beauteous tree was poisoned by disease, and all its leaves faded and fell to the ground. It was under the consciousness of this fact, that he wrote his beautiful and affecting "Ode to Spring," which he sent to a dear friend to apprise him of his approaching dissolution. The following are its concluding stanzas.

Now spring returns: but not to me returns The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast, life's dying taper burns, And all the joys of life with health are flown.

Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, And count the silent moments as they pa.s.s:

The winged moments, whose unstaying speed No art can stop, or in their course arrest; Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, And lay me down in peace with them at rest.

Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate; And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true; Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate, And bid the realms of light and life adieu.

I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo; I see the muddy wave, the dreary sh.o.r.e, The sluggish streams that slowly sleep below, Which mortals visit, and return no more.

Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!

Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigns, And the rank gra.s.s waves o'er the cheerless ground.