The younger of two remarkable brothers, whose names are justly ent.i.tled to remembrance, John Bethune, was born at the Mount, in the parish of Monimail, Fifeshire, during the summer of 1810. The poverty of his parents did not permit his attendance at a public school; he was taught reading by his mother, and writing and arithmetic by his brother Alexander,[26] who was considerably his senior. After some years'

employment as a cow-herd, he was necessitated, in his twelfth year, to break stones on the turnpike-road. At the recommendation of a comrade, he apprenticed himself, early in 1824, to a weaver in a neighbouring village. In his new profession he rapidly acquired dexterity, so that, at the end of one year, he could earn the respectable weekly wages of fifteen shillings. Desirous of a.s.sisting his aged parents, he now purchased a loom and settled as a weaver on his own account, with his elder brother as his apprentice. A period of mercantile embarra.s.sments which followed, severely affecting the manufacturing cla.s.ses, pressed heavily on the subject of this notice; his earnings became reduced to six shillings weekly, and he was obliged to exchange the labours of the shuttle for those of the implements of husbandry. During the period of his apprenticeship, his thoughts had been turned to poetical composition, but it was subsequent to the commercial disasters of 1825 that he began earnestly to direct his attention towards the concerns of literature. Successive periods of bad health unfitting him for continued labour in the fields, were improved by extensive reading and composition. Before he had completed his nineteenth year he had produced upwards of twenty poetical compositions, each of considerable length, and the whole replete with power, both of sentiment and expression. Till considerably afterwards, however, his literary productions were only known to his brother Alexander, or at furthest to his parents. "Up to the latter part of 1835," writes his brother in a biographical sketch, "the whole of his writing had been prosecuted as stealthily as if it had been a crime punishable by law. There being but one apartment in the house, it was his custom to write by the fire, with an old copy-book, upon which his paper lay, resting on his knee, and this, through life, was his only writing-desk. On the table, which was within reach, an old newspaper was kept constantly lying, and as soon as the footsteps of any one were heard approaching the door, copy-book, pens, and ink-stand were thrust under this covering, and before the visitor came in, he had, in general, a book in his hand, and appeared to have been reading."

For a number of years Bethune had wrought as a day-labourer in the grounds of Inchrye, in the vicinity of his birthplace. On the death of the overseer on that property he was appointed his successor, entering on the duties at the term of Martinmas 1835, his brother accompanying him as his a.s.sistant. The appointment yielded 26 yearly, with the right of a cow's pasturage--emoluments which considerably exceeded the average of his previous earnings. To the duties of his new situation he applied himself with his wonted industry, still continuing to dedicate only his evenings and the intervals of toil to literary occupation. But his comparative prosperity was of short duration. During the summer following his appointment at Inchrye the estate changed owners, and the new proprietor dispensed with his services at the next term. In another year the landlord required the little cottage at Lochend, occupied by his parents. Undaunted by these reverses, John Bethune and his brother summoned stout courage; they erected a cottage at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, the walls being mostly reared by their own hands. The future career of Bethune was chiefly occupied in literary composition. He became a contributor to the _Scottish Christian Herald_, _Wilson's Tales of the Borders_, and other serial publications. In 1838 appeared "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," the mutual production of the poet and his brother--a work which, published in Edinburgh, was well received. A work on "Practical Economy," on which the brothers had bestowed much pains, and which had received the favourable opinion of persons of literary eminence, was published in May 1839, but failed to attract general interest. This unhappy result deeply affected the health of the poet, whose const.i.tution had already been much shattered by repeated attacks of illness. He was seized with a complaint which proved the harbinger of pulmonary consumption. He died at Mount Pleasant on the 1st September 1839, in his thirtieth year.

With a more lengthened career, John Bethune would have attained a high reputation, both as an interesting poet and an elegant prose-writer. His genius was versatile and brilliant; of human nature, in all its important aspects, he possessed an intuitive perception, and he was practically familiar with the character and habits of the sons of industry. His tales are touching and simple; his verses lofty and contemplative. In sentiment eminently devotional, his life was a model of genuine piety. His Poems, prefaced by an interesting Memoir, were published by his surviving brother in 1840; and from the profits of a second edition, published in the following year, a monument has been erected over his grave in the churchyard of Abdie.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Alexander Bethune, the elder brother of the poet, and his constant companion and coadjutor in literary work, was born at Upper Rankeillor, in the parish of Monimail, in July 1804. His education was limited to a few months' attendance at a subscription school in his sixth year, with occasional lessons from his parents. Like his younger brother, he followed the occupation of a labourer, frequently working in the quarry or breaking stones on the public road. Early contracting a taste for literature, his leisure hours were devoted to reading and composition.

In 1835, several of his productions appeared in _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_. "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," a volume by the brothers, of which the greater portion was written by Alexander, was published in 1838; their joint-treatise on "Practical Economy" in the year following. In 1843, Alexander published a small volume of tales, ent.i.tled "The Scottish Peasant's Fireside," which was favourably received. During the same year he was offered the editorship of the _Dumfries Standard_ newspaper, with a salary of 100 a-year, but he was unable to accept the appointment from impaired health. He died at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, on the 13th June 1843, and his remains were interred in his brother's grave in Abdie churchyard. An interesting volume of his Memoirs, "embracing Selections from his Correspondence and Literary Memoirs," was published in 1845 by Mr William M'Combie.

WITHER'D FLOWERS.

Adieu! ye wither'd flow'rets!

Your day of glory's past; But your latest smile was loveliest, For we knew it was your last.

No more the sweet aroma Of your golden cups shall rise, To scent the morning's stilly breath, Or gloaming's zephyr-sighs.

Ye were the sweetest offerings Which Friendship could bestow-- A token of devoted love In pleasure or in woe!

Ye graced the head of infancy, By soft affection twined Into a fairy coronal Its sunny brows to bind.

But ah! a dreary blast hath blown Athwart you in your bloom, And, pale and sickly, now your leaves The hues of death a.s.sume.

We mourn your vanish'd loveliness, Ye sweet departed flowers; For ah! the fate which blighted you An emblem is of ours.

And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth, We wither and depart, And leave behind, to mourn our loss, Full many an aching heart; Yet when the winter of the grave Is past, we hope to rise, Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness, To blossom in the skies.

A SPRING SONG.

There is a concert in the trees, There is a concert on the hill, There 's melody in every breeze, And music in the murmuring rill.

The shower is past, the winds are still, The fields are green, the flow'rets spring, The birds, and bees, and beetles fill The air with harmony, and fling The rosied moisture of the leaves In frolic flight from wing to wing, Fretting the spider as he weaves His airy web from bough to bough; In vain the little artist grieves Their joy in his destruction now.

Alas! that, in a scene so fair, The meanest being e'er should feel The gloomy shadow of despair Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal.

But in a world where woe is real, Each rank in life, and every day, Must pain and suffering reveal, And wretched mourners in decay-- When nations smile o'er battles won, When banners wave and streamers play, The lonely mother mourns her son Left lifeless on the b.l.o.o.d.y clay; And the poor widow, all undone, Sees the wild revel with dismay.

Even in the happiest scenes of earth, When swell'd the bridal-song on high, When every voice was tuned to mirth, And joy was shot from eye to eye, I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh; And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair, I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie In beauty with the fairest there, Grown deadly pale, although a smile Was worn above to cloak despair.

Poor maid! it was a hapless wile Of long-conceal'd and hopeless love To hide a heart, which broke the while With pangs no lighter heart could prove.

The joyous spring and summer gay With perfumed gifts together meet, And from the rosy lips of May Breathe music soft and odours sweet; And still my eyes delay my feet To gaze upon the earth and heaven, And hear the happy birds repeat Their anthems to the coming even; Yet is my pleasure incomplete; I grieve to think how few are given To feel the pleasures I possess, While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven, Must pine in utter loneliness, Or be to desperation driven.

Oh! could we find some happy land, Some Eden of the deep blue sea, By gentle breezes only fann'd, Upon whose soil, from sorrow free, Grew only pure felicity!

Who would not brave the stormiest main Within that blissful isle to be, Exempt from sight or sense of pain?

There is a land we cannot see, Whose joys no pen can e'er portray; And yet, so narrow is the road, From it our spirits ever stray-- Shed light upon that path, O G.o.d!

And lead us in the appointed way.

There only joy shall be complete, More high than mortal thoughts can reach, For there the just and good shall meet, Pure in affection, thought, and speech; No jealousy shall make a breach, Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy; There sunny streams of gladness stretch, And there the very air is joy.

There shall the faithful, who relied On faithless love till life would cloy, And those who sorrow'd till they died O'er earthly pain and earthly woe, See Pleasure, like a whelming tide, From an unbounded ocean flow.

ALLAN STEWART.

Allan Stewart, a short-lived poet of no inconsiderable merit, was born in the village of Houston, Renfrewshire, on the 30th January 1812. His father prosecuted the humble vocation of a sawyer. Deprived of his mother in early life, the loss was in some degree repaired by the kind attentions of his maternal aunt, Martha Muir, whose letters on religious subjects have been published. Receiving an ordinary education at school, he followed the trade of a weaver in Paisley. His leisure hours were employed in reading, and in the composition of verses. He died of typhus fever, at Paisley, on the 12th November 1837, in his twenty-sixth year.

His "Poetical Remains" were published in 1838, in a thin duodecimo volume, with a well-written biographical sketch from the pen of his friend, Mr Charles Fleming.

Stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and somewhat melancholy cast. His verses are generally of a superior order; his songs abound in sweetness of expression and elegance of sentiment.

THE SEA-BOY.

AIR--_"The Soldier's Tear."_

The storm grew faint as daylight tinged The lofty billows' crest; And love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed, Danced in the sea-boy's breast.

And perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung To the billows' less'ning roar-- "O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young, I 'll see thee yet once more!"

And O what joy beam'd in his eye, When, o'er the dusky foam, He saw, beneath the northern sky, The hills that mark'd his home!

His heart with double ardour strung, He sung this ditty o'er-- "O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young, I 'll see thee yet once more!"

Now towers and trees rise on his sight, And many a dear-loved spot; And, smiling o'er the blue waves bright, He saw young Ellen's cot.

The scenes on which his memory hung A cheerful aspect wore; He then, with joyous feeling, sung, "I 'll see her yet once more!"

The land they near'd, and on the beach Stood many a female form; But ah! his eye it could not reach His hope in many a storm.

He through the spray impatient sprung, And gain'd the wish'd-for sh.o.r.e; But Ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young, Was gone for evermore!

MENIE LORN.

While beaus and belles parade the streets On summer gloamings gay, And barter'd smiles and borrow'd sweets, And all such vain display; My walks are where the bean-field's breath On evening's breeze is borne, With her, the angel of my heart-- My lovely Menie Lorn.

Love's ambuscades her auburn hair, Love's throne her azure eye, Where peerless charms and virtues rare In blended beauty lie.

The rose is fair at break of day, And sweet the blushing thorn, But sweeter, fairer far than they, The smile of Menie Lorn.