Chapter XXXII
Richard Heber in Edinburgh—Friendship with Scott—‘Discovers’ John Leyden—Leyden’s Education—His Appearance, Oddities—Love of Country—His Help in Border Minstrelsy—Anecdote told by Scott—Leyden a Man of Genius.
Scenes sung by him who sings no more!
His bright and brief career is o’er,
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quench’d is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour;
A distant and a deadly shore
Has LEYDEN’S cold remains!’
Richard Heber, king of bibliomaniacs, being in Edinburgh in the winter of 1799-1800, was warmly welcomed by the cultured society of the city, and finding in Scott a kindred spirit, was soon drawn ‘into habits of close alliance’ with the young antiquary whom he found at that time so absorbed in a congenial task. Scott was busy in research for his edition of the Border ballads, and Heber was delighted to enter into his plans, assisting him with advice and with free access to the vast stores of rare books which he had already collected. Their pleasant friendship is celebrated in that delicious Christmas piece which introduces the sixth canto of Marmion:—
‘How just that, at this time of glee,
My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee!
For many a merry hour we ‘ve known,
And heard the chimes of midnight’s tone.
Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease,
And leave these classic tomes in peace!
Of Roman and of Grecian lore,
Sure mortal brain can hold no more.
Heber used to prowl about among the old book-shops, wherever he might come upon MSS. or books that might be of use for the Minstrelsy. One day he was searching in the small shop kept by a young bookseller named Archibald Constable, when his attention was attracted ‘by the countenance and gestures of another daily visitant, who came not to purchase, evidently, but to pore over the more recondite articles—often balanced for hours on a ladder with a folio in his hand like Dominie Sampson.’ Some casual talk led Heber to the discovery that his odd-looking acquaintance was ‘a master of legend and traditions—an enthusiastic collector and skilful expounder of these very Border ballads.’ He introduced the young man to Scott, who soon learned that this was the ‘J.L.’ whose verses in the Edinburgh Magazine had often much excited his curiosity, as showing that their author was a native of the Scottish Borders. Thus commenced the friendship between Scott and Leyden, two poets who were at least equal in that intense love of Scotland which is expressed with natural charm in the verses of both.
John Leyden, then twenty-five years of age, was a man who rivalled, in his extraordinary powers of acquiring knowledge, the almost fabulous records of the Admirable Crichton and Pico di Mirandola. The son of a shepherd, he was born at Denholm, a village of Roxburghshire, in 1775. After learning what he could at a small country school and getting some help in Latin from a neighbouring minister, the boy set to work to educate himself, making even then a special study of old Scottish works, such as the rhyming chronicles of Wallace and Bruce, Sir David Lyndsay’s poems, and the ballads of Teviotdale. When he came to Edinburgh University in 1790, it is said he astonished all by his odd manners and speech, and confounded his teachers ‘by the portentous mass of his acquisitions in almost every department of learning.’ ‘He was’—this is Cockburn’s description—‘a wild-looking, thin, Roxburghshire man, with sandy hair, a screech voice, and staring eyes—exactly as he came from his native village of Denholm; and not one of these not very attractive personal qualities would he have exchanged for all the graces of Apollo. By the time I knew him he had made himself one of our social shows, and could and did say whatever he chose. His delight lay in arguments... always conducted on his part in a high shrill voice, with great intensity, and an utter unconsciousness of the amazement, or even the aversion, of strangers. His daily extravagances, especially mixed up, as they always were, with exhibitions of his own ambition and confidence, made him be much laughed at even by his friends. Notwithstanding these ridiculous or offensive habits, he had considerable talent and great excellences. There is no walk in life, depending on ability, where Leyden could not have shone. Unwearying industry was sustained and inspired by burning enthusiasm. Whatever he did, his whole soul was in it. His heart was warm and true. No distance, or interest, or novelty could make him forget an absent friend or his poor relations. His physical energy was as vigorous as his mental; so that it would not be easy to say whether he would have engaged with a new-found eastern manuscript, or in battle, with the more cordial alacrity. His love of Scotland was delightful. It breathes through all his writings and all his proceedings, and imparts to his poetry its most attractive charm. The affection borne him by many distinguished friends, and their deep sorrow for his early extinction, is the best evidence of his talent and worth. Indeed, his premature death was deplored by all who delight to observe the elevation of merit, by its own force and through personal defects, from obscurity to fame. He died in Batavia at the age of thirty-six. Had he been spared, he would have been a star in the East of the first magnitude.’
Leyden’s work on the Border Minstrelsy deserves more than casual notice, and was most warmly and amply acknowledged by Scott. The Dissertation on Fairies, which introduces the second volume, ‘although arranged and digested by the editor, abounds with instances of such curious reading as Leyden only had read, and was originally compiled by him.’ Leyden was equally enthusiastic in collecting the ballads, and was determined from the first to make the collection a big thing—to turn out three or four volumes at least. ‘In this labour,’ says Scott, ‘he was equally interested by friendship for the editor, and by his own patriotic zeal for the honour of the Scottish borders; and both may be judged of from the following circumstance. An interesting fragment had been obtained of an ancient historical ballad; but the remainder, to the great disturbance of the editor and his coadjutor, was not to be recovered. Two days afterwards, while the editor was sitting with some company after dinner, a sound was heard at a distance like that of the whistling of a tempest through the torn rigging of the vessel which scuds before it. The sounds increased as they approached more near; and Leyden (to the great astonishment of such of the guests as did not know him) burst into the room, chanting the desiderated ballad with the most enthusiastic gesture, and all the energy of what he used to call the saw-tones of his voice. It turned out that he had walked between forty and fifty miles and back again, for the sole purpose of visiting an old person who possessed this precious remnant of antiquity.’
Only men of the warm-blooded species could thoroughly appreciate John Leyden. His absurdities had nothing akin to foolishness. They were the inevitable accompaniments of genius operating, Alexander-like, towards what appeared impossible.