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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #56223 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56223)
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-Project Gutenberg's Oat Meal: The War Winner, by James Ritchie Grieve
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: Oat Meal: The War Winner
-
-Author: James Ritchie Grieve
-
-Release Date: December 22, 2017 [EBook #56223]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OAT MEAL: THE WAR WINNER ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Anne Grieve and the Online Distributed
-Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-produced from images generously made available by The
-Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
-
-
-
-
-
-Transcriber’s Note: This text is reproduced with its original printing
-errors intact, save for minor amendments to punctuation, capitalisation
-and word spacing. The author was prone to misquoting poetry, the
-typesetter was apparently not being paid enough to ensure accuracy, and
-it doesn’t seem a proofreader was asked to participate at all. The best
-laid schemes o’ “mince” and men have indeed gone aft agley.
-
-
-
-
-                                OAT MEAL
-                                  THE
-                               War Winner
-
-                             [Illustration]
-
-                                   BY
-                           J. R. Grieve, M. D.
-                        Acting Assistant Surgeon
-                            U. S. Army, 1865
-
-              Copyright Applied for.      Price Ten Cents.
-
-
-
-
-“OATMEAL”
-
-BEING GLIMPSES AN REMINISENCES OF SCOTLAND AND ITS PEOPLE.
-
-By J. R. Grieve, M.D.
-
-
-
-
-INTRODUCTION.
-
-
-At the present time when every one is being urged to bend every energy
-toward the conservation of food supplies, it is surprising to me that so
-little has been written in behalf of the extraordinary value of oatmeal
-as a diet on which people can live and continue more healthy than on any
-other cereal in the world.
-
-I wish to present =facts=, not =theories=. I wish to tell of what I know
-personally on this subject. I have not consulted any of the laboratories
-of research or taken for granted any data from the many-published
-statistics of individual food sufficiency for sustaining life, but I have
-only taken =facts= and invite my readers to form their own conclusions.
-
-My father was a successful farmer in Perthshire, Scotland, and employed
-quite a number of ploughmen. His men were always big strapping fellows,
-weighing on an average from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and
-seventy pouds and as strong as oxen. None of those men ever saw a
-two-bushel sack of grain because we never had such sacks. What they were
-acquainted with and were accustomed to handle were four-bushel sacks of
-wheat, weighing sixty-four pounds per bushel, barley weighing fifty-six
-pounds per bushel. These sacks they would carry on their back and load
-on their carts and, after being hauled to the city, would again shoulder
-them and carry them up two and sometimes three flights of stairs in the
-warehouses. There were few elevators in those days.
-
-Now what had those men for breakfast that morning? Certainly not
-beefsteak, ham and eggs, toast, or biscuits. No, they had a large bowlful
-of bcrose. Each man takes his large wooden bowl and puts into it three or
-four handfuls of oatmeal, a big pinch of salt, then pours boiling water
-on it, stirs it with the handle of his spoon, adds sweet milk, and eats
-his breakfast. When the noon hour comes he goes through the same process;
-and after the work is finished for the day he generally has a bowl of
-oatmeal parridge.
-
-The whole time occupied is probably ten minutes. Then after smoking a
-pipe for ten minute more he is ready for a day of strenuous work. Each
-man possesses a half-gallon tin bucket, and that is filled at the dairy
-every morning before breakfast with sweet milk, and that lasts him for
-the day. No labor is too hard for those men. They can stand any strain
-put before them and never complain of being hungry. I never heard the
-least complaint of indigeston, and the doctor would have starved to death
-if he had depended on these ploughmen for patients. The allowance of meal
-is seventy pounds every four weeks, and that is all you require to give
-them. Often these men don’t see a piece of meat in months and very seldom
-do they eat wheat bread. Scotland has been called the “Land o’ Cakes”
-from the fact that an excellent cake can be made of oatmeal. The cakes
-are rolled thin and toasted before an open fire until they are quite
-hard. I have eaten oatmeal cakes in Virginia that were baked in Scotland,
-two or three months previously and after being heated through they were
-as crisp as if newly baked.
-
-I grew up amid these surroundings and am familiar with every detail.
-I had my porridge twice a day all through my young life, and the
-development in my individual case was quite satisfactory. I often tell
-people that I was brought up on oatmeal and the New Testament, which is
-true; and I can truthfully testify to the excellency of the combination.
-Another important fact, especially at the present time, is that we never
-though of adding sugar to our oatmeal. Those ploughmen would have as soon
-thought of sprinkling epsom salts on their porridge as sugar. To this
-day nothing gives me such satisfaction at breakfast as a bowl of oatmeal
-and milk. To eat a bountiful supply of oatmeal and suppliment it with
-meat, eggs, etc., is a great mistake. It is too nurtitious and impedes
-digestion. In those days such terms as calorics, protein, carbohydrates
-were never used and need never be used when speaking of oatmeal. I ask
-one question: If oatmeal does tnot contain all the elements of a perfect
-food, how did those ploughmen stand up to their hard work and seldom
-complain of hunger and more seldom need the services of the doctor? It
-regulates the intestinal canal like clock work.
-
-Sweet milk is absolutely necessary to complete the perfect diet. Any
-substitute, whether molasses, butter, or sugar, does harm. There should
-be a generous supply of salt in making porridge and that does away with
-the craving for sugar. I often meet people, doctors included, who declare
-that porridge ought to be cooked for six or eight hours. My only answer
-to that falacy is to point to my brosemen. When Oats go to the mill
-they are put into a kiln and subjected to considerable heat until the
-hull cracks and they are three-fourths cooked, then they are sifted and
-ground either coarse or fine as you wish. We had no flaked oats in those
-days, and I cannot say whether the smashing flat process is an injury or
-betterment to the cereal; but I prefer the coarse-ground oats, as that
-was what the men I refer to were fed. I am only stating facts, as I have
-experienced them, and I stick to my original statement that oatmeal used
-as the Scotish ploughmen use it is satisfactory in every particular as to
-giving nourishment and preserving health.
-
-What a saving of time it makes for the housekeeker—just about half an
-hour for breakfast and supper, few dishes to wash, and no greasy plates
-to encounter. For dinner you may omit the oats and take what you prefer.
-
-In American hotels and boarding houses, also in private homes, oatmeal is
-served in small quantities in small saucers as a side dish. It ought to
-be the =main and only= dish both morning and evening.
-
-Oatmeal has a wonderfully beneficial effect on the morality of men.
-You might spend an evening, as I have many times done, in those men’s
-quarters, and you would not hear a profane word or an objectionable
-sentence from the lips of any one of them. Those men nearly all go to
-Church on Sunday as regularly as they go to work on Monday. They are
-intelligent as a rule and demonstrate by their conversation that their
-diet has nourished the gray matter as well as their muscles.
-
-If oatmeal acted so beneficial fifty years ago on the inhabitants of
-Scotland, it surely is a good argument that it will perform its duty on
-Americans just as well to-day.
-
-Personally it would be immaterial to me if the wheat and sugar crops
-failed entirely, so long as I could have the dear old cereal that
-nourished me to manhood and the good will of a fine Jersey.
-
-While oatmeal sustains the body and keeps it in fine condition, it
-certainly must exercise a powerful influence upon the brain. Sir Walter
-Scott was an oatmeal man. In intellect he was “one of them.” Sir David
-Brewster, the Royal Astranomer, who could scan with more than eagle’s
-eye the mighty creations in the bosom of space, was made mostly of
-oatmeal. Hugh Miller, that huge geological hammer, inscribed with Hebrew
-characters, was an oatmeal man. So was “Bobby” Burns, and the man does
-not live who can say that “Bobby” had no brains.
-
-No argument can be brought to bear against oatmeal. If you believe what
-I say is true, why not put it to the test. I know it is a great problem
-to change the dietitic habits of a community—and much more so to change
-the habits of a nation. There are Scotchmen scattered everywhere, and no
-doubt they and their wives would supervise Oatmeal Clubs to teach the
-people how to make porridge properly and to overcome any prejudice they
-might have as to its use. No doubt it is an acquired taste, but when once
-learned it is for “keeps.”
-
-When I first came to America I did not eat any tomatoes for years. I
-could not endure the taste, but gradually I took to them, and now I
-dearly enjoy them.
-
-Many of my friends, through solicitation and my example, have adopted the
-oatmeal habit, and all of them are delighted with the result and intend
-to make it permanent.
-
-Just imagine what conversation of food it would be if a vast multitude
-enlisted under the oatmeal banner. Meatless, wheatless, and surgarless
-days at least six days in the week for breakfast and supper. For dinner
-and on Sundays I should allow every one who wished to indulge in the
-fruit of the hen and the ham of the hog, or whatever delicacy might suit
-their individual taste.
-
-The Duke of Wellington knew his business when he held in reserve
-the famous Scot’s Grey cavalry at the battle of Waterloo, until the
-psycological moment arrived when the French lines began to waver, then
-ordered the charge which sent them thundering on striking the enemy like
-an avalanch and thereby winning the battle. So in a modest way I think
-the psycological moment has arrived when the people of America will
-listen to what I say and began to cultivate the taste for oatmeal and use
-it liberally, thereby conserving food for the great emergency now and
-which will be more acute by and by.
-
-It was oatmeal personified in the kilted Highlanders that scaled the
-heights of Alma and later stormed the Russian stronghold, Sebastopol.
-Oatmeal rode in the light brigade at Baladava, “charging an army while
-all the world wonder.” Oatmeal sang Annie Laurie thirty thousand strong
-in the Crimean trenches in front of Sebastopol on the eve of the grand
-assault.
-
-    “They lay along the battery’s side
-      Below the smoking cannon,
-    Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde
-      And from the banks of Shannon.
-
-    They sang of love and not of fame;
-      Forgot was Britain’s glory,
-    Each heart recalled a different name
-      But all sang “Annie Laurie.”
-
-Oatmeal has come out conqueror in many battles in many lands, and who can
-doubt that it will eventually crush to earth the hated Hohenzolerns and
-Hapsburgs, to say nothing of the unspeakable Turk.
-
-                                 =MENU.=
-
-                              =Breakfast.=
-
-                        Bowl of oatmeal porridge.
-                          Plenty of sweet milk.
-                               That’s All.
-
-                                =Dinner.=
-
-              Please yourself. That is none of my business.
-
-                                =Supper.=
-
-                        Bowl of oatmeal porridge.
-                          Plenty of sweet milk.
-                               That’s All.
-
-    After supper you can go to bed and sleep like a top, and in the
-    morning you will get up feeling tip top. J. R. G.
-
-    Tennessee Industrial School, Nashville, Tenn.
-
-    Jauary, 1918.
-
-When Dr. Samuel Johnson, the lexicographer, vented his unaccountable
-spleen against the Scotch people by defining “oatmeal” as “food for
-English horses and Scottish men,” he exposed himself to the witty retort.
-“And where will you find finer horses or better men.” Thomas Carlyle
-tells us that on one occasion, during a visit he paid to Lord Ashburton,
-at the Grange, he caught sight of Macauley’s face in unwonted repose,
-as he was turning over the pages of a book. “I noticed,” said he, “the
-homely Norse features, that you find everywhere in the Western Isles, and
-I thought to myself; well, any one can see that you are an honest good
-sort of a fellow, made out of oatmeal.”
-
-To what extent the characteristic peculiarities of nations are due to
-diet is a question on which we will not enter. We believe, however,
-that the matter of food has much to do in determining the character and
-destiny of a people; and oatmeal being the principal food of Scotland it
-would seem to be certain that the people who have been made out of it,
-have been in themselves very remarkable: and have exercised an influence
-upon the whole civilized world that is unique and singularly potential.
-
-In introducing our subject, it would seem to be proper to say a few
-words about the “land o’ cakes”—that is, oat cakes. First, there is no
-word in any language that has in it such perfect music, or around which
-cling dearer and sweeter associations than the word “Caledonia.”
-
-    “Oh Caledonia stern and wild,
-    Meet nurse for a poetic child.”
-
-Under the spell of that name imagination takes wing, and we are back in
-the springtime of youth. We hear the lark singing in the clear air. We
-smell the fragrance of the heather. We hear the plow-boy’s whistle, and
-the mild-maid’s song,—some lively ditty to relieve the tedium of labor,
-or it may be an old heroic melody, that glimpses some grand page of
-Scottish story. We hear again the murmur of voices that for long years
-have sunk into silence. Faces rise before us that had begun to fade from
-our recollection, scenes in which we formed a part, pass as a panorama,
-and remain for ever on the deathless page of memory.
-
-To the student of history, Scotland is not a foreign country. The genius
-of its sons has made it familiar and home like to every lover of pure
-literature, true patriotism and heroic virtue. In undertaking to speak of
-it, we are embarassed with our riches.
-
-We are not so perplexed about what we shall say, as how to say it within
-reasonable limits. These however are but glimpses and glances of Scotland
-and its people, and may serve to inspire some to seek a fuller and
-clearer vision, and larger grasp of a theme that can never grow old while
-men struggle to conquer hostile forces, or strive to win a place in the
-van of civilization.
-
-Scotland is the land of old romance; where ever the eye turns some scene
-of classic and storied interest presents itself. There, near Stirling
-stands that grand modern monument to William Wallace—the hero of
-Scotland,—the wielder of “Freedom’s sword.” A mile distant is the scene
-of the battle of Bannockburn where Robert Bruce achieved the deliverance
-of the Scottish people from the despotism of Edward 1st, and established
-their independence as a nation.
-
-It is the land where mountain torrents rave down the glens, or tumble
-from the steep torn into foam; or that murmur softly as they steal along
-on the level plain under the hazel and the broom, a land whose ruggid
-coast lines are indented by immense fissures through which the ocean
-pours its tidal waves to expand into lakes in the interior—lakes which
-mirror the giant forms of the mountains, and higher up where lonely tarns
-sleep, and the nests of the sea gull and the eagle remain undisturbed
-in their solitude. It is a land where magic cloud scenes unfold their
-sudden splendors in fiery crimson and gold, or whose skies darken in
-fierce tempests that blot out mountain and plain in a moment in the
-whirling gusts and eddies of wind and rain. A land, in brief, which has
-many vicissitudes of climate, from the wild winter storms to the soft
-and gentle touches of spring—the fervid heats of summer melting into the
-glowing radiance of autumn sunsets unrivalled for beauty of coloring.
-One stroke of Scott’s magic pen pictures it thus:
-
-    “The Western waves of ebbing day
-      Rolled o’er the glen their level way;
-    Each purple peak, each flinty spire
-      Was bathed in floods of living fire.”
-
-The capital city of Scotland is Edinburgh. It is a city of marvelous
-contrasts in the style of its architecture. It is divided into the
-old and the new towns. But the first of these arrests the attention,
-chiefly from the quaint and curious combinations in structure which its
-buildings present. They are built of stone, and many of them rise ten
-and twelve stories, their entrances carved with figures grotesque and
-repulsive—griffins, dragons, monsters—half beast and half man, with
-hideous scowls and leers glare and grin upon you as if daring you to
-enter. On one of the lower streets is the “Grass Market” which was the
-principal place for public evecutions, and where so many of the martyrs
-of the Scottish covenant sealed their testimony to the truth of God’s
-word with their blood. This spot recalls many of the dark deeds of an
-age which placed an interdict upon the human mind, attempted to rule
-conscience by the strong arm of law, and crush human liberty under the
-iron heel of remorseless and ferocious oppression. Here is Holyrood
-palace, an ancient pile with its quadrangles, courts, turrets, winding
-stone stairs, and long resounding corridors. Here is the secret stair
-upon which, on that memorable night in Scottish history, crept Ruthren,
-Douglass, and their co-conspirators, who bursting into the Queen’s
-private apartment, seized Rizzio, the Italian singer, and in spite of his
-cries for mercy, and the intercession of his royal mistress, dragged him
-out upon the landing, and stabbed him to death with their daggers. The
-stain of his blood is shown on the oaken floor to this day.
-
-A little way up the Cannon gate stands the house of John Knox, that man
-of iron resolution and overpowering eloquence, who alone dared to face
-the treacherous and unhappy Queen and wring from her eyes the tears of
-vain but exasperated importunity. This is he who prayed in the over
-pouring interest of his soul, “Lord, give me Scotland else I die,” and
-whose epitaph was, “Here lies one who never feared the face of man.”
-
-Edinburg has many monuments to its Kings, Princes, and great warriars,
-but the monument to John Knox is not of brass or marble, but a more
-enduring memorial built in the deathless admiration and affection of
-the Scottish people. He was a man for the age in which he lived. Much
-however, which he did and said can not be approved in the clearer light
-and under the calmer judgment of this century, and by the unimpassioned
-standard of a juster apprehension of God’s scheme of human salvation.
-Still he was one of the greatest minds Scotland has produced, and his
-name is enrolled among the immortals.
-
-A little to the Southeast of Edinburgh rises a lofty hill, called
-“Arthur’s seat.” It presents a curious phenomnon in the outlines of its
-summit. Looking at it from the eastern side in the purple glow of sunset,
-there is clearly defined in beautiful but colossal proportions the form
-of a couchant lion, one part of the summit to the left forming the hips,
-the other elevation the neck and head, the undulation between showing
-the soft outlines and symmetrical bend of the body. The head seems to
-rest on the outstretched paws and slightly turned, looks as if watching
-the city with sleepless vigilance. In one of the most conspicuous points
-of Princes street stands that splendid triumph of architectural genius
-dedicated to the brightest mind in literature which Scotland claims.
-
-A man dear to every lover of ancient song and story—one who has robed
-the mountains, valleys and streams of Scotland with immortal glory and
-universal renoun—Sir Walter Scott. We have spent many a pleasant hour
-studying the rugged and homely face of that figue which sits in the
-Centre with the Scottish plait thrown over his sholder and his favorite
-and famous stag-hound crouching at his feet. He has given to Scotland
-a citizenship of literature. Scenery, monuments, houses, cottages,
-characters of every age and condition from the baron to the fisherman,
-from the lady to the smuggler and fish wife.
-
-The witchery of the man’s genius has cast its spell over every
-Englid-speaking nation. In every society that cultivates the graces and
-refinements of polite literature, no author holds a place of higher
-distinction than Walter Scott.
-
-His works are classics. With the exception of Shakespeare, no author has
-“held the mirror up to nature” and pictured it with such graphic nicety
-of detail and gracefulness of flowing outlines as this “wizard of the
-north.” He opens wide the doors of romance and invites us to partake with
-him in the rich and abundant banquet of song and story which a thousand
-years of history have been preparing, and which he has with prodigious
-labor and unwearied industry collected with his own hand and brain and
-disposed on the ample board with such graceful profusion. The guests he
-invites us to meet are for the most part real men and women—heroes whose
-deeds of powess eclipse in daring and self-sacrifice the classic warriors
-who wandered with Aeneas, and battled around the walls of ancient Troy.
-The martial ardor of Wallace and Rob Roy is kindled in our breasts, we
-catch the glow of a holy and patriatic inspiration as we stand with the
-heroes of the Scottish covenant at Drumclog, and see them after psalm and
-prayer in fierce conflict with the Royal forces under Claverhouse, and
-putting them to flight after one of the bloodiest battles, for the number
-engaged recorded in history.
-
-Then we bewail the woeful fanaticism that turned their camp into a
-school of wrangling polemics, thus forestalling their ignommious and
-irretrievable disaster at Bothwell Bride—a defeat which Clavenhouse swore
-would redeem his disgrace in a tenfold measure at Drumclog. Or again we
-are transported into some sylvan retreat, and trip lightly among the
-sweet mountain harebells in the west with “The Lady of the Lake.” We
-watch the hunt as it dashes through the perilous defiles where the rocks
-in the mountain gorge seem
-
-    “As if an infant’s touch would urge
-    Their headlong passages down the verge.”
-
-Or the blood tingles and the eye dilates with tremulous uncertainty as
-to the issue of the combat between Fitz James and Roderich Dhu. There
-is the subtle and agile Saxon loot to foot with the larger, but not
-less heroic gael; and when the latter goes down blinded with blood and
-fury, and falls fainting on the sod leaving his antagonist breathless
-but unscathed, we confess our sympathy is largely with the brave but
-unfortunate highlander, and feel sorry that he did not succeed in giving
-the gay and lordly Fitz a refreshing diff with his dagger before he
-fainted and fell. Then the scene changes and we are with Marmion where
-“Day, sets on Normans castled steep, and Cheviot’s mountains lone,” we
-follow the gloomy spirit through its conflicts, its sorrows and its
-crimes, and watch the last tragic scene of his eventful history.
-
-The battle is raging over the pain and Marmion is dragged out of it
-wounded, but his fiery spirit unsubdued. The priest is near him with his
-consolations, and better still the tender angelic ministries of a wronged
-but forgiving woman.
-
-    “With fruitless labor bound
-    And strove to staunch each flowing wound
-      The Monk with unavailing cares
-    Exhausted all the Church’s prayers,
-      Ever he saw that close and near
-    A lady’s voice, was in his ear,
-      And that the priest he could not hear
-    For that she ever sang:
-      In the lost battle bourne down by the flying
-    When mingles war’s rattle with the groans of the dying
-    So the notes ring
-      The war that for a space did fail
-    Now trebly thundering swelled the gale
-      And Stanley was the cry
-    Alight on Marmion’s vision spread
-      And fixed his glassy eye
-    With dying hand above his head
-      He shook the fragment of his blade
-    And shouted victory!
-      Charge, Chester charge, on Stanley on!
-    Were the last words of Marmion.”
-
-He had the rare facutly of compressing a whole life’s romance in a few
-stanzas, as in “Lochinvar.”
-
-Scott’s was not wholly an ideal world, nor his life a romance. There was
-something very real and prosaic in it—something also of the tragic. Not a
-few of the virtues of his ideal heroes became prominent in his own life.
-After his fame had been established, and nothing of earthly ambition and
-popular applause remained unsatisfied, there came upon him those sweeping
-financial disasters in which his own fortunes and those of Constable his
-publisher went down in wreck and ruin that seemed irretrievable. But
-with a heroism unparalled in the history of literature, he girds himself
-anew to cancel by his pen a debt that was colossal in its magnitude. He
-was fifty-five years of age. He could accept no compromise, but goes to
-work writing untiringly until by sheer force and industry he succeeded
-in paying off seventy thousand of the one hundred and seventeen thousand
-pounds sterling which was the sum total of his debt, but he achieved that
-tremendous feat at the expense of an exhauseted brain and a paralyzed
-body. He perished in the attempt to redeem his honor and good name. But
-the name remains immortal and while Scottish hearts and Scottish brains
-throb and beat, and tears and smiles be evoked as a tribute to genius,
-the memory of Scott shall remain enshrined on the deathless galaxy of
-fame.
-
-Another of the great names imperishably with old Caledonia is that of
-Robert Burns, the darling of the Scottish muse, the pride and glory of
-his native land, and the idol of the Scottish people. Poor unfortunate
-child of genius. It is hard to read his brief history without being
-choked with our sobs. Beginning life in the midst of the deepest poverty,
-we are told that the miserable clay hovel in which he first saw the
-light was partly wrecked by a January tempest on the very night of his
-birth—sad forecast of the brief, bitter, and stormy career which awaited
-him. At sixteen years of age he tells us his life was “the cheerless
-gloom of a hermit with the unceasing toil of a galley slave.” After
-his father’s death the little paternal estae had to be sold to satisfy
-creditors, and after three years “tossing and whirling in the vortex of
-litigation” Robert and his brother Gilbert succeeded in saving a trifle
-from the clutches of the lawyears by stepping in as creditors for arrears
-of wages. When they got to work again the poet received the sum of seven
-pounds sterling (35 dollars) per annum. Troubles multiplied upon him
-owing chiefly to his own indiscretions until he says frankly “even in the
-hour of social mirth, my gayety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal
-under the hands of the executioner.”
-
-But in the midst of his daily durgery and incessant toil through summer
-heats and winter tempests, traveling through the snow, toiling at the
-plow, thrashing his grain with the “weary flingin tree,” attending
-market, he nevertheless found time to chant some of the sweetest lyrics
-ever penned. The outward conditions of his life were dark and lowering,
-but these could not quench those movements and ambitions of his inner
-man which flamed up like the lurid flashes of volcanic fires, and threw
-over the dark shadows of his destiny, a glory and a radiant heat which
-no adversity could quench. He works like a slave, it is true, but he
-must need pour in as occasion offered the pure and holy oil of lofty
-aspirations gathered from nature’s ample store, and a few well worn
-books, to feed the deathless flame of song which had begun to burn upon
-the altar of his heart. “He carried a book to study at spare moments in
-the field and he wore out thus two copies of MacKenzie’s Man of Feeling.”
-A suggestive hint, for with all his misfortunes, and his sins, perhaps,
-no more tender heart ever beat in human breast than that of Robert Burns.
-None more loyal to friendship or more sensitive to generous love and
-sympathy.
-
-“There is sacrecely any earthly object” he says, “which gives me more
-pleasure than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation
-on a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind houling among the trees,
-and raving over the plain. I listened to the birds and frequently turned
-out of my path, lest I should disturb their little song or frighten them
-to another station.”
-
-Doubless his own misfortunes brought him into closer relations of
-sympathetic feeling even with the poorest and meanest things that were
-suddenly exposed to loss and pain, as for instance in the inadvertent
-passage of his ploughshare through a field mouse’s nest. Listen to his
-tender strain.
-
-    “We sleekit Cowerin timerous beastie,
-      O what a pancis in thy breastie;
-    Thou need nae start awa sae hasty,
-      Wi bickerin brattle
-    I wad de laith to rin and chase thee
-      Wi murderin pattle.”
-
-He moralizes at once, and does not think it beneath his dignity to put
-himself on the same plane for a time even with a mouse.
-
-    “I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
-      Has broken nature’s social union
-    An justifies that ill opinion
-      Which makes thee startle
-    At me, thy poor earth born companion
-      An fellow moral.”
-
-He sees in the house of “leaves and stubble” so carefully collected
-against the winter storm, and analogy which he is slow to improve.
-
-    “But mousie thou art no thy lane
-      In proving fore sight may be vain
-    The best laid schemes o’ mince and men
-      Gang aft agley
-    An, lea us naught but grief and pain
-      For promised joy.”
-
-Perhaps the key note to Burns’ muse may be found in the homage which he
-paid to woman. “He was alwoys in love,” and he sang of love in strains as
-sweet as any mortal minstrel ever made, but he was only a mortal after
-all: and his illicit loves are the darkest blot on his name. But at first
-this passion burned with a pure and guileless fervor; and the sweetest
-lyric of his muse is the product of an early attachment for Mary Campbell
-whom “death untimely frost” snatched from his embrace. On the anniversary
-of her death, he had stayed out all night in the barn, tossing and
-tumbling till the dawn of day; and before the morning star was quenched
-in the rising sun, he went into the house and wrote:
-
-    “Thou lingering star, with less’ning ray,
-      That lov’st to greet the early morn,
-    Again, thou usher’st in the day,
-      My Mary, from my soul was torn.
-    O, Mary! dear departed shade!
-      Where is thy place of blissful rest?
-    Seest thou thy lover, lowly laid?
-      Hear’st thou the groans, that rend his breast?
-
-    That sacred hour—can I forget,
-      Can I forget the hallow’d grove,
-    Where, by the winding Ayr we met,
-      To live one day of parting love!
-    Eternity—will not efface
-      Those records dear, of transports past;
-    Thy image, at our last embrace!
-      Ah! little thought I ’twas our last!
-
-    Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
-      O’erhung with wild woods’ thich’ning green;
-    The fragant birch, and hawthorn here,
-      Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene:
-    The flowers sprang—wanton to be prest,
-      The bird sang love—on every spray;
-    Till, too soon, the glowing west,
-      Proclaim’d the speed of winged day.
-
-    Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes,
-      And fondly broods, with miser care!
-    Time but the impression deeper makes,
-      As streams—their channels deeper wear.
-    My Mary! dear departed shade!
-      Where is thy place of blissful rest?
-    Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
-      Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breats?”
-
-No one has painted with such consummate skill, such tender grace, and
-with such depth of coloring “the short and simple annals of the poor” as
-Burns has done. He knew by bitter experience the struggles of poverty,
-the grinding toil needed to wring from an inhospitable climate, and
-unkindly soil the meagre products which barely supported life. His
-“Cottars’ Saturday Night” is a picture of peasant life in Scotland
-unequalled for purity and beauty by any production of genius, and is,
-we think, the crowning triumph of his poetic skill. It is a finished
-production, and his words flash upon our memory and imagination those
-scnes of humble but honest poverty, pious worth and modest joys, which
-relieve the monotonous burden of the Scottish laborer’s daily toil. The
-week’s work is done, and the poor toiler, gathering his few implements
-together, wends his way across the moor to his humble home. His gleeful
-little ones run to meet him. He is saluted by the kindly smile of a
-contented wife. A bright fire throws a genial glow over his poor but
-tidy home. The elder brains drop in with the scanty pittances earned by
-domestic services among their neighbors. Jenny, the pride of the family,
-in the first bloom of womanhood, introduces with bashful modesty, an
-honest lad worthy of her love and confidence. The mother is glad that her
-brain is “respected like the lave.”
-
-“The father chats of horses, plows, and kye.” The humble, hospitable
-board is spread, and the evening meal is eaten with grateful thanks to
-God. Then “the big ha’ Bible” is brought out, and the old song that fired
-to enthusiasm the children of the Scottish covenant in their wanderings,
-is sung, and “the saint, the father, and the husband prays:
-
-    “That thus they all shall meet in future days,
-    There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
-      No more to sigh, or shed the tear,
-    Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
-      In such society, yet still more dear;
-      While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.”
-
-As he tells the touching and familiar story, a glow of honest pride in
-his native land kindles in his breast, and he places the chaplet of honor
-upon the brow of pious poverty.
-
-    “From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs
-      That make her loved at home, reveered abroad.
-    Princes and Lords are but the breath of Kings,
-      An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”
-
-Genius had few liberal patrons at that time; and the compensations
-rendered to those who worshipped at the shrine of the Muses, consisted
-in great part in patronizing invitations to big dinners or in treats in
-the dram shops, where poets paid for their etertainment by appearing as
-prodigies, or by bartering the fine gold of their wit for draughts from
-the Circean Cup of popular applause and brutal intoxication.
-
-The convivial usages of the country were almost universal; and Burns,
-with his genial nature and love of society, easily fell a prey to the
-seductions of Bacchus. It was considered an insult to hospitality to sit
-down to dinner in the house of a friend and get up from the table sober.
-
-It was a time when hosts were not solicitous about the results of a revel
-or the comfort of guests, provided that there was a plentiful supply of
-hot water and sugar to replenish the punch bowl.
-
-“But what will I do for beds for all these men?” said Margaret, the Laird
-of Logan’s house keeper. “Keep the kettle boiling Marg’et ma Wooman,”
-said the Laird, “and they will a find beds for themselves” to be fechtin’
-fou’ or “greetin’ fow” was regarded as the normal condition of a well
-dined gentleman.
-
-It was too often alas at such shrines and amid such scenes that poor
-Burns kindled the torch of his inspiration. He drew from life when in his
-masterpiece of “Tam O’Shanter” he pictured two drunken Cronies seeking
-respite from care in foaming tankards of ale inn:
-
-    “Auld Ayr, wham ne’re a toon surpasses
-    For honest men and bonnie lassies.”
-
-At Tam’s elbow sits Soute Johnie:
-
-    “His ancient droutly cronie:
-      Tam lo’ed him like a verra brither;
-    They had been fou for week thegether.”
-
-None knew better than Burns how ephemeral are the joys of social
-drinking, and no one has ever produced such a chain of similitudes to
-describe their fleeting sweetness.
-
-    “But pleasures are like poppies spread,
-      You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
-    Or like the Borealis race
-      That flit ere you can point their place;
-    Or like the rainbow’s lovely form
-      Evanishing amid the storm.
-    Or like the snow-flakes in the river,
-      A moment white, then melts forever.”
-
-We know of nothing in literature that, in the same space, contains so
-much of the homely, the horrible, and the grotesque, as will be found in
-this poem. There is a sharp Rembrandt-like minuteness in the details of
-this Scotch Walpurgis night that produces terror on the reader mingled
-with an irrisistible inclination to shriek with laughter. We watch the
-hard drunken sot
-
-    “Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,
-    A better never lifted leg.”
-
-Skelping along through the mud and pouring rain, the lightnings flashing
-from “pole to pole.”
-
-    “Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,
-      Whiles croomin o’er some auld Scotch sonnet
-    While peepm round with prudent care
-      Lest bogles catch him unaware.”
-
-Every turn in the road has its tragic associations. Here a packman was
-smothered in the snow. Here hunters found a murdered child. Here an
-old thorn tree near a well where a woman hanged herself, etc. Till the
-adventurers are crowned on his approaching the old Kirk at Alloway which
-seems blazing to heaven.
-
-We have stood in it, and really it looks a very innocent ruin, nothing
-but four stone walls, roofles, with a niche at one end where he old
-pulpit once stood. But in that neche Burns put “Aul Nick” as a piper to
-whose music a rabble rout of sheol are dancing “fast and furious.” Tammie
-urges on his mare until he comes into the sheolish light which gilds the
-ghastly scene, where the bones of murderers, the garter that strangled a
-babe, the knife that lacerated the throat of a father.
-
-    “And more of horrible and awful
-    Which even to name would be unlawful.”
-
-He cannot restrain a feeling of tender pity for one of the horrible crew
-who had been that very night enrolled among them. He thinks of the time
-when she was a little innocent child.
-
-    “O little kenned thy reveren’d granny
-      The sack she Coft for her wee Nannie
-    Wi’twa pund Scots ’twas a’ her riches,
-      Should ever grace dance o’ witches.”
-
-The climax is reached when Tam, carried away by his wonder at the
-marvelous agility displayed by the leader of the infernal gang who was
-arrayed in a very abbreviated under garment, cries out:
-
-    “Weel dune cutty sark
-    And in an instant a’was dark,”
-
-This precipitates the catastrophe.
-
-    “As bess bizz out wi, angry fik
-    When murderons assail their bike
-    As open pussey’s mortal foes
-    When, pop, she starts before their nose,
-    As eager runs the market crowd
-    When “catch the thief” resounds aloud,
-    So Maggie runs the witche’s fetlow,
-    With many an eldritch scretch and hollow.”
-
-The devotee of Bacchees hastens to procure the protection of the river
-Doon as witches dare not cross a running stream, and is indebted to his
-good horse for his safety although that is secured at the expense of her
-tail which she leaves in the clutches of the “Carlin.”
-
-Perhaps the songs of Burns have exercised a more universal influence than
-his poems. They seize the heart and hold it as by a spell of enchantment.
-Who knows not the grand nation melody “Scots wha hae” and the familiar
-lyrics “Auld Lang Syne,” “John Anderson, My Joe,” “Comin’ through the
-Rye,” etc. In most of his songs there is a strain of sadness as indeed
-there is in most of the finest Scottish lyrics other than those written
-by Burns.
-
-The brightest gems of the Muse show the sparkle of tears or utter the
-sad sigh which one hears in the moan of the waves, or the wail of the
-midnight wind through a pine forest. But the songs of Burns have a charm
-that enlist the sympathy of the whole world. He voices the universal
-experience. He is the high priest of nature. His words give tone and
-character to the passion, the sorrows, the pains and the joys of common
-people. He uses no artifice to engage the interest of others. His genius
-was a well-spring fresh and pure from the fountains of the heart, in its
-first unstrained gushings: too soon, alas, to migle with the defiling
-tributaries which a bitter experience of human life brought to blend with
-the clearer stream. With his great heart burning with a sense of wrong
-done him by those who ought to have sheltered and befriended him, mixed
-also with the bitter reflection that his own indiscretions and sins had
-entailed suffering and shame upon himself and upon those who were dearer
-to him than his own life, he sinks into the dark tide of death as the age
-of 38 years; not, we trust, without a hope that the infinite Father of
-mercy had heard the piteous appeal which he recorded in these words.
-
-    “O thou great governor of all below
-      If I may dare a litted eye to thee,
-    For all unfit I feel my powers to be
-      To rule their torrent in the hollowed line
-    O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine.”
-
-He wrote his own epitaph, and it is an honest and sincere confession, but
-if he had lived under more favorable auspices, and had his environment
-been such as to assure that the flame of his genius would have been
-nourished from the altars of a purer and fitter companionship, he would
-probably have penned a far different stanza than this which fitly closes
-a dark and stormy career, not unrelieved by many bright flashes of hope
-and gladness.
-
-    “The poor inhabitant below
-      Was quick to learn and wise to know
-    And dearly felt the amorous glow
-      And social flame
-    But thoughtless follies laid him low
-    And stained him name.”
-
-A spirit kindred to that of Robert Burns and one whose fame shall never
-perish, or be dimmed while “Annie Laurie” is sung—and where is it not
-sung? It is that of Robert Tannahill, a poor Paisley weaver. We have
-stood on the bridge which spans the canal near the city, and looked with
-sorrowful interest into that pool in the corner, where, driven by the
-demons of poverty and unappreciated talent, the disracted author ended
-his brief life. He was a true poet. He wrote many songs that the world
-will not willingly let die. One of the stanzas is peculiarly fine in its
-delicacy and tenderness:
-
-    “Towering o’er the Newton woods
-      Laverocks fan the snaw white clouds
-    Siller saughs wi downy buds
-      Adorn the banks sae biery.
-    Sweet the snaw flowers early bell
-      Decks Gleniffers dewy dell
-    Blooming like thy bonny sell
-      My ain my artless deary.”
-
-We would mention another bright name also a native of this same town
-of Paisley. John Wilson—known better by his pen name of “Christopher
-North” the author of “Noctes Ambrosianae.” He rose from obscurity to
-great honor and to the chair of moral philosophy in the University of
-Ediuburgh. He was a giant in stature as well as in mind, and one of the
-knightliest of men. No one who ever met Wilson striding along the street,
-his long yellow hair flowing over his shoulders, his blue eyes gleaming
-with merriment, and glowing with an intelligence that comprehend every
-department of knowledge, could ever forget him.
-
-He may be fairly ranked with Scott and Burns in the power he exercised
-in the later part of his life, in storming the heart of the Scottish
-people—becoming at last their idol and great literary representative.
-He was conemporary with Thomas Brown whom he succeeded in the chair of
-moral philosophy, and with Sir William Hamilton, who was a candidate
-with him for the chair, but who, up to that time, had not given to the
-public those proofs of that consumate ability by which he was afterwards
-distinguished, and which placed him in the foremost rank of the most
-eminent European scholars.
-
-Wilson once a poet, lecturer, statesman, orator, and novelist. He was the
-intimate friend of Coleridge, Woodsworth, and Southey. His poems of the
-“Isle of Palms” and the “City of the Plague” are productions that gave
-him a worthy place among those bright lights of song shed so brilliant a
-luster over that age of great minds, and whose genuis has bequeathed to
-all future time, the priceless legacy if immortal harmonies and wealth
-of thought. He was with all a very muscular Christian; “for on more than
-one occasion, the singular spectacle was exhibited of a Scotch professor
-of moral science taking off his coat in a public market place to inflict
-personal chastisment on some ruffian whose obnoxious proceedings has
-done outrage to his nicer sense of the fitness of things.” He was, with
-Lockheart, one of the original contributors to Blackwood’s Magazine, and
-helped more than any other author to give that publication a popularity
-that continues to this day.
-
-It is said of Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Letters in
-Ediuburgh University, when he was courting Wilson’s daughter that he
-could not summon up courage to ask her father to give his consent to
-their marriage, although he knew how exalted a place he occupied in
-Wilson’s estimation.
-
-Here stood the silver tongued Aytown, week after week, trying to screw up
-his courage to ask the question that filled his heart, but he could not
-do it. At length he said: “Jessie, will you go and ask your father for me
-as I cannot?” Jessie was soon beside her father and acquainted him with
-how matters stood. “Puir Aytown,” said Wilson, “I maun gie him his answer
-in writing.”
-
-So saying he wrote a line without Jessie’s knowledge of its purport, and
-pinning it on the back of her dress, sent her off to Aytoun whom he well
-knew was just at that moment fully appreciating the significance of the
-verb “to wait.”
-
-“What did he say, Jessie?” was the impatient interrogatory of the loving
-professor. Jessie turned her back for once upon her lover, and then he
-read the precious answer: “With the Author’s compliments.”
-
-This same little town of Paisley is distinguished as the birth place of
-another Wilson who is worthy of mention here because he became famous as
-the great “American ornithologist”—Alexander Wilson, born 1766. He began
-his career also as a poet with a witty and felicitous production called:
-“Watty and Meg.” That brings out with marvelous fidelity some of the
-most humurous phases of Scottish life and character. He came to America
-in 1794, and after many and thrilling adventures, gave to the world his
-great book on “American Birds” in seven quarto volumes. George Ord and
-Charles Lucein Bonaparte completed the work by issuing, after Wilson’s
-death, four volumes more. It is a record of patient industry that helped
-to put this land forward in the records of fame, and publish to the world
-its marvelous resources.
-
-We might give brief sketches of such. Dr. Thomas Guthrie, the father
-of the ragged schools of Scotland. One short story will illustrate how
-earnest was the Doctor in his efforts to save the children from the
-dismal and fearful depths of vice and crime and infamy.
-
-One night at a public meeting, a reverend but very unsympathetic speaker
-described the ragged school children as rescals and vagabonds, the scum
-of the country. When Guthrie’s time for speaking came, he arose with pale
-face and quivering lips, seized a sheet of writing paper from the table,
-and holding it up, said: “This was once the scum of the country—once
-foul, wretched rags. In it, now white as the snows of heaven, behold an
-emblem of the work our ragged schools have achieved.”
-
-And there was Sir David Brewster who could “scan with more than an
-eagle’s eye, the mighty creations in the bosom of space, and Hugh Miller,
-that huge geological hammer, inscribed with Hebrew characters. It is a
-very noticeable fact, that those minds that have most largely influenced
-the thought and progress of civilized nations have not in the main
-borrowed their light from an illustrious and wealthy ancestry, but have
-risen from the ranks and been found chiefly among the humble sons of
-poverty and toil. The genius of Scotland has been nourished and developed
-amid hard and hostile conditions. It has grown strong and rooted itself
-deeply amid tempests and storms! not amid the soft and voluptuous ease
-of effeminate luxury. It has given to the world the brightest trophies
-of sciences, philosophy, oratory, and song. Its sons have been scattered
-among all people; but as a rule they have commanded the respect and
-enlisted the effections of all among whom their lot has been cast.
-They have ever felt the force of that fine sentiment expressed by the
-greatestk of their poets.
-
-    “Is no in title nor in rank
-      Its no in wealth like Lunnom Bonk
-    To purchase peace and rest.
-      Its no in makin’ muckle mare
-    Its no in books, it no in lair
-      To make us truly blest.
-    If happiness has not its seat and centre in the breast,
-      We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest.
-    Nae treasurers nor pleasures
-      Can make us happy lang
-    The hearts aye the part aye
-      That makes us rich or wrang.”
-
-
-
-
-
-End of Project Gutenberg's Oat Meal: The War Winner, by James Ritchie Grieve
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-
-Project Gutenberg's Oat Meal: The War Winner, by James Ritchie Grieve
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
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-
-
-
-Title: Oat Meal: The War Winner
-
-Author: James Ritchie Grieve
-
-Release Date: December 22, 2017 [EBook #56223]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
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-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OAT MEAL: THE WAR WINNER ***
-
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-Produced by Anne Grieve and the Online Distributed
-Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
-produced from images generously made available by The
-Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
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-</pre>
-
-
-<p class="transnote"><b>Transcriber’s Note:</b> This text is reproduced
-with its original printing errors intact, save for minor amendments to
-punctuation, capitalisation and word spacing. The author was prone to
-misquoting poetry, the typesetter was apparently not being paid enough
-to ensure accuracy, and it doesn’t seem a proofreader was asked to
-participate at all. The best laid schemes o’ “mince” and men have indeed
-gone aft agley.</p>
-
-<hr />
-
-<div class="bbox">
-
-<p class="center larger">OAT MEAL<br />
-<span class="smaller">THE</span><br />
-<span class="u">War Winner</span></p>
-
-<div class="figcenter" style="width: 110px;">
-<img src="images/tp.jpg" width="110" height="60" alt="(decorative image)" />
-</div>
-
-<p class="center">BY<br />
-<span class="larger">J. R. Grieve, M. D.</span><br />
-Acting Assistant Surgeon<br />
-U. S. Army, 1865</p>
-
-<p class="center smaller">Copyright Applied for. <span class="spacer">&nbsp;</span> Price Ten Cents.</p>
-
-</div>
-
-<hr />
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
-
-<h1>“OATMEAL”<br />
-
-<span class="smaller">BEING GLIMPSES AN REMINISENCES OF SCOTLAND
-AND ITS PEOPLE.</span></h1>
-
-<p class="center">By J. R. Grieve, M.D.</p>
-
-<h2>INTRODUCTION.</h2>
-
-<p>At the present time when every one is being urged to
-bend every energy toward the conservation of food supplies,
-it is surprising to me that so little has been written
-in behalf of the extraordinary value of oatmeal as a diet
-on which people can live and continue more healthy than
-on any other cereal in the world.</p>
-
-<p>I wish to present <b>facts</b>, not <b>theories</b>. I wish to tell of
-what I know personally on this subject. I have not consulted
-any of the laboratories of research or taken for
-granted any data from the many-published statistics of individual
-food sufficiency for sustaining life, but I have only
-taken <b>facts</b> and invite my readers to form their own conclusions.</p>
-
-<p>My father was a successful farmer in Perthshire, Scotland,
-and employed quite a number of ploughmen. His men
-were always big strapping fellows, weighing on an average
-from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and seventy
-pouds and as strong as oxen. None of those men ever saw
-a two-bushel sack of grain because we never had such sacks.
-What they were acquainted with and were accustomed to
-handle were four-bushel sacks of wheat, weighing sixty-four
-pounds per bushel, barley weighing fifty-six pounds
-per bushel. These sacks they would carry on their back
-and load on their carts and, after being hauled to the city,
-would again shoulder them and carry them up two and
-sometimes three flights of stairs in the warehouses. There
-were few elevators in those days.</p>
-
-<p>Now what had those men for breakfast that morning?
-Certainly not beefsteak, ham and eggs, toast, or biscuits.
-No, they had a large bowlful of bcrose. Each man takes his
-large wooden bowl and puts into it three or four handfuls of
-oatmeal, a big pinch of salt, then pours boiling water on it,
-stirs it with the handle of his spoon, adds sweet milk, and
-eats his breakfast. When the noon hour comes he goes
-through the same process; and after the work is finished
-for the day he generally has a bowl of oatmeal parridge.</p>
-
-<p>The whole time occupied is probably ten minutes. Then
-after smoking a pipe for ten minute more he is ready for
-a day of strenuous work. Each man possesses a half-gallon
-tin bucket, and that is filled at the dairy every morning
-before breakfast with sweet milk, and that lasts him for
-the day. No labor is too hard for those men. They can
-stand any strain put before them and never complain of
-being hungry. I never heard the least complaint of indigeston,
-and the doctor would have starved to death if he
-had depended on these ploughmen for patients. The allowance
-of meal is seventy pounds every four weeks, and
-that is all you require to give them. Often these men don’t
-see a piece of meat in months and very seldom do they eat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
-wheat bread. Scotland has been called the “Land o’ Cakes”
-from the fact that an excellent cake can be made of oatmeal.
-The cakes are rolled thin and toasted before an open fire
-until they are quite hard. I have eaten oatmeal cakes in
-Virginia that were baked in Scotland, two or three months
-previously and after being heated through they were as
-crisp as if newly baked.</p>
-
-<p>I grew up amid these surroundings and am familiar with
-every detail. I had my porridge twice a day all through
-my young life, and the development in my individual case
-was quite satisfactory. I often tell people that I was
-brought up on oatmeal and the New Testament, which is
-true; and I can truthfully testify to the excellency of the
-combination. Another important fact, especially at the
-present time, is that we never though of adding sugar to
-our oatmeal. Those ploughmen would have as soon thought
-of sprinkling epsom salts on their porridge as sugar. To
-this day nothing gives me such satisfaction at breakfast as
-a bowl of oatmeal and milk. To eat a bountiful supply of
-oatmeal and suppliment it with meat, eggs, etc., is a great
-mistake. It is too nurtitious and impedes digestion. In
-those days such terms as calorics, protein, carbohydrates
-were never used and need never be used when speaking of
-oatmeal. I ask one question: If oatmeal does tnot contain all
-the elements of a perfect food, how did those ploughmen
-stand up to their hard work and seldom complain of hunger
-and more seldom need the services of the doctor? It
-regulates the intestinal canal like clock work.</p>
-
-<p>Sweet milk is absolutely necessary to complete the perfect
-diet. Any substitute, whether molasses, butter, or
-sugar, does harm. There should be a generous supply of
-salt in making porridge and that does away with the craving
-for sugar. I often meet people, doctors included, who
-declare that porridge ought to be cooked for six or eight
-hours. My only answer to that falacy is to point to my
-brosemen. When Oats go to the mill they are put into a
-kiln and subjected to considerable heat until the hull cracks
-and they are three-fourths cooked, then they are sifted and
-ground either coarse or fine as you wish. We had no
-flaked oats in those days, and I cannot say whether the
-smashing flat process is an injury or betterment to the
-cereal; but I prefer the coarse-ground oats, as that was
-what the men I refer to were fed. I am only stating facts,
-as I have experienced them, and I stick to my original statement
-that oatmeal used as the Scotish ploughmen use it is
-satisfactory in every particular as to giving nourishment
-and preserving health.</p>
-
-<p>What a saving of time it makes for the housekeeker—just
-about half an hour for breakfast and supper, few
-dishes to wash, and no greasy plates to encounter. For
-dinner you may omit the oats and take what you prefer.</p>
-
-<p>In American hotels and boarding houses, also in private
-homes, oatmeal is served in small quantities in small
-saucers as a side dish. It ought to be the <b>main and only</b>
-dish both morning and evening.</p>
-
-<p>Oatmeal has a wonderfully beneficial effect on the morality
-of men. You might spend an evening, as I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
-many times done, in those men’s quarters, and you would
-not hear a profane word or an objectionable sentence from
-the lips of any one of them. Those men nearly all go to
-Church on Sunday as regularly as they go to work on Monday.
-They are intelligent as a rule and demonstrate by
-their conversation that their diet has nourished the gray
-matter as well as their muscles.</p>
-
-<p>If oatmeal acted so beneficial fifty years ago on the inhabitants
-of Scotland, it surely is a good argument that it
-will perform its duty on Americans just as well to-day.</p>
-
-<p>Personally it would be immaterial to me if the wheat
-and sugar crops failed entirely, so long as I could have the
-dear old cereal that nourished me to manhood and the good
-will of a fine Jersey.</p>
-
-<p>While oatmeal sustains the body and keeps it in fine
-condition, it certainly must exercise a powerful influence
-upon the brain. Sir Walter Scott was an oatmeal man. In
-intellect he was “one of them.” Sir David Brewster, the
-Royal Astranomer, who could scan with more than eagle’s
-eye the mighty creations in the bosom of space, was made
-mostly of oatmeal. Hugh Miller, that huge geological hammer,
-inscribed with Hebrew characters, was an oatmeal man.
-So was “Bobby” Burns, and the man does not live who can
-say that “Bobby” had no brains.</p>
-
-<p>No argument can be brought to bear against oatmeal.
-If you believe what I say is true, why not put it to the
-test. I know it is a great problem to change the dietitic
-habits of a community—and much more so to change the
-habits of a nation. There are Scotchmen scattered everywhere,
-and no doubt they and their wives would supervise
-Oatmeal Clubs to teach the people how to make porridge
-properly and to overcome any prejudice they might have
-as to its use. No doubt it is an acquired taste, but when
-once learned it is for “keeps.”</p>
-
-<p>When I first came to America I did not eat any tomatoes
-for years. I could not endure the taste, but gradually I
-took to them, and now I dearly enjoy them.</p>
-
-<p>Many of my friends, through solicitation and my example,
-have adopted the oatmeal habit, and all of them are delighted
-with the result and intend to make it permanent.</p>
-
-<p>Just imagine what conversation of food it would be if a
-vast multitude enlisted under the oatmeal banner. Meatless,
-wheatless, and surgarless days at least six days in the
-week for breakfast and supper. For dinner and on Sundays
-I should allow every one who wished to indulge in the
-fruit of the hen and the ham of the hog, or whatever delicacy
-might suit their individual taste.</p>
-
-<p>The Duke of Wellington knew his business when he held
-in reserve the famous Scot’s Grey cavalry at the battle of
-Waterloo, until the psycological moment arrived when the
-French lines began to waver, then ordered the charge
-which sent them thundering on striking the enemy like an
-avalanch and thereby winning the battle. So in a modest
-way I think the psycological moment has arrived when the
-people of America will listen to what I say and began to
-cultivate the taste for oatmeal and use it liberally, thereby<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
-conserving food for the great emergency now and which
-will be more acute by and by.</p>
-
-<p>It was oatmeal personified in the kilted Highlanders that
-scaled the heights of Alma and later stormed the Russian
-stronghold, Sebastopol. Oatmeal rode in the light brigade
-at Baladava, “charging an army while all the world wonder.”
-Oatmeal sang Annie Laurie thirty thousand strong in the
-Crimean trenches in front of Sebastopol on the eve of the
-grand assault.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“They lay along the battery’s side</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Below the smoking cannon,</div>
-<div class="verse">Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">And from the banks of Shannon.</div>
-</div>
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">They sang of love and not of fame;</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Forgot was Britain’s glory,</div>
-<div class="verse">Each heart recalled a different name</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">But all sang “Annie Laurie.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Oatmeal has come out conqueror in many battles in many
-lands, and who can doubt that it will eventually crush to
-earth the hated Hohenzolerns and Hapsburgs, to say nothing
-of the unspeakable Turk.</p>
-
-<div class="blockquote">
-
-<p class="center"><b>MENU.</b></p>
-
-<p class="center"><b>Breakfast.</b></p>
-
-<p class="center">Bowl of oatmeal porridge.<br />
-Plenty of sweet milk.<br />
-That’s All.</p>
-
-<p class="center"><b>Dinner.</b></p>
-
-<p class="center">Please yourself. That is none of my business.</p>
-
-<p class="center"><b>Supper.</b></p>
-
-<p class="center">Bowl of oatmeal porridge.<br />
-Plenty of sweet milk.<br />
-That’s All.</p>
-
-<p>After supper you can go to bed and sleep like a top, and
-in the morning you will get up feeling tip top. J. R. G.</p>
-
-<p>Tennessee Industrial School, Nashville, Tenn.</p>
-
-<p>Jauary, 1918.</p>
-
-</div>
-
-<p>When Dr. Samuel Johnson, the lexicographer, vented his
-unaccountable spleen against the Scotch people by defining
-“oatmeal” as “food for English horses and Scottish men,”
-he exposed himself to the witty retort. “And where will
-you find finer horses or better men.” Thomas Carlyle tells
-us that on one occasion, during a visit he paid to Lord Ashburton,
-at the Grange, he caught sight of Macauley’s face
-in unwonted repose, as he was turning over the pages of
-a book. “I noticed,” said he, “the homely Norse features,
-that you find everywhere in the Western Isles, and I thought
-to myself; well, any one can see that you are an honest
-good sort of a fellow, made out of oatmeal.”</p>
-
-<p>To what extent the characteristic peculiarities of nations
-are due to diet is a question on which we will not enter. We
-believe, however, that the matter of food has much to do
-in determining the character and destiny of a people; and
-oatmeal being the principal food of Scotland it would seem
-to be certain that the people who have been made out of
-it, have been in themselves very remarkable: and have exercised
-an influence upon the whole civilized world that is
-unique and singularly potential.</p>
-
-<p>In introducing our subject, it would seem to be proper to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
-say a few words about the “land o’ cakes”—that is, oat
-cakes. First, there is no word in any language that has in
-it such perfect music, or around which cling dearer and
-sweeter associations than the word “Caledonia.”</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Oh Caledonia stern and wild,</div>
-<div class="verse">Meet nurse for a poetic child.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Under the spell of that name imagination takes wing, and
-we are back in the springtime of youth. We hear the lark
-singing in the clear air. We smell the fragrance of the
-heather. We hear the plow-boy’s whistle, and the mild-maid’s
-song,—some lively ditty to relieve the tedium of
-labor, or it may be an old heroic melody, that glimpses
-some grand page of Scottish story. We hear again the
-murmur of voices that for long years have sunk into silence.
-Faces rise before us that had begun to fade from
-our recollection, scenes in which we formed a part, pass as
-a panorama, and remain for ever on the deathless page of
-memory.</p>
-
-<p>To the student of history, Scotland is not a foreign country.
-The genius of its sons has made it familiar and home
-like to every lover of pure literature, true patriotism and
-heroic virtue. In undertaking to speak of it, we are embarassed
-with our riches.</p>
-
-<p>We are not so perplexed about what we shall say, as how
-to say it within reasonable limits. These however are but
-glimpses and glances of Scotland and its people, and may
-serve to inspire some to seek a fuller and clearer vision, and
-larger grasp of a theme that can never grow old while men
-struggle to conquer hostile forces, or strive to win a place
-in the van of civilization.</p>
-
-<p>Scotland is the land of old romance; where ever the eye
-turns some scene of classic and storied interest presents itself.
-There, near Stirling stands that grand modern monument
-to William Wallace—the hero of Scotland,—the wielder
-of “Freedom’s sword.” A mile distant is the scene of
-the battle of Bannockburn where Robert Bruce achieved
-the deliverance of the Scottish people from the despotism
-of Edward 1st, and established their independence as a nation.</p>
-
-<p>It is the land where mountain torrents rave down the
-glens, or tumble from the steep torn into foam; or that murmur
-softly as they steal along on the level plain under the
-hazel and the broom, a land whose ruggid coast lines are
-indented by immense fissures through which the ocean
-pours its tidal waves to expand into lakes in the interior—lakes
-which mirror the giant forms of the mountains, and
-higher up where lonely tarns sleep, and the nests of the
-sea gull and the eagle remain undisturbed in their solitude.
-It is a land where magic cloud scenes unfold their sudden
-splendors in fiery crimson and gold, or whose skies darken
-in fierce tempests that blot out mountain and plain in a moment
-in the whirling gusts and eddies of wind and rain.
-A land, in brief, which has many vicissitudes of climate,
-from the wild winter storms to the soft and gentle touches
-of spring—the fervid heats of summer melting into the
-glowing radiance of autumn sunsets unrivalled for beauty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
-of coloring. One stroke of Scott’s magic pen pictures it
-thus:</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“The Western waves of ebbing day</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Rolled o’er the glen their level way;</div>
-<div class="verse">Each purple peak, each flinty spire</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Was bathed in floods of living fire.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>The capital city of Scotland is Edinburgh. It is a city of
-marvelous contrasts in the style of its architecture. It is
-divided into the old and the new towns. But the first of
-these arrests the attention, chiefly from the quaint and
-curious combinations in structure which its buildings present.
-They are built of stone, and many of them rise ten
-and twelve stories, their entrances carved with figures grotesque
-and repulsive—griffins, dragons, monsters—half
-beast and half man, with hideous scowls and leers glare and
-grin upon you as if daring you to enter. On one of the
-lower streets is the “Grass Market” which was the principal
-place for public evecutions, and where so many of the
-martyrs of the Scottish covenant sealed their testimony to
-the truth of God’s word with their blood. This spot recalls
-many of the dark deeds of an age which placed an interdict
-upon the human mind, attempted to rule conscience by the
-strong arm of law, and crush human liberty under the iron
-heel of remorseless and ferocious oppression. Here is Holyrood
-palace, an ancient pile with its quadrangles, courts,
-turrets, winding stone stairs, and long resounding corridors.
-Here is the secret stair upon which, on that memorable night
-in Scottish history, crept Ruthren, Douglass, and their co-conspirators,
-who bursting into the Queen’s private apartment,
-seized Rizzio, the Italian singer, and in spite of his
-cries for mercy, and the intercession of his royal mistress,
-dragged him out upon the landing, and stabbed him to death
-with their daggers. The stain of his blood is shown on
-the oaken floor to this day.</p>
-
-<p>A little way up the Cannon gate stands the house of
-John Knox, that man of iron resolution and overpowering
-eloquence, who alone dared to face the treacherous and unhappy
-Queen and wring from her eyes the tears of vain
-but exasperated importunity. This is he who prayed in the
-over pouring interest of his soul, “Lord, give me Scotland
-else I die,” and whose epitaph was, “Here lies one who never
-feared the face of man.”</p>
-
-<p>Edinburg has many monuments to its Kings, Princes, and
-great warriars, but the monument to John Knox is not of
-brass or marble, but a more enduring memorial built in the
-deathless admiration and affection of the Scottish people.
-He was a man for the age in which he lived. Much however,
-which he did and said can not be approved in the
-clearer light and under the calmer judgment of this century,
-and by the unimpassioned standard of a juster apprehension
-of God’s scheme of human salvation. Still he
-was one of the greatest minds Scotland has produced, and
-his name is enrolled among the immortals.</p>
-
-<p>A little to the Southeast of Edinburgh rises a lofty hill,
-called “Arthur’s seat.” It presents a curious phenomnon
-in the outlines of its summit. Looking at it from the eastern
-side in the purple glow of sunset, there is clearly defined<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
-in beautiful but colossal proportions the form of a
-couchant lion, one part of the summit to the left forming
-the hips, the other elevation the neck and head, the undulation
-between showing the soft outlines and symmetrical
-bend of the body. The head seems to rest on the outstretched
-paws and slightly turned, looks as if watching the city
-with sleepless vigilance. In one of the most conspicuous
-points of Princes street stands that splendid triumph of
-architectural genius dedicated to the brightest mind in literature
-which Scotland claims.</p>
-
-<p>A man dear to every lover of ancient song and story—one
-who has robed the mountains, valleys and streams of
-Scotland with immortal glory and universal renoun—Sir
-Walter Scott. We have spent many a pleasant hour studying
-the rugged and homely face of that figue which sits
-in the Centre with the Scottish plait thrown over his sholder
-and his favorite and famous stag-hound crouching at
-his feet. He has given to Scotland a citizenship of literature.
-Scenery, monuments, houses, cottages, characters of
-every age and condition from the baron to the fisherman,
-from the lady to the smuggler and fish wife.</p>
-
-<p>The witchery of the man’s genius has cast its spell over
-every Englid-speaking nation. In every society that cultivates
-the graces and refinements of polite literature, no author
-holds a place of higher distinction than Walter Scott.</p>
-
-<p>His works are classics. With the exception of Shakespeare,
-no author has “held the mirror up to nature” and
-pictured it with such graphic nicety of detail and gracefulness
-of flowing outlines as this “wizard of the north.” He
-opens wide the doors of romance and invites us to partake
-with him in the rich and abundant banquet of song and
-story which a thousand years of history have been preparing,
-and which he has with prodigious labor and unwearied
-industry collected with his own hand and brain and
-disposed on the ample board with such graceful profusion.
-The guests he invites us to meet are for the most part real
-men and women—heroes whose deeds of powess eclipse in
-daring and self-sacrifice the classic warriors who wandered
-with Aeneas, and battled around the walls of ancient Troy.
-The martial ardor of Wallace and Rob Roy is kindled in
-our breasts, we catch the glow of a holy and patriatic inspiration
-as we stand with the heroes of the Scottish covenant
-at Drumclog, and see them after psalm and prayer in
-fierce conflict with the Royal forces under Claverhouse, and
-putting them to flight after one of the bloodiest battles, for
-the number engaged recorded in history.</p>
-
-<p>Then we bewail the woeful fanaticism that turned their
-camp into a school of wrangling polemics, thus forestalling
-their ignommious and irretrievable disaster at Bothwell
-Bride—a defeat which Clavenhouse swore would redeem his
-disgrace in a tenfold measure at Drumclog. Or again we
-are transported into some sylvan retreat, and trip lightly
-among the sweet mountain harebells in the west with “The
-Lady of the Lake.” We watch the hunt as it dashes through
-the perilous defiles where the rocks in the mountain gorge
-seem</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“As if an infant’s touch would urge</div>
-<div class="verse">Their headlong passages down the verge.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p>
-<p>Or the blood tingles and the eye dilates with tremulous uncertainty
-as to the issue of the combat between Fitz James
-and Roderich Dhu. There is the subtle and agile Saxon
-loot to foot with the larger, but not less heroic gael; and
-when the latter goes down blinded with blood and fury,
-and falls fainting on the sod leaving his antagonist breathless
-but unscathed, we confess our sympathy is largely with
-the brave but unfortunate highlander, and feel sorry that
-he did not succeed in giving the gay and lordly Fitz a refreshing
-diff with his dagger before he fainted and fell.
-Then the scene changes and we are with Marmion where
-“Day, sets on Normans castled steep, and Cheviot’s mountains
-lone,” we follow the gloomy spirit through its conflicts,
-its sorrows and its crimes, and watch the last tragic
-scene of his eventful history.</p>
-
-<p>The battle is raging over the pain and Marmion is dragged
-out of it wounded, but his fiery spirit unsubdued. The
-priest is near him with his consolations, and better still the
-tender angelic ministries of a wronged but forgiving woman.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“With fruitless labor bound</div>
-<div class="verse">And strove to staunch each flowing wound</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">The Monk with unavailing cares</div>
-<div class="verse">Exhausted all the Church’s prayers,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Ever he saw that close and near</div>
-<div class="verse">A lady’s voice, was in his ear,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">And that the priest he could not hear</div>
-<div class="verse">For that she ever sang:</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">In the lost battle bourne down by the flying</div>
-<div class="verse">When mingles war’s rattle with the groans of the dying</div>
-<div class="verse">So the notes ring</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">The war that for a space did fail</div>
-<div class="verse">Now trebly thundering swelled the gale</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">And Stanley was the cry</div>
-<div class="verse">Alight on Marmion’s vision spread</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">And fixed his glassy eye</div>
-<div class="verse">With dying hand above his head</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">He shook the fragment of his blade</div>
-<div class="verse">And shouted victory!</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Charge, Chester charge, on Stanley on!</div>
-<div class="verse">Were the last words of Marmion.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>He had the rare facutly of compressing a whole life’s romance
-in a few stanzas, as in “Lochinvar.”</p>
-
-<p>Scott’s was not wholly an ideal world, nor his life a romance.
-There was something very real and prosaic in it—something
-also of the tragic. Not a few of the virtues of
-his ideal heroes became prominent in his own life. After
-his fame had been established, and nothing of earthly ambition
-and popular applause remained unsatisfied, there came
-upon him those sweeping financial disasters in which his
-own fortunes and those of Constable his publisher went
-down in wreck and ruin that seemed irretrievable. But with
-a heroism unparalled in the history of literature, he girds
-himself anew to cancel by his pen a debt that was colossal
-in its magnitude. He was fifty-five years of age. He could
-accept no compromise, but goes to work writing untiringly
-until by sheer force and industry he succeeded in paying off
-seventy thousand of the one hundred and seventeen thousand
-pounds sterling which was the sum total of his debt,
-but he achieved that tremendous feat at the expense of an
-exhauseted brain and a paralyzed body. He perished in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
-attempt to redeem his honor and good name. But the name
-remains immortal and while Scottish hearts and Scottish
-brains throb and beat, and tears and smiles be evoked as a
-tribute to genius, the memory of Scott shall remain enshrined
-on the deathless galaxy of fame.</p>
-
-<p>Another of the great names imperishably with old Caledonia
-is that of Robert Burns, the darling of the Scottish
-muse, the pride and glory of his native land, and the idol
-of the Scottish people. Poor unfortunate child of genius.
-It is hard to read his brief history without being choked
-with our sobs. Beginning life in the midst of the deepest
-poverty, we are told that the miserable clay hovel in which
-he first saw the light was partly wrecked by a January
-tempest on the very night of his birth—sad forecast of the
-brief, bitter, and stormy career which awaited him. At
-sixteen years of age he tells us his life was “the cheerless
-gloom of a hermit with the unceasing toil of a galley slave.”
-After his father’s death the little paternal estae had to be
-sold to satisfy creditors, and after three years “tossing and
-whirling in the vortex of litigation” Robert and his brother
-Gilbert succeeded in saving a trifle from the clutches of
-the lawyears by stepping in as creditors for arrears of
-wages. When they got to work again the poet received
-the sum of seven pounds sterling (35 dollars) per annum.
-Troubles multiplied upon him owing chiefly to his own indiscretions
-until he says frankly “even in the hour of social
-mirth, my gayety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal
-under the hands of the executioner.”</p>
-
-<p>But in the midst of his daily durgery and incessant toil
-through summer heats and winter tempests, traveling
-through the snow, toiling at the plow, thrashing his grain
-with the “weary flingin tree,” attending market, he nevertheless
-found time to chant some of the sweetest lyrics
-ever penned. The outward conditions of his life were dark
-and lowering, but these could not quench those movements
-and ambitions of his inner man which flamed up like the
-lurid flashes of volcanic fires, and threw over the dark
-shadows of his destiny, a glory and a radiant heat which
-no adversity could quench. He works like a slave, it is true,
-but he must need pour in as occasion offered the pure and
-holy oil of lofty aspirations gathered from nature’s ample
-store, and a few well worn books, to feed the deathless
-flame of song which had begun to burn upon the altar of
-his heart. “He carried a book to study at spare moments
-in the field and he wore out thus two copies of MacKenzie’s
-Man of Feeling.” A suggestive hint, for with all his
-misfortunes, and his sins, perhaps, no more tender heart
-ever beat in human breast than that of Robert Burns. None
-more loyal to friendship or more sensitive to generous love
-and sympathy.</p>
-
-<p>“There is sacrecely any earthly object” he says, “which
-gives me more pleasure than to walk in the sheltered side
-of a wood, or high plantation on a cloudy winter day, and
-hear the stormy wind houling among the trees, and raving
-over the plain. I listened to the birds and frequently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
-turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little song
-or frighten them to another station.”</p>
-
-<p>Doubless his own misfortunes brought him into closer
-relations of sympathetic feeling even with the poorest and
-meanest things that were suddenly exposed to loss and pain,
-as for instance in the inadvertent passage of his ploughshare
-through a field mouse’s nest. Listen to his tender strain.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“We sleekit Cowerin timerous beastie,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">O what a pancis in thy breastie;</div>
-<div class="verse">Thou need nae start awa sae hasty,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Wi bickerin brattle</div>
-<div class="verse">I wad de laith to rin and chase thee</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Wi murderin pattle.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>He moralizes at once, and does not think it beneath his
-dignity to put himself on the same plane for a time even
-with a mouse.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“I’m truly sorry man’s dominion</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Has broken nature’s social union</div>
-<div class="verse">An justifies that ill opinion</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Which makes thee startle</div>
-<div class="verse">At me, thy poor earth born companion</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">An fellow moral.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>He sees in the house of “leaves and stubble” so carefully
-collected against the winter storm, and analogy which he is
-slow to improve.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“But mousie thou art no thy lane</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">In proving fore sight may be vain</div>
-<div class="verse">The best laid schemes o’ mince and men</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Gang aft agley</div>
-<div class="verse">An, lea us naught but grief and pain</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">For promised joy.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Perhaps the key note to Burns’ muse may be found in
-the homage which he paid to woman. “He was alwoys in
-love,” and he sang of love in strains as sweet as any mortal
-minstrel ever made, but he was only a mortal after all: and
-his illicit loves are the darkest blot on his name. But at
-first this passion burned with a pure and guileless fervor;
-and the sweetest lyric of his muse is the product of an
-early attachment for Mary Campbell whom “death untimely
-frost” snatched from his embrace. On the anniversary of
-her death, he had stayed out all night in the barn, tossing
-and tumbling till the dawn of day; and before the morning
-star was quenched in the rising sun, he went into the house
-and wrote:</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Thou lingering star, with less’ning ray,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">That lov’st to greet the early morn,</div>
-<div class="verse">Again, thou usher’st in the day,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">My Mary, from my soul was torn.</div>
-<div class="verse">O, Mary! dear departed shade!</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Where is thy place of blissful rest?</div>
-<div class="verse">Seest thou thy lover, lowly laid?</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Hear’st thou the groans, that rend his breast?</div>
-</div>
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">That sacred hour—can I forget,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Can I forget the hallow’d grove,</div>
-<div class="verse">Where, by the winding Ayr we met,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">To live one day of parting love!</div>
-<div class="verse">Eternity—will not efface</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Those records dear, of transports past;</div>
-<div class="verse">Thy image, at our last embrace!</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Ah! little thought I ’twas our last!</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
-</div>
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">O’erhung with wild woods’ thich’ning green;</div>
-<div class="verse">The fragant birch, and hawthorn here,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene:</div>
-<div class="verse">The flowers sprang—wanton to be prest,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">The bird sang love—on every spray;</div>
-<div class="verse">Till, too soon, the glowing west,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Proclaim’d the speed of winged day.</div>
-</div>
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">And fondly broods, with miser care!</div>
-<div class="verse">Time but the impression deeper makes,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">As streams—their channels deeper wear.</div>
-<div class="verse">My Mary! dear departed shade!</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Where is thy place of blissful rest?</div>
-<div class="verse">Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breats?”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>No one has painted with such consummate skill, such tender
-grace, and with such depth of coloring “the short and
-simple annals of the poor” as Burns has done. He knew
-by bitter experience the struggles of poverty, the grinding
-toil needed to wring from an inhospitable climate, and unkindly
-soil the meagre products which barely supported
-life. His “Cottars’ Saturday Night” is a picture of peasant
-life in Scotland unequalled for purity and beauty
-by any production of genius, and is, we think, the crowning
-triumph of his poetic skill. It is a finished production,
-and his words flash upon our memory and imagination
-those scnes of humble but honest poverty, pious worth
-and modest joys, which relieve the monotonous burden of
-the Scottish laborer’s daily toil. The week’s work is done,
-and the poor toiler, gathering his few implements together,
-wends his way across the moor to his humble home. His
-gleeful little ones run to meet him. He is saluted by the
-kindly smile of a contented wife. A bright fire throws a
-genial glow over his poor but tidy home. The elder brains
-drop in with the scanty pittances earned by domestic services
-among their neighbors. Jenny, the pride of the family,
-in the first bloom of womanhood, introduces with bashful
-modesty, an honest lad worthy of her love and confidence.
-The mother is glad that her brain is “respected like
-the lave.”</p>
-
-<p>“The father chats of horses, plows, and kye.” The humble,
-hospitable board is spread, and the evening meal is
-eaten with grateful thanks to God. Then “the big ha’ Bible”
-is brought out, and the old song that fired to enthusiasm
-the children of the Scottish covenant in their wanderings,
-is sung, and “the saint, the father, and the husband
-prays:</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“That thus they all shall meet in future days,</div>
-<div class="verse">There, ever bask in uncreated rays,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">No more to sigh, or shed the tear,</div>
-<div class="verse">Together hymning their Creator’s praise,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">In such society, yet still more dear;</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>As he tells the touching and familiar story, a glow of honest
-pride in his native land kindles in his breast, and he
-places the chaplet of honor upon the brow of pious poverty.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">That make her loved at home, reveered abroad.</div>
-<div class="verse">Princes and Lords are but the breath of Kings,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p>
-<p>Genius had few liberal patrons at that time; and the compensations
-rendered to those who worshipped at the shrine
-of the Muses, consisted in great part in patronizing invitations
-to big dinners or in treats in the dram shops, where
-poets paid for their etertainment by appearing as prodigies,
-or by bartering the fine gold of their wit for draughts from
-the Circean Cup of popular applause and brutal intoxication.</p>
-
-<p>The convivial usages of the country were almost universal;
-and Burns, with his genial nature and love of society,
-easily fell a prey to the seductions of Bacchus. It was considered
-an insult to hospitality to sit down to dinner in the
-house of a friend and get up from the table sober.</p>
-
-<p>It was a time when hosts were not solicitous about the
-results of a revel or the comfort of guests, provided that
-there was a plentiful supply of hot water and sugar to replenish
-the punch bowl.</p>
-
-<p>“But what will I do for beds for all these men?” said
-Margaret, the Laird of Logan’s house keeper. “Keep the
-kettle boiling Marg’et ma Wooman,” said the Laird, “and
-they will a find beds for themselves” to be fechtin’ fou’ or
-“greetin’ fow” was regarded as the normal condition of a
-well dined gentleman.</p>
-
-<p>It was too often alas at such shrines and amid such scenes
-that poor Burns kindled the torch of his inspiration. He
-drew from life when in his masterpiece of “Tam O’Shanter”
-he pictured two drunken Cronies seeking respite from care
-in foaming tankards of ale inn:</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Auld Ayr, wham ne’re a toon surpasses</div>
-<div class="verse">For honest men and bonnie lassies.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>At Tam’s elbow sits Soute Johnie:</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“His ancient droutly cronie:</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Tam lo’ed him like a verra brither;</div>
-<div class="verse">They had been fou for week thegether.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>None knew better than Burns how ephemeral are the joys
-of social drinking, and no one has ever produced such a
-chain of similitudes to describe their fleeting sweetness.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“But pleasures are like poppies spread,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;</div>
-<div class="verse">Or like the Borealis race</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">That flit ere you can point their place;</div>
-<div class="verse">Or like the rainbow’s lovely form</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Evanishing amid the storm.</div>
-<div class="verse">Or like the snow-flakes in the river,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">A moment white, then melts forever.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>We know of nothing in literature that, in the same space,
-contains so much of the homely, the horrible, and the grotesque,
-as will be found in this poem. There is a sharp
-Rembrandt-like minuteness in the details of this Scotch
-Walpurgis night that produces terror on the reader mingled
-with an irrisistible inclination to shriek with laughter. We
-watch the hard drunken sot</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,</div>
-<div class="verse">A better never lifted leg.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Skelping along through the mud and pouring rain, the
-lightnings flashing from “pole to pole.”</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Whiles croomin o’er some auld Scotch sonnet</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
-<div class="verse">While peepm round with prudent care</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Lest bogles catch him unaware.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>Every turn in the road has its tragic associations. Here
-a packman was smothered in the snow. Here hunters found
-a murdered child. Here an old thorn tree near a well where
-a woman hanged herself, etc. Till the adventurers are
-crowned on his approaching the old Kirk at Alloway which
-seems blazing to heaven.</p>
-
-<p>We have stood in it, and really it looks a very innocent
-ruin, nothing but four stone walls, roofles, with a niche at
-one end where he old pulpit once stood. But in that neche
-Burns put “Aul Nick” as a piper to whose music a rabble
-rout of sheol are dancing “fast and furious.” Tammie urges
-on his mare until he comes into the sheolish light which
-gilds the ghastly scene, where the bones of murderers, the
-garter that strangled a babe, the knife that lacerated the
-throat of a father.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“And more of horrible and awful</div>
-<div class="verse">Which even to name would be unlawful.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>He cannot restrain a feeling of tender pity for one of the
-horrible crew who had been that very night enrolled among
-them. He thinks of the time when she was a little innocent
-child.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“O little kenned thy reveren’d granny</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">The sack she Coft for her wee Nannie</div>
-<div class="verse">Wi’twa pund Scots ’twas a’ her riches,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Should ever grace dance o’ witches.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>The climax is reached when Tam, carried away by his
-wonder at the marvelous agility displayed by the leader of
-the infernal gang who was arrayed in a very abbreviated
-under garment, cries out:</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Weel dune cutty sark</div>
-<div class="verse">And in an instant a’was dark,”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>This precipitates the catastrophe.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“As bess bizz out wi, angry fik</div>
-<div class="verse">When murderons assail their bike</div>
-<div class="verse">As open pussey’s mortal foes</div>
-<div class="verse">When, pop, she starts before their nose,</div>
-<div class="verse">As eager runs the market crowd</div>
-<div class="verse">When “catch the thief” resounds aloud,</div>
-<div class="verse">So Maggie runs the witche’s fetlow,</div>
-<div class="verse">With many an eldritch scretch and hollow.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>The devotee of Bacchees hastens to procure the protection
-of the river Doon as witches dare not cross a running
-stream, and is indebted to his good horse for his safety
-although that is secured at the expense of her tail which she
-leaves in the clutches of the “Carlin.”</p>
-
-<p>Perhaps the songs of Burns have exercised a more universal
-influence than his poems. They seize the heart and
-hold it as by a spell of enchantment. Who knows not the
-grand nation melody “Scots wha hae” and the familiar lyrics
-“Auld Lang Syne,” “John Anderson, My Joe,” “Comin’
-through the Rye,” etc. In most of his songs there is a strain
-of sadness as indeed there is in most of the finest Scottish
-lyrics other than those written by Burns.</p>
-
-<p>The brightest gems of the Muse show the sparkle of tears
-or utter the sad sigh which one hears in the moan of the
-waves, or the wail of the midnight wind through a pine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
-forest. But the songs of Burns have a charm that enlist
-the sympathy of the whole world. He voices the universal
-experience. He is the high priest of nature. His words
-give tone and character to the passion, the sorrows, the
-pains and the joys of common people. He uses no artifice
-to engage the interest of others. His genius was a well-spring
-fresh and pure from the fountains of the heart, in
-its first unstrained gushings: too soon, alas, to migle with
-the defiling tributaries which a bitter experience of human
-life brought to blend with the clearer stream. With his
-great heart burning with a sense of wrong done him by
-those who ought to have sheltered and befriended him,
-mixed also with the bitter reflection that his own indiscretions
-and sins had entailed suffering and shame upon himself
-and upon those who were dearer to him than his own
-life, he sinks into the dark tide of death as the age of 38
-years; not, we trust, without a hope that the infinite Father
-of mercy had heard the piteous appeal which he recorded
-in these words.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“O thou great governor of all below</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">If I may dare a litted eye to thee,</div>
-<div class="verse">For all unfit I feel my powers to be</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">To rule their torrent in the hollowed line</div>
-<div class="verse">O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>He wrote his own epitaph, and it is an honest and sincere
-confession, but if he had lived under more favorable auspices,
-and had his environment been such as to assure that
-the flame of his genius would have been nourished from the
-altars of a purer and fitter companionship, he would probably
-have penned a far different stanza than this which
-fitly closes a dark and stormy career, not unrelieved by
-many bright flashes of hope and gladness.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“The poor inhabitant below</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Was quick to learn and wise to know</div>
-<div class="verse">And dearly felt the amorous glow</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">And social flame</div>
-<div class="verse">But thoughtless follies laid him low</div>
-<div class="verse">And stained him name.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>A spirit kindred to that of Robert Burns and one whose
-fame shall never perish, or be dimmed while “Annie Laurie”
-is sung—and where is it not sung? It is that of Robert
-Tannahill, a poor Paisley weaver. We have stood on the
-bridge which spans the canal near the city, and looked with
-sorrowful interest into that pool in the corner, where, driven
-by the demons of poverty and unappreciated talent, the disracted
-author ended his brief life. He was a true poet. He
-wrote many songs that the world will not willingly let die.
-One of the stanzas is peculiarly fine in its delicacy and tenderness:</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Towering o’er the Newton woods</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Laverocks fan the snaw white clouds</div>
-<div class="verse">Siller saughs wi downy buds</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Adorn the banks sae biery.</div>
-<div class="verse">Sweet the snaw flowers early bell</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Decks Gleniffers dewy dell</div>
-<div class="verse">Blooming like thy bonny sell</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">My ain my artless deary.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<p>We would mention another bright name also a native
-of this same town of Paisley. John Wilson—known better<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
-by his pen name of “Christopher North” the author of
-“Noctes Ambrosianae.” He rose from obscurity to great
-honor and to the chair of moral philosophy in the University
-of Ediuburgh. He was a giant in stature as well as in
-mind, and one of the knightliest of men. No one who ever
-met Wilson striding along the street, his long yellow hair
-flowing over his shoulders, his blue eyes gleaming with merriment,
-and glowing with an intelligence that comprehend
-every department of knowledge, could ever forget him.</p>
-
-<p>He may be fairly ranked with Scott and Burns in the
-power he exercised in the later part of his life, in storming
-the heart of the Scottish people—becoming at last their idol
-and great literary representative. He was conemporary
-with Thomas Brown whom he succeeded in the chair of
-moral philosophy, and with Sir William Hamilton, who was
-a candidate with him for the chair, but who, up to that time,
-had not given to the public those proofs of that consumate
-ability by which he was afterwards distinguished, and
-which placed him in the foremost rank of the most eminent
-European scholars.</p>
-
-<p>Wilson once a poet, lecturer, statesman, orator, and novelist.
-He was the intimate friend of Coleridge, Woodsworth,
-and Southey. His poems of the “Isle of Palms” and the
-“City of the Plague” are productions that gave him a worthy
-place among those bright lights of song shed so brilliant a
-luster over that age of great minds, and whose genuis has
-bequeathed to all future time, the priceless legacy if immortal
-harmonies and wealth of thought. He was with all
-a very muscular Christian; “for on more than one occasion,
-the singular spectacle was exhibited of a Scotch professor of
-moral science taking off his coat in a public market place to
-inflict personal chastisment on some ruffian whose obnoxious
-proceedings has done outrage to his nicer sense of the fitness
-of things.” He was, with Lockheart, one of the original
-contributors to Blackwood’s Magazine, and helped
-more than any other author to give that publication a popularity
-that continues to this day.</p>
-
-<p>It is said of Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Letters
-in Ediuburgh University, when he was courting Wilson’s
-daughter that he could not summon up courage to ask
-her father to give his consent to their marriage, although
-he knew how exalted a place he occupied in Wilson’s estimation.</p>
-
-<p>Here stood the silver tongued Aytown, week after week,
-trying to screw up his courage to ask the question that
-filled his heart, but he could not do it. At length he said:
-“Jessie, will you go and ask your father for me as I cannot?”
-Jessie was soon beside her father and acquainted
-him with how matters stood. “Puir Aytown,” said Wilson,
-“I maun gie him his answer in writing.”</p>
-
-<p>So saying he wrote a line without Jessie’s knowledge of
-its purport, and pinning it on the back of her dress, sent
-her off to Aytoun whom he well knew was just at that moment
-fully appreciating the significance of the verb “to
-wait.”</p>
-
-<p>“What did he say, Jessie?” was the impatient interrogatory
-of the loving professor. Jessie turned her back for
-once upon her lover, and then he read the precious answer:
-“With the Author’s compliments.”</p>
-
-<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p>
-
-<p>This same little town of Paisley is distinguished as the
-birth place of another Wilson who is worthy of mention
-here because he became famous as the great “American
-ornithologist”—Alexander Wilson, born 1766. He began
-his career also as a poet with a witty and felicitous production
-called: “Watty and Meg.” That brings out with
-marvelous fidelity some of the most humurous phases of
-Scottish life and character. He came to America in 1794,
-and after many and thrilling adventures, gave to the world
-his great book on “American Birds” in seven quarto volumes.
-George Ord and Charles Lucein Bonaparte completed
-the work by issuing, after Wilson’s death, four volumes
-more. It is a record of patient industry that helped to
-put this land forward in the records of fame, and publish
-to the world its marvelous resources.</p>
-
-<p>We might give brief sketches of such. Dr. Thomas Guthrie,
-the father of the ragged schools of Scotland. One short
-story will illustrate how earnest was the Doctor in his efforts
-to save the children from the dismal and fearful
-depths of vice and crime and infamy.</p>
-
-<p>One night at a public meeting, a reverend but very unsympathetic
-speaker described the ragged school children
-as rescals and vagabonds, the scum of the country. When
-Guthrie’s time for speaking came, he arose with pale face
-and quivering lips, seized a sheet of writing paper from the
-table, and holding it up, said: “This was once the scum of
-the country—once foul, wretched rags. In it, now white as
-the snows of heaven, behold an emblem of the work our
-ragged schools have achieved.”</p>
-
-<p>And there was Sir David Brewster who could “scan with
-more than an eagle’s eye, the mighty creations in the bosom
-of space, and Hugh Miller, that huge geological hammer, inscribed
-with Hebrew characters. It is a very noticeable
-fact, that those minds that have most largely influenced
-the thought and progress of civilized nations have not in
-the main borrowed their light from an illustrious and
-wealthy ancestry, but have risen from the ranks and been
-found chiefly among the humble sons of poverty and toil.
-The genius of Scotland has been nourished and developed
-amid hard and hostile conditions. It has grown strong and
-rooted itself deeply amid tempests and storms! not amid the
-soft and voluptuous ease of effeminate luxury. It has given
-to the world the brightest trophies of sciences, philosophy,
-oratory, and song. Its sons have been scattered among all
-people; but as a rule they have commanded the respect and
-enlisted the effections of all among whom their lot has been
-cast. They have ever felt the force of that fine sentiment
-expressed by the greatestk of their poets.</p>
-
-<div class="poetry-container">
-<div class="poetry">
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="verse">“Is no in title nor in rank</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Its no in wealth like Lunnom Bonk</div>
-<div class="verse">To purchase peace and rest.</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Its no in makin’ muckle mare</div>
-<div class="verse">Its no in books, it no in lair</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">To make us truly blest.</div>
-<div class="verse">If happiness has not its seat and centre in the breast,</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest.</div>
-<div class="verse">Nae treasurers nor pleasures</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">Can make us happy lang</div>
-<div class="verse">The hearts aye the part aye</div>
-<div class="verse indent1">That makes us rich or wrang.”</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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