Recreations of Christopher North, Volume 2

Recreations of Christopher
North, Volume 2, by

John Wilson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost
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Title: Recreations of Christopher North, Volume 2
Author: John Wilson
Release Date: November 27, 2006 [EBook #19938]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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RECREATIONS
OF
CHRISTOPHER NORTH

A NEW EDITION IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. II.
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND
LONDON MDCCCLXVIII

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
PAGE MAY-DAY 1
SACRED POETRY:--
CHAPTER I.
, 38
CHAPTER II.
, 53
CHAPTER III.
, 75
CHAPTER IV.
, 88
CHRISTOPHER IN HIS AVIARY:--
FIRST CANTICLE, 98
SECOND CANTICLE, 125
THIRD CANTICLE, 149

FOURTH CANTICLE, 165
DR KITCHINER:--
FIRST COURSE, 182
SECOND COURSE, 194
THIRD COURSE, 203
FOURTH COURSE, 212
SOLILOQUY ON THE SEASONS:--
FIRST RHAPSODY, 224
SECOND RHAPSODY, 239
A FEW WORDS ON THOMSON, 253
THE SNOWBALL BICKER OF PEDMOUNT, 274
CHRISTMAS DREAMS, 285
OUR WINTER QUARTERS, 304
STROLL TO GRASSMERE:--
FIRST SAUNTER, 327
SECOND SAUNTER, 355
L'ENVOY 369
* * * * *
REMARKS ON THE SCENERY OF THE HIGHLANDS, 385

RECREATIONS
OF
CHRISTOPHER NORTH.

MAY-DAY.
Art thou beautiful, as of old, O wild, moorland, sylvan, and pastoral
Parish! the Paradise in which our spirit dwelt beneath the glorious
dawning of life--can it be, beloved world of boyhood, that thou art
indeed beautiful as of old? Though round and round thy boundaries in
half an hour could fly the flapping dove--though the martens, wheeling
to and fro that ivied and wall-flowered ruin of a Castle, central in its
own domain, seem in their more distant flight to glance their crescent
wings over a vale rejoicing apart in another kirk-spire, yet how rich in
streams, and rivulets, and rills, each with its own peculiar murmur--art
Thou with thy bold bleak exposure, sloping upwards in ever lustrous
undulations to the portals of the East! How endless the interchange of
woods and meadows, glens, dells, and broomy nooks, without number,
among thy banks and braes! And then of human dwellings--how rises
the smoke, ever and anon, into the sky, all neighbouring on each other,
so that the cock-crow is heard from homestead to homestead; while as
you wander onwards, each roof still rises unexpectedly--and as solitary,
as if it had been far remote. Fairest of Scotland's thousand
parishes--neither Highland, nor Lowland--but undulating--let us again
use the descriptive word--like the sea in sunset after a day of
storms--yes, Heaven's blessing be upon thee! Thou art indeed beautiful
as of old!
The same heavens! More blue than any colour that tinges the flowers of
earth--like the violet veins of a virgin's bosom. The stillness of those
lofty clouds makes them seem whiter than the snow. Return, O lark! to
thy grassy nest, in the furrow of the green brairded corn, for thy
brooding mate can no longer hear thee soaring in the sky. Methinks
there is little or no change on these coppice-woods, with their full

budding branches all impatient for the spring. Yet twice have axe and
bill-hook levelled them with the mossy stones, since among the broomy
and briery knolls we sought the grey linnet's nest, or wondered to spy,
among the rustling leaves, the robin-redbreast, seemingly forgetful of
his winter benefactor, man. Surely there were trees here in former times,
that now are gone--tall, far-spreading single trees, in whose shade used
to lie the ruminating cattle, with the small herd-girl asleep. Gone are
they, and dimly remembered as the uncertain shadows of dreams; yet
not more forgotten than some living beings with whom our infancy and
boyhood held converse--whose voices, laughter, eyes, forehead--hands
so often grasped--arms linked in ours, as we danced along the
braes--have long ceased to be more than images and echoes, incapable
of commanding so much as one single tear. Alas! for the treachery of
memory to all the holiest human affections, when beguiled by the slow
but sure sorcery of time.
It is MAY-DAY, and we shall be happy as the season. What although
some sad and solemn thoughts come suddenly across us, the day is not
at nightfall felt to have been the less delightful, because shadows now
and then bedimmed it, and moments almost mournful, of an unhymning
hush, took possession of field or forest. We are all alone--a solitary
pedestrian; and obeying the fine impulses of a will, whose motives are
changeable as the cameleon's hues, our feet shall bear us glancingly
along to the merry music of streams--or linger by the silent shores of
lochs--or upon