| When
an Author fails to please the public, he generally does
not fail at the same time to find an abundant quantity
of subterfuges suitable to the occasion. Among other
items, the advice of friends usually holds a conspicuous
situation—not such, however, is the case in the
present instance; and although I do not exercise the
full benefits resulting from a common privilege, yet
I may be allowed to mention briefly a few of the difficulties
that have crossed my literary labours, and if after
all, that impartial jury the public should find me ‘wanting,’
it may afford an opportunity for my friends to prove
their innocence (if not their ignorance) of the Bard
becoming a candidate for the suffrage of the Muse.
The
first thing I offer to the exculpate at least a part
of my rhyming delinquencies, is that of being an expatriated
Scotsman—as a fruit tree that hath been transplanted
after it has attained maturity, may perhaps yield a
faint foliage to the genial embraces of spring, but
forbears to lavish its “beauties on the desert
air,” or as the fond heart that has once
felt the holier impulses of early love and been prematurely
blighted, exists (or rather riots) on its own bitterness—even
such is the author of this volume, an enthusiastic lover
of his native land, but formerly a very stranger to
his own feelings, [Page i]
—————and little knew
Love
is so terrible when true.
Secondly, to a native of Scotland, there is a striking
change apparent, and frequently imposing on the most
careless observer, connected with almost every thing
in Nova-Scotia. The most prominent feature is the language—a
sudden change from the vernacular tongue of an outlandish
borderer, to pure English, is (at least was to me) rather
an awkward transit, to say nothing of the infinite associations
of time, place and circumstance, in that poetical country.
Passing however the manners and customs of the people,
the next thing that presents itself, (especially to
a poet) is the difference of scenery—instead of
the “mountains high” and the “hills
of green,”—the beautiful delapidated tower,
ruin‘d camps of Dane and Roman, fields of classic
rivers and sylvan brooks (each bearing its own specific
designation and its legend besides) of my “pleasant
Teviotdale” let the traveller in Nova-Scotia ask
what is the name of yonder dwelling? the answer is almost
universally Mr. Such or such-a-ones’ farm, and
that contains all the variations of its History; or
enquire the name of the dull half forgotten, or perhaps
unknown stream, in any quarter of the province, and
ten to one but it is either Nine mile or Salmon
river.*
The
last I shall enumerate at present is (for a long preface
is rather an awkward appendage) the apathy for poetry
that exists in Nova-Scotia. In all Europe the sons of
genius, more particularly the children of song, have
shared at least honourable mention from their countrymen;
and although poetry has a peculiar affinity to piety
and patriotism, yet praise is the [Page ii]
breath on which that chamelion a poet exists;
and however frail the tenure, it is the alpha and omega
of his intellectual life.
I
own I labor for the voice of praise,
For
who would sink in dark oblivion‘s stream,
Who
would not live in songs of distant days.
Wolcot.
There
is a charm; a magic power,
To
charm the old, delight the young,
In
lordly hall, in rustic bower,
In
every clime, in every tongue,
Howe‘er
its sweet vibrations rung,
In
whispers low, in poet‘s lays,
There
lives not one who has not hung
Enraptured
on the voice of praise.
Mitford.
far other
is the fate of the Bard in America, more particularly
of Nova-Scotia. In extenuation, it must be admitted,
that it is a young country, where Society is only in
embryo, and the inhabitants being a remnant of many
nations, there is scarcely yet any standard feature
as a nucleus to the whole, excepting a certain species
of vanity, discernable even in the most isolated situations
of life, and, I am sorry to add, often accompanied with
a spirit of detraction, and not unfrequently slander.
The
amiable apostle James, says, “My brethren these
things ought not to be,” but this as well as other
precepts, both christian and moral, has been shamefully
neglected, and in many instances winked out of sight
altogether. However, this is a digression from my preface;
therefore, I shall conclude by observing, that if the
scholar or the critic expect a feast from my labours,
they will both meet with a disappointment; the Author,
a Blacksmith by profession, or more properly, by necessity,
unacquainted even with the simplest elements of education,
but heiring a spirit that would not be made “subject
to bondage willingly” spurned at the never ending
drudgery of forging thunder bolts to Jupiter, and sought
for a hiding [Page iii] place under
the mantle of the muse. Nor has the boon been
altogether denied, in despite of fortune‘s frowning
face, or
“The
luckless star that rules his lot,
“And skrimps his fortune to the groat.”
Finally the
volume was announced to the public, not from any pecuniary
motive, but merely from the vanity of becoming an Author.—Often
and severely have I repented my temerity, since the
prospectus was published; it is one thing to write a
few verses now and then for a weekly paper, under an
anonymous signature, and quite another to come before
the public with something in the “shape of a Book.”
However, this is no “whining appeal”—these
poems are now common property, and with all my faults,
I am not coward enough to turn my back, before
trying the battle. But even if the dreams of enthusiasm
are not realized, still a certain degree of happiness
is mine, arising from a consciousness, that there is
no questionable language nor exceptionable sentiment
to be found in the poems of
ALBYN.
[Page iv]
*
The Author being once travelling in the Western part
of the Province, fell in with a Labourer on the banks
of a rivulet, and naturally enough enquired the name
of the stream.—Why said the “man of feeling”
its no stream at all! Its only the creek “there”—Having
arrived at Annapolis, I came accidentally into the company
of a gentleman who was certainly blessed with a classical
education; among other queries concerning the localities
of the former capital, asked where the Laquille river
lay? ’no such river in this place, Sir, said the
gentleman. No! returned I, not a little surprised ’Haliburton
has it laid down in his map as the Laquille or Allan
River,‘ ’O D—n me, no river at all‘
said he, ’only Allan creek! don‘t I know
as well as Haliburton?” [back]
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