BOOK REVIEWS - Miscellaneous

Stormbeaten:  or Christmas Eve at the “Old Anchor” Inn (1862)
 (Written in collaboration with Charles Gibbon.)

The Derby Mercury (15 January, 1862)

LITERATURE.
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The Cruise of the Blue Jacket, and other Sea Stories. By Lieut. WARNEFORD, R.N. London: WARD and LOCK, Fleet-street.
The Night Mail, its Passengers, and How they Fared at Christmas. By PERCY FITZGERALD. Ibid.
Storm-Beaten; or, Christmas Eve at the “Old Anchor” Inn. By WILLIAMS BUCHANAN and CHARLES GIBBON. Ibid.

     The Shilling Volume Library is one of those numerous undertakings which have risen out of Mr. Gladstone’s rash repeal of the paper duty, for which the world will never be one whit the better and may possibly be something the worse. The series appear at present to be confined to the re-issue of some second and third rate tales, in imitation of the French series familiar to early and loose dabblers in the study of the French language. A portion of the Storm-Beaten has been reprinted from All the Year Round, and the other two volumes display some talent in book-making. Any reader, however, who has not too high a standard by which to guage his reading will find plenty for money in the 250 pages which the publishers provide for a shilling. Of course we cannot expect so much of Dickens, Thackeray, or George Eliot tolerably well printed and in a handy form for twelvepence; but even Lieut. Warneford’s Cruise of the Blue Jacket ought to have been printed on better paper than that which lies before us.

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The Newcastle Courant (24 January, 1862)

LITERARY NOTICES.

     THE SHILLING VOLUME LIBRARY.—[London: Ward and Lock, Fleet Street.]—These active publishers have sent us three of a series of shilling volumes of light reading which they are now issuing; and which will cause the lovers of such literature to be thankful for the repeal of the paper duty. For how else could any man expect to get an inch-thick volume of close and well-printed reading for a shilling? The volumes before us are—The Cruise of the Blue Jacket, and other Sea Stories, by Lieut. Warneford; Storm-Beaten, or Christmas Eve at the Old Anchor Inn, by Messrs. Williams, Buchanan and Charles Gibbon; and The Night Mail, its Passengers, and how they Fared at Christmas, by Percy Fitzgerald. In the first volume, the reader will get his money’s worth in romance and exciting incident; in the second, he will get stories which have already appeared in Once a Week and All the Year Round, and others which are original; and in the third, he will get a series of picturesque tales, which will by no means disappoint him. All the reading, so far as we have dipped into it, seems innocent and wholesome; and whilst the Shilling Volume Library continues to be thus characterised, it will have out best wishes for its success.

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The Era (26 January, 1862)

STORM-BEATEN; OR, CHRISTMAS AT THE OLD ANCHOR INN. By WILLIAMS BUCHANAN and CHARLES GIBBON. Ward and Lock, 158, Fleet-street, London.

     This is a curious collection of stories, supposed to be told by the passengers of the “good ship Boomerang,” as they sat round the fire one Christmas Eve, in the hall of the “Old Anchor Inn.” The cause of their being together there was that the ship, after starting for Sydney, was “storm-beaten,” and driven back into the little port of Scuttleton-upon Kegg, where the passengers landed and took refuge in the old inn.
     The Barrister’s story, Recalled to Life, which stands first in the collection, is a strange tale of Mesmerism, the Mesmerist being a young French lady, who, being deeply in love with the barrister himself, attempts to make away with his wife during his absence, by putting her into a mesmeric sleep, and leaving her to die under its influence; but, fortunately, the husband discovers her condition ere it is too late, and makes the Mesmerist, Miss Dupesne, awaken her. And this is no unfair specimen of the style of most of the stories, which partake rather largely of the horribly impossible. The Doctor’s and the Golddigger’s stories, for instance, are of a simple character; the interest of the former depending upon a mysterious murder, and that of the latter upon a lady who, being jealous of one of her fellow-passengers on board a ship homeward bound from the Diggins, revenges herself by setting it on fire. We do not think very highly of the three poetical ones, and hardly agree with the stout, ruddy gentleman in his admiration of the Cabin-Boy’s tale.
     Moreover, we fear that the genteel young gentleman has rather borrowed his story of “My Aunt’s Umbrella” from a tale of the same name, which was published by Messrs. Kent and Co. in 1860, and we think that he has not succeeded nearly so well as the first writer on the subject did. The stout, ruddy gentleman’s narration is much the most lively of the set, as may be inferred from its title, “A Jolly Christmas.” We were particularly amused with the conversation in the conservatory, which the narrator and his friend Bob Dashit overheard. On the whole, “Storm Beaten” will prove an amusing companion to any railroad traveller who likes to spend a shilling upon it.

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Glasgow Herald (5 February, 1862)

THE NIGHT MAIL: Its Passengers, and how they fared at Christmas. By Percy Fitzgerald.
THE CRUISE OF THE BLUE JACKET, and other Sea Stories. By Lieut. Warneford, R.N., author of “Tales of the Coast Guard,” &c.
STORM BEATEN: or, Christmas Eve at the Old Anchor Inn. By Williams Buchanan and Charles Gibbon.
London Ward & Lock, Fleet Street.

THESE are three additional volumes of Messrs. Ward & Lock’s Shilling Volume Library, and though last, they are not by any means the least worthy of those that have gone before. Each volume is complete in itself, and presents the reader with the utmost possible value both in quantity and quality. Every volume of this series that has come under our notice, has been carefully revised, so as to render the “Library” in all respects unexceptionable reading for the young as well as for the old. The “Night Mail” is a collection of Christmas stories told by passengers in a “first class” to while away the time on the road to their various destinations along the line. Some of them are capital stories, and will be read on many a railway and in many a comfortable parlour during the long winter evenings. “The Cruise of the Blue Jacket” is also a budget of stories, full of “hair-breadth ’scapes,” adventures, love scenes and awkward predicaments, all of which are highly interesting and amusing. “Storm Beaten” is constructed in the same way as the “Night Mail.” A number of shipwrecked passengers are congregated together on Christmas Eve in the Old Anchor Inn, and there, around a blazing fire, they tell over the story of their lives. Most of the tales in this volume are written by Mr. R. W. Buchanan, a young man of very promising talents, and a native of Glasgow. He has already made himself known in the world of literature; and from the acknowledged merit of his late productions in several leading magazines and periodicals, it is reasonable to expect that a work of more enduring interest will in due time appear with his name on the title page.

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The Morning Post (18 December, 1869)

     “Storm Beaten,” by Robert Buchanan and Charles Gibbon, is a shilling Christmas volume of prose and verse, one of the series of “The Parlour Library” now in course of issue by Messrs. War, Lock, and Tyler. The introduction relates how the good ship Boomerang was storm beaten; how she was compelled to put back into the port of Scuttleton-upon-Kegg; how everybody came together on Christmas-eve in the Old Anchor Inn; and how well Messrs. Buchanan and Gibbon entertain the storm-beaten company.

“I stand on the bridge, while the river flows
     Under my feet in a dream;
While the faint yellow leaves of the sunset rose
     Close up with a silver gleam;
While the golden eyes of the summer night
     Are opening wide to see
The twilight, sandal’d with moonbeams white,
     Move mistily over the lea.”

No need to say who wrote this as introduction to “The Sickly Gentleman’s Story.”

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The Spectator (25 December, 1869)

     Stormbeaten. By Robert Buchanan and Charles Gibbon. (Ward, Lock, and Tyler.)—This little book contains some very good and effective, and some very poor and melodramatic Christmas stories, and two or three spirited pieces of verse,—we conclude, by Mr. Buchanan,—which, though they will not for a moment compare with his true poems, are very far indeed above the ordinary verse of Christmas annuals. “Reuben Gray, or the sickly gentleman’s story,” is one of the best of these pieces of verse; and the “Gold-digger’s Story” also contains some very spirited descriptive verse. Still, neither of them is at all of the class of poems by which Mr. Buchanan has gained, and we trust will keep, his high character as a poet. The comic prose stories are, we think, the worst. “A Parisian Mystery” is one of the best.

[Note:
Buchanan’s letter to The Spectator of 1st January, 1870, complaining about the reprint of Stormbeaten is available in the Letters to the Press section.]

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Illustrated Times (1 January, 1870 - p.11)

Storm Beaten. By ROBERT BUCHANAN and CHARLES GIBBON. London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler.

     This is a collection of stories with a common setting. They are some in prose and some in verse, and appear to have been written many years ago. Mr. Robert Buchanan, by his “Idylls of Inverburn” and some other works, and Mr. Charles Gibbon, by his “Robin Gray,” have since made their marks, each in a sufficiently decisive way; and though, possibly, they may neither of them be pleased with this reprint, there is nothing in it that either need be ashamed of. Some of the writing is, indeed, very effective, and the whole has, in a high degree, that indescribable characteristic, freshness. The reader must be warned that he will find in this collection pieces which neither of the authors would now write; but, for all that, “Storm Beaten” would, in any case, be pronounced a clever group of stories, with plenty of “go” and invention in them.

Back to the Bibliography or Short Stories

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The Life and Adventures of J. J. Audubon (1869)

The New York Times (6 December, 1868)

AUDUBON THE NATURALIST.
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THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JOHN JAMES AUDUBON, the Naturalist. Edited from materials supplied by his widow, by ROBERT BUCHANAN. London: SAMPSON LOW, SON & MARSTON.

     If the truth that science is cosmopolitan and knows no country, clime or language, needed any demonstration, it might be found in the career of the illustrious AUDUBON. A native of Louisiana, he traveled over nearly every part of this country, spending months and indeed years in England and France to promote the great object to which he devoted his life; and now his biography, edited by a Scotchman, ROBERT BUCHANAN, the poet, has just been published in London, and it cannot be long before it shall be reproduced here, not only as the last mark of respect to one of the greatest geniuses to which our country can lay claim, but to show to all who may be called on to struggle with adverse fortune that there are no obstacles which energy and perseverance, guided by an indomitable will, may not overcome.
     AUDUBON came legitimately by that restless, wandering disposition which aided him so greatly in the production of his life-long studies. His father was a son, the twentieth child of a fisherman, poor in all save his progeny, of Nantes, in France. Beginning life as a boy before the mast, he was rated as an able-bodied seaman at the age of seventeen; at twenty-one commanded a vessel himself, and at twenty-five was the owner and captain of a little craft which was the first of a small fleet with which he voyaged to the West Indies, thus laying the foundation of a future which was subsequently augmented materially by his marriage in Louisiana, with a lady of Spanish extraction. JOHN JAMES AUDUBON was born in Louisiana, and was the youngest of three sons. His mother perished miserably in the negro insurrection in San Domingo, and his father, who had become a Commodore in the French Navy, found a second wife in whose care the boy was left, while the elder AUDUBON returned to this country in the employment of the French Government, where he finally became attached to the army under LAFAYETTE. During his father’s absence the boy had every indulgence from his step-mother. Dancing, fencing, music and drawing were among the accomplishments in which he became more or less proficient, and strange as it may seem, each one of them proved of service to him, even in the wilds of this country, in the pursuit of after life. Condemning such trivialities, his father, on returning from sea, took his son with him to Rochefort where, under his personal supervision, he had him spend a year in the close study of mathematics, with the view of fitting him for military life; but the Commodore soon became convinced that he must abandon this project. The young man had found time, during this brief interval, to indulge his growing desire to know more of natural history, and in this twelvemonth amused himself by drawing sketches of French birds, actually completing two hundred specimens. Making the best of his disappointment, the elder AUDUBON sent his son to this country to look after an estate which he had, with most singular foresight, purchased during his sojourn here some years before. Hardly had the young man landed in this City when he was attacked with yellow fever, which, as he states, he caught “by walking to the bank in Greenwich-street to cash his letter of credit.” Fortunately he fell into good hands. Capt. JOHN SMITH—to which branch of this numerous family the Captain belonged Mr. BUCHANAN omits to inform us—took the young emigrant to Morristown, N. J., where he was carefully nursed by two Quaker ladies, who, doubtless, preserved his life. Subsequently his father’s agent, Mr. FISHER, removed him to his own residence near Philadelphia, and soon afterward handed over to him his father’s property of Mill Grove on Perkiominy Creek. His life here was marked by several important events—the forming the acquaintance of Miss BAKEWELL, whom he afterward married; a narrow escape from drowning by falling into an air-hole while skating on Perkiominy Creek, and the conception of his great work upon American ornithology. That his life here was most agreeable is plain enough from the entries in his diary. He had ample means for all his wants, was gay, extravagant and fond of dress. He writes, “I had no vices; but was thoughtless, pensive, loving, fond of shooting, fishing and riding, and had a passion for raising all sorts of fowls....It was one of my fancies to be ridiculously fond of dress; to hunt in black satin breeches, wear pumps when shooting, and dress in the finest ruffled shirts I could obtain from France.” But this very agreeable existence was rudely broken in upon by the advent of one whom he describes as a “partner, tutor and monitor,” DA COSTA, who not only undertook to put the young man under various wholesome restraints, but even objected to his approaching marriage to Miss BAKEWELL. Revolting against this tyranny, AUDUBON succeeded, after overcoming numerous obstacles, in making his way back to France, where he had no difficulty in persuading his father to revoke the commission under which he had sent DA COSTA to this country. He spent a year in the paternal home, completing during that time, two hundred drawings of European birds, and finally yielding to the wishes of his father so far as to make one short cruise as a midshipman in the French marine. Upon his return, he formed an engagement with FERDINAND ROSIER for a term of nine years. and the two left France for this country just as the Government was making preparations for the gigantic conflict with Russia then believed to be impending. Returning to Mill Grove, he at once dismissed DA COSTA from his situation, and resumed full possession of the estate. Mr. BAKEWELL, afterward his brother-in-law, writes of him at this time, “He had great skill in stuffing and preserving animals of all sorts. He had also a trick of training dogs with great perfection, of which art his famous dog, Zephyr, was a wonderful example. He was an admirable marksman, an expert swimmer, a clever rider, possessed great activity, prodigious strength and was notable for the elegance of his figure and the beauty of his features, and he aided nature by a careful attendance to his dress. Besides other accomplishments, he was musical, a good fencer, danced well, had some acquaintance of legerdemain tricks, worked in hair, and could plait willow baskets”—a catalogue of varied accomplishments, which the chronicler winds up by stating that AUDUBON once swan across the Schuylkill River with him on his back; “certainly,” as Mr. BUCHANAN remarks, “no contemptible feat for a young athlete.”
     After his long sojourn in France, AUDUBON was naturally anxious to close his engagement with Miss BAKEWELL by marrying her, but the father of his intended insisted that he should first get some knowledge of commercial pursuits, and accordingly secured his future son-in-law a place in the counting-house of Mr. BENJAMIN BLAKEWELL, then a prominent merchant in this city. The loss of several hundred pounds in an indigo speculation; the mailing a letter unsealed containing $8,000, and several kindred exploits, speedily decided his unfitness for such pursuits, and receiving unlimited leave of absence he returned to Mill grove. Determined to put an end to his courtship, as a preliminary step he visited Kentucky with ROSIER, his partner, and deciding to settle in Louisville, sold his plantation at Mill Grove, invested his capital in goods, and having completed all his preparations for removal, married Miss BAKEWELL on April 8, 1808, and embarking on a flatboat at Pittsburg with his merchandise and household goods, made his wedding trip to Louisville in this primitive manner.
     ROSIER proved a thorough and capable business man, and AUDUBON took advantage of his partner’s close application to his duties to yield again to the old fascination of bird-hunting and drawing. Louisville finally proved an unremunerative field, and, taking his wife and young son back to his father-in-law’s, a removal to Hendersonville, and subsequently to Genevieve, was successfully made, after encountering numerous hardships. The detentions while voyaging on the Ohio and Mississippi in his flatboat gave AUDUBON numerous opportunities for indulging his tastes, which were eagerly improved, and of some of his adventures, hunting with the Indians, we have pictures from his pen as graphic as any he ever drew with his pencil.
     After describing one day’s sport, he writes:

     “When I awoke in the morning and made my rounds through the camp, I found a squaw had been delivered of beautiful twins during the night, and I saw the same squaw at work tanning deer-skins. She had cut two vines at the roots of opposite trees, and made a cradle of bark, in which the new-born ones were wafted to and fro with a push of her hand, while, from time to time she gave them the breast, and was apparently as unconcerned as if the event had not taken place. * * * *
     I was invited by three hunters to a bear hunt. A tall, robust, well-shaped fellow, assured me that we should have some sport that day, for he had discovered the haunt of one of large size, and he wanted to meet him face to face; and we four started to see how he would fulfil his boast. About half a mile from the camp he said he perceived his tracks, though I could see nothing; and we rambled on through the cane-brake until we came to an immense decayed log, in which he swore the bear was. I saw his eye sparkle with joy, his rusty blanket was thrown off his shoulders, his brawny arm swelled with blood as he drew his scalping-knife from his belt with a flourish which showed that fighting was his delight. He told me to mount a small sapling, because a bear cannot climb one, while it can go up a large tree with the nimbleness of a squirrel. The two other Indians seated themselves at the entrance and the hero went in boldly. All was silent for a few moments, when he came out and said the bear was dead, and I might come down. The Indians cut a long vine, went into the hollow tree, fastened it to the animal, and with their united force dragged it out. I really thought this was an exploit.”

     After a short time spent in Genevieve, AUDUBON became thoroughly wearied of business, and impatient to get back to his young wife who had come as far west as Hendersonville. ROSIER had married, and AUDUBON having sold out his interest to him determined to make his way across the country to Hendersonville. During this journey he met with the most thrilling adventure and the most narrow escape of his life. The story has, we believe, been told in substance before, and has probably been the basis of numerous dime novels and magazine narratives, but it is worth repeating, since the chief part shall be given in AUDUBON’S words. One night as he was making his way across a prairie near the Upper Mississippi, he sought shelter in a log hut, the only inmates of which were a muscular and repulsive-looking woman and a young Indian who had sought assistance there after having, by accident, nearly put out one of his eyes. AUDUBON chanced to let the woman get a glimpse of his watch, which was of rare workmanship, and the sight of it at once aroused her cupidity. Letting her take it to examine, he only managed to get possession of it quietly by a ruse, and not until the Indian had endeavored by pantomime to draw his attention to certain suspicious actions on the part of their hostess. Going out of the hut AUDUBON slipped a ball into each barrel of his rifle, picked the locks, and returning, called his faithful dog to his side, threw himself down upon a few bear skins, and feigned sleep. The rest of the story shall be told in his own words. He writes:

     “A short time had elapsed when some voices were heard, and from the corner of my eyes I saw two athletic youths making their entrance, bearing a dead stag on a pole. They disposed of their burden, and asking for whisky helped themselves freely to it. Observing me and the wounded Indian, they asked who I was, and why the d—l that rascal (meaning the Indian, who, they knew, understood not a word of English,) was in the house? The mother, for so she proved to be, bade them speak less loudly, made mention of my watch, and took them to a corner, where a conversation took place, the purport of which it required little shrewdness in me to guess. I tapped my dog gently, he moved his tail, and with indescribable pleasure I saw his fine eyes alternately fixed on me and raised towards the trio in the corner. I felt that he perceived danger in my situation. The Indian exchanged the last glance with me.
     The lads had eaten and drunk themselves into such condition that I already looked upon them as hors de combat; and the frequent visits of the whisky bottle to the ugly mouth of their dam I hoped would soon reduce her to a like state. Judge of my astonishment when I saw this incarnate fiend take a large carving-knife, and go to the grindstone to whet its edge; I saw her pour the water on the turning machine, and watched her working away with the dangerous instrument, until the cold sweat covered every part of my body, in despite of my determination to defend myself to the last. Her task finished, she walked to her reeling sons, and said: ‘There, that’ll soon settle him! Boys, kill yon—, and then for the watch!’
     I turned, cocked my gun-locks silently, touching my faithful companion, and lay ready to start up and shoot the first who might attempt my life. The moment was fast approaching, and that night might have been my last in this world, had not Providence made provision for my rescue. All was ready. The infernal hag was advancing slowly, probably contemplating the best way of dispatching me while her sons should be engaged with the Indian. I was several times on the eve of rising and shooting her on the spot, but she was not to be punished thus. The door was suddenly opened, and there entered two stout travelers, each with a long rifle on his shoulder. I bounced up on my feet, and making them most heartily welcome, told them how well it was for me that they should have arrived at that moment. The tale was told in a minute. The drunken sons were secured, and the woman, in spite of her defence and vociferations, shared the same fate. The Indian fairly danced with joy, and gave us to understand that, as he could not sleep for pain, he would watch over us. You may suppose we slept much less than we talked. The two strangers gave me an account of their once having been themselves in a similar situation. Day came fair and rosy, and with it the punishment of our captives.
     They were quite sobered. Their feet were unbound, but their arms were still securely tied. We marched them into the woods off the road, and having used them as regulators were wont to use such delinquents, we set fire to the cabin, gave all the skins and implements to the young Indian warrior, and proceeded, well pleased, towards the settlements.”

     Western Kentucky was then, possibly because the country was not “well settled,” troubled, as California is now, with earthquakes. The effect produced by the phenomenon is thus graphically described:

     “In the month of November the naturalist was riding along on horseback, when he heard what he imagined to be the distant rumbling of a violent tornado. ‘On which,’ says he, ‘I spurred my steed, with a wish to gallop as fast as possible to the place of shelter. But it would not do; the animal knew better than I what was forthcoming, and instead of going faster, so nearly stopped, that I remarked he placed one foot after another on the ground with as much precaution as if walking on a smooth sheet of ice. I thought he had suddenly foundered, and, speaking to him, was on the point of dismounting and leading him, when he, all of a sudden, fell a groaning piteously, hung his head, spread out his four legs, as if to save himself from falling, and stood stock still, continuing to groan. I thought my horse was about to die, and would have sprung from his back had a minute more elapsed; but at that instant all the shrubs and trees began to move from their very roots, the ground rose and fell in successive furrows, like the ruffled waters of a lake, and I became bewildered in my ideas, as I too plainly discovered that all this commotion in nature was the result of an earthquake. I had never witnessed anything of the kind before, although, like every other person, I knew of earthquakes by description. But what is description compared with reality? Who can tell of the sensations which I experienced when I found myself rocking, as it were, upon my horse, and with him moved to and fro like a child in a cradle, with the most imminent danger around me? The fearful convulsion, however, lasted only a few minutes, and the heavens again brightened as quickly as they had become obscured; my horse brought his feet to the natural position, raised his head and galloped off as if loose and frolicking without a rider.
     I was not, however, without great apprehension respecting my family, from which I was many miles distant, fearful that where they were the shock might have caused greater havoc than I had witnessed. I gave the bridle to my steed, and was glad to see him appear as anxious to get home as myself. The pace at which he galloped accomplished this sooner than I had expected, and I found with much pleasure, that no greater harm had taken place than the apprehension excited for my own safety. Shock succeeded shock almost every day or night for several weeks, diminishing, however, so gradually as to dwindle away into mere vibrations of the earth. Strange to say, I for one became so accustomed to the feeling as rather to enjoy the fears manifested by others. I never can forget the effects of one of the slighter shocks, which took place when I was at a friend’s house, where I had gone to enjoy the merriment that in our Western country attends a wedding. The ceremony being performed, supper over, and the fiddles tuned, dancing became the order of the moment. This was merrily followed up to a late hour, when the party retired to rest. We were in what was called, with great propriety, a log-house—one of large dimensions and solidly constructed. The owner was a physician, and in one corner were not only his lancets, tournequets, amputating-knives and other sanguinary apparatus, but all the drugs which he employed for the relief of his patients, arranged in jars and phials of different sizes. These had, some days before, made a narrow escape from destruction, but had been fortunately preserved by closing the doors of the cases in which they were contained.
     As I have said, we had all retired to rest. Morning was fast approaching, when the rumbling noise that precedes the earthquake began so loudly as to awaken the whole party and drive them out of bed in the greatest consternation. The scene which ensued was humorous in the extreme. Fear knows no restraint. Every person, old and young, filled with alarm at the creaking of the log-house, and apprehending instant destruction, rushed wildly out to the grass inclosure fronting the building. The full moon was slowly descending from her throne, covered at times by clouds that rolled heavily along, as if to conceal from her view the scenes of terror which prevailed on earth below.
     On the grass plat we all met, in such condition as rendered it next to impossible to discriminate any of the party, all huddled together in a state of almost perfect nudity. The earth waved like a field of corn before the breeze; the birds left their perches and flew about not knowing whither; and the doctor, recollecting the danger of his gallipots, ran to his office to prevent their dancing off the shelves to the floor. Never for a moment did he think of closing the door, but spreading his arms, jumped about the front of the cases, pushing back here and there the falling jars, but with so little success, that before the shock was over he had lost nearly all he possessed. The shock at length ceased, and the frightened females, now sensible of their dishabille, fled to their several apartments.”

     While residing at Hendersonville one misfortune after another overtook AUDUBON. His father died, and as he did not learn of the sad event for nearly a year, he lost, through the failure of a merchant in Richmond, Va., the sum of $17,000, which had been deposited with him by the elder AUDUBON for the benefit of his son. One unfortunate business venture followed another until hardly anything was left him but his sick wife, his gun, his dog and his skill in drawing with his knowledge of dancing, fencing, &c. Still his courage did not for a moment desert him. Foiled in one place he left it for another. From Kentucky he went to Cincinnati, where he was for a time curator of the Museum, and thence down the Mississippi to Natchez and New-Orleans. His diary during this time gives us most graphic sketches of every phase of Western life, with accounts more or less detailed of notabilities with whom he was now and then thrown in contact. Of RAFINESQUE, the eccentric naturalist, he tells this odd incident:

     “After a day’s pursuit of natural history studies, the stranger was accommodated with a bed in an attic-room. We had all retired to rest; every person, I imagined, was in deep slumber save myself, when of a sudden I heard a great uproar in the naturalist’s room. I got up, reached the place in a few minutes, and opened the door, when, to my astonishment, I saw my guest running about naked, holding the handle of my favorite violin, the body of which he had battered to pieces against the walls in attempting to kill the bats which had entered by the open window, probably attracted by the insects flying around his candle. I stood amazed, but he continued jumping and running round and round until he was fairly exhausted, when he begged me to procure one of the animals for him, as he felt convinced they belonged to a ‘new species.’ Although I was convinced of the contrary, I took up the bow of my demolished cremona, and administering a smart tap to each of the bats as it came up, soon got specimens enough. The war ended, I again bade him good night, but could not help observing the state of the room. It was strewed with plants, which had been previously arranged with care. He saw my regret for the havoc that had been created, but added that he would soon put his plants to rights—after he had secured his specimens of bats.”

     Of another eccentricity, a painter, whose name is not given, but whose oddities fascinated AUDUBON, we have this amusing sketch.

     “His head was crowned with a straw hat, the brim of which might cope with those worn by the fair sex in 1830; his neck was exposed to the weather; the broad frill of a shirt, then fashionable, flopped about his breast, while an extraordinary collar, carefully arranged, fell on the top of his coat. The latter was of a light green color, harmonising well with a pair of flowing yellow nankeen trousers and a pink waistcoat, from the bosom of which, amid a large bunch of the splendid flowers of the magnolia, protruded part of a young alligator, which seemed more anxious to glide through the muddy waters of a swamp than to spend its life swinging to and fro among folds of the purest lawn. The gentleman held in one hand a cage full of richly plumed nonpareils, while in the other he sported a silk umbrella, on which I could plainly read ‘Stolen from I.,’ these words being painted in large white characters. He walked as if conscious of his own importance; that is with a good deal of pomposity, singing, ‘My love is but a lassie yet;’ and that, with such thorough imitation of the Scotch emphasis, that had not his physiognomy suggested another parentage, I should have believed him to be a genuine Scot. A narrower acquaintance proved him to be a Yankee; and anxious to make his acquaintance, I desired to see his birds. He retorts, ‘What the devil did I know about birds?’ I explained to him that I was a naturalist, whereupon he requested me to examine his birds. I did so with some interest, and was preparing to leave, when he bade me come to his lodging and see the remainder of his collection. This I willingly did, and was struck with amazement at the appearance of his studio. Several cages were hung about the walls, containing specimens of birds, all of which I examined at my leisure. On a large easel before me stood an unfinished portrait, other pictures hung about, and in the room were two young pupils; and at a glance I discovered that the eccentric stranger was, like myself, a naturalist and an artist. The artist, as modest as he was odd, showed me how he laid on the paint on his pictures, asked after my own pursuits, and showed a friendly spirit which enchanted me. With a ramrod for a rest, he prosecuted his work vigorously, and afterward asked me to examine a percussion lock on his gun, a novelty to me at the time. He snapped some caps, and on my remarking that he would frighten his birds, he exclaimed, ‘Devil take the birds, there are more of them in the market.’ He then loaded his gun, and wishing to show me that he was a marksman, fired at one of the pins on his easel. This he smashed to pieces, and afterward put a rifle bullet exactly through the hole into which the pin fitted.”

     During the vicissitudes through which he passed at this period, he was nobly sustained by his self-sacrificing wife, who secured a position as governess in one or another of the families of wealthy Southern planters able to remunerate her well for her valuable services. AUDUBON had all the while been prosecuting the subscription which was to enable him to bring out his great work on ornithology, and, after securing three hundred names in this country, determined to go to England and take further subscriptions and get the plates under way, and he accordingly sailed from New-Orleans for Liverpool, in April, 1826.
     It would be interesting to follow AUDUBON through his stay in England, and to quote the racy sketches which he gives of men and things; to trace the vicissitudes through which he passed, to note the unfailing energy with which he conquered all obstacles, and then to follow him to France, where the same experiences awaited him, but we must content ourselves with simply alluding to the three years thus spent, which to him perhaps seemed the most eventful of his life. In May, 1829, AUDUBON returned to this country, and, after spending some weeks on the New-Jersey coast, and in “the great pine swamp” in Northumberland County, Penn., he went South to see his wife, from whom he had been so long separated. He spent three months with her at Bayou Sara, and on Jan. 1, 1830, they started for New-Orleans, whence they went North to Washington, and thence to New-York to sail again for Liverpool. During the year following important work was done in getting the Ornithology brought to public notice, and in pushing forward the work upon it, and in spite of what obstacles and with what success, the following paragraph from his journal, written under date of April 15, 1831, will tell:

     “I have balanced my accounts with the Birds of America, and the whole business is really wonderful; $40,000 have passed through my hands for the completion of the first volume. Who would believe that a lonely individual, who landed in England without a friend in the whole country, and with only sufficient pecuniary means to travel through it as a visitor, would have accomplished such a task as this publication! Who would believe that once in London, AUDUBON had only one sovereign in his pocket, and did not know of a single individual to whom to apply to borrow another, when he was on the verge of failure, in the very beginning of his undertaking; and above all, who would believe that he extricated himself from all his difficulties, not by borrowing money, but by rising at 4 o’clock in the morning, working hard all day, and disposing of his works at a price which a common laborer would have thought little more than sufficient remuneration for his work? ‘To give you an idea of my actual difficulties during the publication of my first volume, it will be sufficient to say, that in the four years required to bring that volume before the world, no less than fifty of my subscribers, representing the sum of $56,000, abandoned me! And whenever a few withdrew I was forced to leave London and go to the provinces to obtain others to supply their places, in order to enable me to raise the money to meet the expenses of engraving, coloring, paper, printing, &c.; and that with all my constant exertions, fatigues and vexations, I find myself now having but 130 standing names on my list.”

     On Sept. 3, 1831, AUDUBON again landed in New-York, and soon after went to Florida, where he had determined to spend the Winter. The “Live Oakers,” “Deer Hunting,” “The Wreckers,” “The Touters,” &c., furnish the material for graphic and thrilling sketches to which we can only allude. In August of the following year, with his wife and two sons, he made a journey into the State of Maine, thence through New Brunswick to Labrador, where he spent a summer. A visit to Florida was proposed, but abandoned, for the winter of 1833-34, and in April of 1834 he returned to London with his wife and sons. Soon afterward he called on Baron ROTHSCHILD with proper letters of introduction, hoping to secure his subscription to the Ornithology. He writes:

     “Soon a corpulent man appeared, hitching up his trousers, and a face red with the exertion of walking, and, without noticing any one present, dropped his fat, comfortable body into a chair, as if caring for no one else in this wide world but himself. While the Baron sat, we stood, with our hats held respectfully in our hands. I stepped forward and with a bow tendered him my credentials. The banker opened the letter, read it with the manner of one who was looking only at the temporal side of things, and after reading it said; ‘This is only a letter of introduction, and I expect from its contents that you are the publisher of some book or other and need my subscription.’ Had a man the size of a mountain spoken to me in that arrogant style in America, I should have indignantly resented it; but where I then was it seemed best to swallow and digest it as well as I could; so in reply to the offensive arrogance of this banker I said I should be honored by his subscription to the Birds of America. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I never sign my name to any subscription list; but you may send me your work and I will pay for a copy of it. Gentlemen, I am busy, I wish you good morning.’ We were busy men, too, and so bowing respectfully, we retired, pretty well satisfied with the small slice of his opulence which our labor was likely to obtain.”

     The point of this interview was in its result. Several numbers of the Birds of America were sent to the Baron by AUDUBON and after eight or ten months a bill for £100 was presented. “The Baron” writes AUDUBON, “looked at it with amazement and cried out, ‘What, a £100 for birds! Why, Sir, I will give you £5, and not a farthing more,’” and since the naturalist did not regard that amount of the Baron’s money as worth a £100 from any one else he was compelled to take back the numbers delivered.
     Returning to this country again in August 1836, AUDUBON visited Boston and Washington, at both of which places he was cordially received, dining at the Capital with President JACKSON, and thence he made another visit to Florida and afterward to Texas. In 1838 he again went to England, but came back to America in the following year and settled in this City where he fully expected to spend the remainder of his days. As he had commenced work on his drawings of the quadrupeds of North America, he found that it would be necessary for him to visit the great Western prairies, and accordingly in March 1843, he left New-York on an expedition up the Yellowstone River which occupied him for eight months. When he returned from this expedition he had nearly reached his seventieth year, yet he began to work again with his usual energy and diligence. “The interval of about three years,” Mr. BUCHANAN writes, “which passed between the time of AUDUBON’S return from the West and the period when his mind began to fail, was a short and swift twilight to his adventurous life. After 1846, his mind entirely failed him, and for the last few years of his life his eye lost its brightness, and he had to be led to his daily walks by the hand of a servant. This continued until the Monday before his death. On Monday morning he declined to eat his breakfast, and was unable to take his morning walk. Mrs. AUDUBON had him put to bed, and he lay without any apparent suffering, but refusing to receive any nourishment, until 5 o’clock on Thursday morning, Jan. 27, 1851, ‘when,’ says the widow, ‘a deep pallor overspread his countenance.’ The other members of his family were immediately sent for to his bedside. Then, though he did not speak, his eyes, which had been so long nearly quenched, rekindled into their former lustre and beauty; his spirit seemed to be conscious that it was approaching the spirit land. One of the sons said ‘MINNIE, father’s eyes have now their natural expression;’ and the departing man reached out his arms, took his wife’s and children’s hands between his own, and passed peacefully away.”
     The octavo volume from which we have gleaned these facts in the history of the most distinguished of American naturalists, has been condensed, as Mr. BUCHANAN tells us in the preface, from a manuscript which, if published entire, would have made a book five times as large. That the editor performed his task with judgment is evident, from the fact that this extended review gives but a glimpse at the graphic descriptions and thrilling narratives of adventure, as well as at the piquant and often amusing personalities in which the book abounds. Mr. BUCHANAN also displays his good sense in not yielding more largely to the temptation, which must have been in his case a serious one, to substitute his own narrative for that of AUDUBON himself. The large extracts from the journals of the naturalist bring before us the man more vividly than would have been possible in any other way.
     There is, however, a single blot upon Mr. BUCHANAN’S work, and this is the more unpardonable because it was wilfully placed there, and still more wilfully allowed to remain. At the close of the sixth chapter Mr. BUCHANAN remarks: “If AUDUBON had one marked fault, it was vanity; he was a queer compound of ACTAEON and NARCISSUS—holding a gun in one hand and flourishing a looking glass in the other.” The facts which Mr. BUCHANAN might quote from his biography of AUDUBON to sustain this harsh and sweeping judgment are so few and so easily construed more generously, that good taste, at least, would have dictated the withholding of such a verdict. When the passage we have quoted, and one or two others, but little less severe, came under Mrs. AUDUBON’S eye, she naturally wrote to Mr. BUCHANAN, protesting against their insertion, but so far from withdrawing them, he ungallantly retorts upon Mrs. AUDUBON in the preface, and not only reiterates his judgment with an emphasis which must prove painfully offensive to the personal friends of the great naturalist, but attempted to atone for his faults by complimenting Mrs. AUDUBON’S self-sacrificing spirit. In a matter of so little interest to the public, and which concerned AUDUBON’S family so closely, the slight concession called for might easily have been made, and if the volume shall be reproduced in this country, it is to be hoped that every trace of this unseemly breach of courtesy on the part of the editor may be eliminated from it.

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The Poetical Works of H. W. Longfellow
(edited and prefaced by R. Buchanan) (1869)

The Pall Mall Gazette, reprinted in Littell’s Living Age (No. 1294 - 20 March, 1869 - p.745)

     THE first volume of Messrs. Moxon and Co.’s edition of Mr. Longfellow’s Poetical Works is well printed, though in very small type. It contains all the poet’s narrative pieces. Mr. Robert Buchanan is the editor, and with great condescension introduces this obscure writer to the English public. From his preface, which is short but trenchant, we learn that Mr. Longfellow’s “faculty of story-telling is unique; his spiritual insight singularly calm and pure; his purpose admirable; his cadence rhythmical; and his whole art full of self-reverence and conscience.” In spite of this he is, Mr. Buchanan intimates, not a poet in the highest sense, but. like Byron (to a great extent), Browning (in a higher degree), Goethe (still more nearly), and Crabbe and Scott altogether, a rhetorical versifier, or a writer who “employs verse for the sake of its elegant effects.” “Only a few selective spirits,” it is added, “sing always because they find all other utterance inadequate.” Is Mr. Buchanan aware that “selective” cannot possibly mean selected? Further on we hear that Mr. Longfellow “is now and then prolix, but not so prolix as Goethe in the sub-Faustian and non-lyrical pieces.” We should like to bring Mr. Buchanan to chapter and verse about these “pieces.” This editor seems to be unwilling to praise one man without depreciating another. He tells us that “Evangeline” is “infinitely finer than the ‘Hermann and Dorothea.’” Finally, Mr. Buchanan sends forth the volume with a good word for its contents, and a bad one for a much-abused class of his fellow creatures. “In a word, they are all beautiful, all are full of clear ringing tones, and a pleasant music. The public is right to love them in defiance of small critics, who love nothing.” In six short pages this amiable editor has contrived to disparage a good many persons, including his author, and to leave a most unpleasant impression of dogmatism and pretension on the mental palate prepared to enjoy the Attic fare spread by a gentleman and a scholar. Such a banquet should have another marshal than Mr. Buchanan.

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The Piper of Hamelin (1893)

The Pall Mall Gazette (30 December, 1893 - Issue 8977)

TO AMUSE THE CHILDREN. †

WE “would do anything for the dear children,” as somebody said in the “Pantomime Rehearsal,” and, since the book of Mr. Buchanan’s “fantastic opera” is likely to amuse them, we submit it was worth publishing. But putting the dear children aside, we confess we think it rather slovenly done. Some of it is bright, some of it pretty, but most of it might have been a deal prettier and brighter. If a thing is worth doing, &c. Mr. Buchanan was capable of doing this thing far better than he has done it. Simple it had to be and is, but the simplicity should have been artful and is a little crude. Of the songs the Piper’s in Act I., Scene I., is very good, is robust, and has a pleasant lilt about it. Mr. Buchanan’s sequel to the legend, making the Piper restore the children on condition that the mayor’s daughter is given to him, and then releasing her, is tame perhaps, but sufficient. The comic relief embodied in the mayor is rather weak; it may be humorous to be fat, but is not the whole of humour. Still the thing is pretty and will serve. Mr. Hugh Thomson’s illustrations are not of his very best, but are quaint and with some character.

     † “The Piper of Hamelin: a Fantastic Opera in Two Acts.” By Robert Buchanan. (London: Heinemann.)

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Red and White Heather: North Country tales and ballads (1894)

Aberdeen Weekly Journal (6 June, 1894)

     Mr Robert Buchanan’s new book, “Red and White Heather,” will be ready on June 7. The cover has a charming design in the two sorts of heather, and Mr Buchanan addresses an epilogue to his native country. There are four stories and three verse pieces in the volume, and the note of them all is that of the North. The poems are entitled “The Ballad of Lord Langshaw,” “The Broken Tryst,” and “The Dumb Bairn.”

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Aberdeen Weekly Journal (16 June, 1894)

     FOR the recent extraordinary asperities of Mr Robert Buchanan’s tongue and pen there is now sufficient explanation by his appearance in the Bankruptcy Court. The Bohemian Bob has always been distinguished for his eccentricities — perhaps of late years more for these than for products of genius — but within the last few months he has out-Buchananed Buchanan. He has transformed himself into a literary Ishmael, whose hand is against every man, with the inevitable consequence that every man’s hand is against him. The quarrel with Clement Scott is not a solitary instance. One of the latest and worst acts of his Philistinism is burlesquing the revered dead. This is done in “A Highland Pass,” the principal story in a collection of north country tales and ballads from his pen. In this story he stoops to write a satirical sketch of Alexander Smith. The deceased poet figures as “Walter Syme,” pattern designer, Paisley, but the references are so thinly disguised, and the leading incidents of the poet’s life so closely followed, that identification is all too easy. Making “Walter Syme” Registrar of the University of Aberdeen instead of Alexander Smith actually occupying a similar post in Edinburgh is pretty transparent transplanting. References in the very worst taste to Smith’s wife and her relatives in the Highlands are perfectly inexcusable. It ill becomes Robert Buchanan to do this sort of thing. No one denies his claim to talent. His “God and the Man” and “The Shadow of the Sword” are vastly superior to the ordinary run of novel. But he is not in the same boat with Alexander Smith. He is scarcely worthy of the honour of being allowed to place a flower on the poet’s grave; and therefore he should never have attempted to plant upon it stinging thistles and undergrowth. For purity of diction and sublimity of thought alone the author of “Dreamthorp” and “City Poems” far outstrips his critic. Let the latter remember, and be humble, what Byron said of the Edinburgh reviewers—

A man must serve his time to every trade
Save censure—critics all are ready-made.

In the same work Buchanan satirises the late George Gilfillan as Professor Glenfinlas, mentioning some failings and foibles of that worthy old man. As if not satisfied, he also tilts at Carlyle as “Thomas Ercildoune.” Only two things could account for such wretched conduct—either colic or creditors. It turns out to be the latter.

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The Morning Post (6 July, 1894 - p.6)

     Mr. Robert Buchanan’s volume of tales and ballads, called “Red and White Heather” (Chatto and Windus) offers considerable variety. In “A Highland Princess” he cleverly depicts an aspiring poet’s hopes and disillusions, the latter much intensified by the want of sympathy of his bride, the descendant of the haughty MacInners, whose clanish spirit contributes to the poor man’s ruin. The “Legend of the Mysterious Piper” is fantastic and humorous, while the ballad of “The Dumb Baird” is singularly pathetic.

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The Truth about the Game Laws: a record of cruelty, selfishness, and oppression.
By J. Connell, Poacher, with a preface by Robert Buchanan. (1898)

The Guardian (8 February, 1898 - p.4)

     The Truth about the Game Laws, by J. Connell (W. Reeves, 8vo, pp. 85, 6d.), with an introduction by Robert Buchanan, is one of the publications of the Humanitarian League. The author writes of the injury which the game laws do to farmers and of the social evils to which they give rise. He condemns the “battue” in common with many “good sportsmen,” as the phrase goes. Other points on which he insists (they are less obvious evils of the game laws) are the alleged cruelty to sporting dogs in the course of their training and “the disturbance of nature’s balance” by the artificial fostering of certain animals and the suppression of others which have their undoubted uses. Of shooting pure and simple over a dog we find no condemnation. It is a useful little pamphlet about a subject to which the majority of people have given little thought, and upon which they have, therefore, scarcely formed an opinion.

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