Biographical Sketch of Allan Ramsay--Lasswade--Ramble along the
banks of the North Esk--Glenesk--A Character--Anecdote of Sir W.
Scott--Hawthornden--Drummond the Poet--His Character and
Genius--Sonnets--Chapel and Castle of Roslin--Barons of
Roslin--Ballad of Rosabelle--Hunting Match between Robert Bruce and
Sir William St. Clair.
Leaving Habbie's Howe, we will let Sandy drive us along the banks of the
river, through Auchindinny, Roslin and Hawthornden, to the pretty
village of Lasswade, where we will spend the night. Sandy can take the
carriage back to Edinburgh, and to-morrow we will ramble on foot through
the classic shades of Roslin and Hawthornden, visit Dalkeith and some
other places, and return to Edinburgh by the railway. In the meantime I
will give you some account of Allan Ramsay.
Allan was born on the 15th of October, 1686, in Crawford Muir,
Lanarkshire, and died in the city of Edinburgh, in the year 1784. He was
at first a wigmaker, and afterwards a bookseller. In 1726 he kept a
little bookstore opposite Niddry's Wynd in the city of Edinburgh, whence
he removed to another, somewhat more commodious at the east end of the
Luckenbooths, having exchanged his old sign of Mercury for the heads of
Ben Jonson and Drummond of Hawthornden, whom he greatly admired. His
early education was limited. He attended the village school at
Leadhills, where, as he himself informs us, he acquired just learning
enough to read Horace "faintly in the original." Of a vigorous
constitution, and a cheerful temper, he spent his time happily in the
country, till his fifteenth year, though his lot seems to have been a
hard one.
"Wading through glens wi' chorking feet,
Where neither plaid nor kilt could fend[56] the weet;
Yet blithely would he bang out o'er the brae,
And stend o'er burns as light as ony rae,
Hoping the morn[57] might prove a better day."
[Footnote 56: Keep off.]
[Footnote 57: To-morrow.]
He went to Edinburgh, a poor country boy, and gradually made his way to
competence, and respectability. Whether he was particularly successful
as a wigmaker we are not informed; but he found the trade of bookseller
infinitely more congenial. Ensconced behind his counter, he could study,
write poetry, chat with his customers, and publish his own lucubrations.
His first principal poem was "Christ's Kirk on the Green," a
continuation of King James's poem of the same name, a rough but graphic
and humorous picture of rustic revelry. Its indelicacy is rather gross,
but it has all the vigor and humor of Hogarth's pictures. His other
poems, containing songs, fables, pastorals, complimentary verses (of
which he has a very large number,) stories and epistles are quite
numerous. They contain a large amount of trash, with here and there
some beautiful gems. He is mainly successful in Scottish verse. His
imitations of the English poets are rather poor. "_The Vision_" is one
of his ablest productions. The Genius of Scotland is painted "with a
touch of the old heroic Muse:"
"Great daring darted frae his ee,
A braid sword shaggled[58] at his knee,
On his left arm a targe;
A shining spear filled his right hand,
Of stalwart make in bane and brawnd,
Of just proportions large;
A various rainbow colored plaid
Owre his left spaul[59] he threw,
Down his braid back, frae his white head
The silver wimplers[60] grew.
Amazed, I gazed
To see, led at command,
A stampant and rampant
Fierce lion in his hand."
[Footnote 58: Dangled.]
[Footnote 59: Shoulder.]
[Footnote 60: Tassels or dangles.]
But his most popular production is the "Gentle Shepherd" which appeared
in 1725--and was received with enthusiasm, not only in Scotland, but in
England and Ireland. It was much admired by Pope and Gay, the latter of
whom, when on a visit to Scotland, with the Duke and Duchess of
Queensberry, used to lounge in Allan Ramsay's shop, and obtain from him
explanations of the Scottish expressions that he might communicate them
to Pope.
Allan uniformly had an eye to the "main chance." He sedulously courted
the great, and managed to accumulate a good many pennies. "In the
mingled spirit of prudence and poetry," he contrived
"To theek[61] the out and line the inside
Of many a douce and witty pash,[62]
And baith ways gathered in the cash."
[Footnote 61: Thatch.]
[Footnote 62: Head.]
He was foolish enough however to lay out his gains in the erection of a
theatre which was prohibited by the magistrates, as an injury to good
morals. So that Allan lost his cash and his pains together, and not only
so, but his good temper. This exposed him to much obloquy, in part
perhaps deserved. He was somewhat Jacobinical in his views, and hated
the Presbyterian clergy, who were afraid of him, as "a half papist," and
a some what licentious writer. Hence he lampooned them with great
severity, in consequence of which he was pretty well lampooned in his
turn.
After all Allan was a true poet, and by no means a bad man. He was
honest, kind-hearted and cheerful. Some of his poetical strains indicate
much elevation and tenderness of spirit.
In personal appearance he was somewhat peculiar. The following amusing
description he has given of himself:
"Imprimis, then, for tallness, I
Am five foot and four inches high,
A black a viced[63] snod dapper fellow,
Nor lean, nor overlaid wi' tallow;
With phiz of a morocco cut,
Resembling a late man of wit,
Auld gabbet Spec[64] who was sae cunning,
To be a dummie ten years running.
Then for the fabric of my mind,
'Tis mair to mirth than grief inclined:
I rather choose to laugh at folly
Than show dislike by melancholy;
Well judging a sour heavy face
Is not the truest mark of grace.
I hate a drunkard or a glutton,
Yet I'm nae fae[65] to wine and mutton:
Great tables ne'er engaged my wishes
When crowded with o'er many dishes;
A healthfu' stomach, sharply set,
Prefers a back-say,[66] piping het,
I never could imagine 't vicious
Of a fair fame to be ambitious;
Proud to be thought a comic poet,
And let a judge of numbers know it,
I court occasion thus to show it."
[Footnote 63: Of a dark complexion.]
[Footnote 64: Does this mean Spectator?]
[Footnote 65: Foe.]
[Footnote 66: Sirloin.]
Allan never suffered his poetry to interfere with his business. Indeed
he abandoned verse altogether in the latter part of his life, rightly
judging that he might not equal his earlier productions, and feeling
moreover that other and more serious engagements demanded his attention.
The following epistle to Mr. Smibert, an eminent painter and intimate
friend, dated Edinburgh, 10th May, 1736, is highly characteristic;
"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND:--
Your health and happiness are ever _ane_ addition to my
satisfaction. God make your life ever easy and pleasant. Half a
century of years have now row'd oe'r my brow, that begins now to
be _lyart_;[67] yet thanks to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep
as sound as I did twenty years _syne_;[68] yes, I laugh heartily
too, and find as many subjects to employ that faculty upon as ever;
fools, fops and knaves, grow as rank as formerly, yet here and
there are to be found good and worthy men, who are _ane_ honor to
_human_ life. We have small hopes of seeing you again in our world;
then let us be virtuous and hope to meet in heaven. My good _auld_
wife is still my bedfellow; my son Allan has been pursuing your
science since he was a dozen years _auld_--was with Mr. Hyffidg, at
London, for some time, about two years ago--has been since at home,
painting here like a Raphael--sets out for the seat of the beast,
beyond the Alps, in a month hence--to be away about two years. I'm
_sweer_[69] to part with him, but _canna_ stem the current which
flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclination. I
have three daughters, one of seventeen, one of sixteen, and one of
twelve years of old, and no _rewayled dragle_[70] among them, all
fine girls. These six or seven years past I have not written a line
of poetry. I e'en gave over in good time, before the coolness of
fancy, that attends advanced years, should make me risk the
reputation I had acquired.
Frae twenty-five to five and forty,
My muse was neither _sweer_[71] nor _dorty_,[72]
My Pegasus wad break her _tether_,[73]
E'en at the _shagging_ of a feather;
And _throw_[74] ideas scour like _drift_,
_Streaking_ his wings up to the lift;
Then when my soul was in a low[75]
That gart[76] my numbers safely row;[77]
But _eild_[78] and judgment _gin_[79] to say,
Let be your _sangs_ and learn to pray.
I am, Sir, your friend and servant,
ALLAN RAMSAY."
[Footnote 67: Wrinkled.]
[Footnote 68: Since.]
[Footnote 69: Loth.]
[Footnote 70: Uncouth sloven.]
[Footnote 71: Reluctant.]
[Footnote 72: Proud or stiff.]
[Footnote 73: Halter.]
[Footnote 74: Through.]
[Footnote 75: Blaze.]
[Footnote 76: Caused.]
[Footnote 77: Roll.]
[Footnote 78: Age.]
[Footnote 79: Begin.]
In 1743 his circumstances were such as enabled him to build a small
octagon shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which he
named Ramsay Lodge, but which some of his witty friends compared to a
goose pie. He told Lord Elibank one day of this ungracious comparison.
"What," said the witty peer, "a goose pie! In good faith, Allan, now that
I see _you_ in it, I think the house is not ill named." He lived in this
odd-looking edifice till the day of his death, enjoying the society of
his friends, and cracking his jokes with perhaps greater quietness, but
with as much gust and hilarity as ever. He was a man of genius, and has
exerted great influence on the lighter literature of Scotland. He was an
immense favorite with Burns, his equal in genius, his superior in depth
of feeling, in tenderness and beauty of expression. But Burns doubtless
owed something to the "wood notes wild," of his illustrious predecessor.
Both have done much to illustrate and beautify their native land.
Next morning at early dawn we are rambling in and around the pretty
village of Lasswade, which lies so sweetly on the left bank of the North
Esk. The river runs in many charming sinuosities through the parish, now
passing over a smooth ledge of rocks, then "wimpling" over shining
pebbles, then gliding with a scarcely perceptible motion "among the
green braes," now wetting the pendant branches of the birch and broom,
anon sleeping in a deep pellucid pool, then leaping "o'er a linn," and
then gushing with a hollow murmur, among the loose gray rocks. Nothing
can be more beautiful and picturesque. Many pretty cottages and handsome
villas adorn the neighborhood. De Quincy, the celebrated English "opium
eater" lives here, and Sir Walter Scott at one time occupied a cottage
in the vicinity. The following is a happy description from his pen, of
the enchanting scenes through which the North and South Esk flow. It is
taken from his ballad of the "Grey Brother."
Sweet are the paths--O passing sweet!
By Esk's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep, through copsewood's deep,
Impervious to the sun.
There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day;
There beauty led by timid love,
May shun the tell-tale ray.
From that fair dome[80] where suit is paid,
By blast of bugle free,
To Auchindinny's hazel glade,
And haunted Woodhouselee.
Who knows not Melville's beechy groove,
And Roslin's rocky glen,
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,
And classic Hawthornden.
[Footnote 80: Pennycuick House, the romantic and elegant residence of
Sir George Clerk, Baronet. "It stands on a flat, in a curve of the
river, with a picturesque glen behind, carrying up the view to the ruins
of Branstane Castle, and the western extremity of the Pentlands--a a
little plain in front, gemmed with a beautiful artificial pond, and
overhung by ascents which are mantled all over with wood--and swells and
eminences on each side, dissevered by ravines, and moulded into many
curvatures of beauty. On the opposite side of the river, at the end of
an avenue at the top of a bank, stands an obelisk, raised by Sir James
Clerk, to the memory of his friend and frequent inmate, Allan Ramsay."]
It is not surprising that multitudes from Edinburgh come to reside here
in the summer time; for what with the varied scenery of rock and river,
copsewood and fell, the pleasant associations of the present, and the
thrilling memories of "Auld lang syne," no region can be more attractive
and agreeable.
Sauntering along, we approach Glenesk, so called from the deep and
charming glen, formed by the winding river. Yonder is an old man at work
in his garden, who looks quite patriarchal, and I dare say knows a good
deal of the neighborhood. Let us accost him.
"Good morning, sir!"
"Gude mornin' gentlemen!"
"You seem to be quite early in your garden this morning."
"Ou aye, we maun mak hay while the sun shines, ye ken, and this is a
graund time for planting."
"You have lived in the neighborhood a considerable time, I presume."
"A' my days."
"Well, it's a beautiful country."
"Ou aye, it's weel eneuch. My faither before me lived in that bit housie
out yonder amang the trees, and he used aften to say, gude auld man!
that the lines had fallen to us in pleasant places, and that we had a
goodly heritage. For my pairt, I like the country unco weel. The burn
there is verra pleasant, its sae caller[81] like, wimpling amang the
rocks and bushes. And what's mair to the pint, it has got a fouth[82] of
fine fish in 't, though thae new fangled mills are frightening them
awa."
[Footnote 81: Fresh.]
[Footnote 82: Abundance.]
"Trout, I suppose."
"Yes, sir, and fine anes too. Ah! mony's the day I hae paidlt in that
burn, when a wee bit callant, catching the trout amang the stanes, when
the water was low."
"Did you know any thing of Sir Walter Scott? He used to live near
Lasswade, and I dare say often wandered this way to fish."
"Ken him! That I did fu' weel. And an honest freendly man he was. He cam
up the burn every noo and then, sometimes wi' a fishing-rod, and
sometimes wi' a staff in his han. He and I got weel acquaint after a
time, for he was nane o' your upstarts, but an unco frank, freespoken
kind of a man. Not that he talked sae muckle himsel, but he was aye
askin about something or ither, and kept my tongue waggin' a' the time.
Ah yes, Sir Walter was a canny man. He knew the hail kintra side, and
used to spier a great many questions about the ways o' the auld folks.
One day he cam alang the burn side, wi' anither gentleman. I happened to
be working down there. His line got tangled in a stane, and he got me to
fetch it out. He then coost it into the deep pule below, making the flee
skim alang the top o' the water, as skeelfully as onything ye ever saw.
When up louped a muckle spotted trout, and in a moment dragged the line
to the other side, then spanked up the burn at an unco rate, running the
line aff the reel, which birred like a spinnin' wheel. Sir Walter
hobbled after it as weel as he could. He was lame, ye ken, but managed
to move pretty quick. The trout plunged and flounced over the shallow
water, got into another deep pule, and ran into the bank, in the hollow
of twa big stanes that were lying there. Now, cried Sir Walter, I have
you my boy; so he kept jerkin awa at him, and out he cam again, when Sir
Walter gave him a wallop, and laid him flat amang the gowans. 'Twas a
bonny sight, I tell you. The trout was nae less than a fit and a quarter
lang, as thick as my arm, and spotted all o'er wi' shining spots, like a
leopard. Sir Walter was unco pleased--rubbed his hans', and every now
and then broke into a smile, as he cracked some joke about the trout.
Hech! it was a guid sight for sair een--to see Sir Walter after the
trout, and specially to see the trout walloping amang the gowans."
"But don't you think that it was rather cruel sport?"
"Cruel! why man, the fish kens naething ava, and out o' its ain element,
it gets choked in a minute. And, for my pairt, I dinna see what fish is
guid for, if not to be catch'd and eaten, specially the big anes! My
gude auld faither used often to say to us, 'Boys, ye mauna be cruel to
the dumb beasts, and when ye gang a fishing, be sure to let the wee fish
gae.'"
"Your father was a worthy man, I dare say."
"That he was, I can assure you. He was respeckit by the hail kintra
side. When auld and feeble, he wud sit before the door, on a divot seat,
the hail simmer day, wi' a braid bonnet on his head, and a lang staff by
his side, reading the Bible, or maybe 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or takin'
wi' the neebors wha cam to see him."
"Did he belong to the established kirk?"
"Na, na, he was ane o' the auld Covenanters, and used to talk a deal
about Cameron and McMillen, as unco powerfu' preachers. He thocht the
present times were wonderfu' degenerate, that the solemn League and
Covenant o' Scotland was amaist forgotten, and that the people
now-a-days were a sort o' inferior race. But he was a gude man; unco
pleasant to look upon, and unco pleasant to hear, when he talked o' the
faithfulness o' Israel's God, and the comfort and blessedness of being
his children. When he deed, he seemed to fa' asleep. A smile was on his
pale face, and his han' lay upon his breast, as it were in token of
resignation to the will o' heaven. He lies buried in the auld
kirk-yard, o'er yonder, wi' the words on his head-stane at his ain
request, 'Blessed are the deed that dee in the Lord.'"
"Are you too a Cameronian?"
"Why no, to tell ye the honest truth. The auld Cameronians are amaist a'
gane; and I just gang o'er here to the free kirk, where, to my notion,
we hae as guid sound preachin as ye'll meet wi' in the hail kintra side.
I'm no sae gude a man as my faither; but I canna forget his counsels and
his prayers."
"Have you any family, my friend?"
"Ou aye. A bit callant, and twa strapping lasses, one of whom is
married."
"Well, that's a comfort."
"A great comfort, sir, in my auld days. Jeanie is weel married, and has
bairns o' her ain. Marion wad a been married, but she was kind a skary,
and so she stays at hame. The bit callant is no my ain, but a neebor's
son that we adopted frae pity, seeing his mither is puir, and his
faither was lost at sea."
"And your wife, is she well?"
"Well! Aye, that she is--in heaven! She's been gane these five
years--(here the tears started in the old man's eyes.) We maun a' dee.
(A brief pause.) But, as my gude auld faither used to say, 'The Lord
gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'"
"Yes, my good old friend, the hope of a Christian, which you seem to
cherish, is a source of infinite comfort. It sweetens the cares of life,
and robs death of its sting. Good morning."
"Gude mornin; and the Lord bless you!"
Ascending the river a short distance, we come to Hawthornden, once the
property and residence of the celebrated poet and historian, William
Drummond, the friend of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson. The house, originally
constructed with reference to strength, surmounts the very edge of a
precipitous cliff, which rises above the river. Winding around it are
charming walks, among the green foliage, which fringes the summit and
sides of the rock, down to the very edge of the water. Wild tangled
bushes, flowering shrubs, birches and oak trees, are mingled in most
picturesque and delightful confusion; while the gray cliffs here and
there, peep out from their sylvan garniture as if sunning themselves in
the summer radiance. Below, the stream, impeded in its course by huge
ledges of rocks, hurries unseen, but distinctly heard, amid the woods;
further on, emerges into the light of day, and forms a broad clear pool,
on the banks of which you may see some industrious fisherman plying his
rod.
"The spot is wild, the banks are steep,
With eglantine and hawthorn blossomed o'er,
Lychnis and daffodils, and hare-bells blue.
From lofty granite crags precipitous,
The oak with scanty footing topples o'er,
Tossing his limbs to heaven; and from the cleft,
Fringing the dark brown, natural battlements,
The hazel throws his silvery branches down:
There starting into view, a castled cliff,
Whose roof is lichen'd o'er, purple and green,
O'erhangs thy wandering stream, romantic Esk,
And rears its head among the ancient trees."
Standing in front of it you see certain artificial caves, hollowed with
immense labor, out of the solid rock. These communicate with each other,
and contain a well of prodigious depth bored from the court-yard of the
mansion. The caves are reported by tradition to have been a stronghold
of the ancient Pictish kings, and three of them bear respectively the
name of 'the king's Gallery, the king's Bed-chamber and the king's
Guard-room.' They were doubtless hewn out, as places of refuge, during
the terrible wars between the English and the Picts, or the English and
the Scots. In the reign of David II, when the English had possession of
Edinburgh, they and the neighboring caves of Gorton afforded shelter to
the heroic Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie and his adventurous band.
Adjoining the house, and overlooking the stream, a kind of seat is cut
in the face of the rock, called 'Cypress Grove,' where Drummond is
reported to have sat, in the fine summer weather, and composed many of
his poems. The magnificent woods in the vicinity suggested to Peter
Pindar the caustic remark respecting Dr. Samuel Johnson, that he
"Went to Hawthornden's fair scene by night,
Lest e'er a Scottish tree should wound the sight."
Crossing the river at a suitable place, we will saunter towards Roslin
on the other side, and while doing so, will beguile the way by talking
of Drummond, whose genius haunts every nook and corner of the shady
dell.
William Drummond was born in 1585 and died in 1649. His father, John
Drummond, was gentleman usher to King James. He was hence educated in
profound reverence for royalty and its prerogatives. Indeed his feelings
upon this subject were entirely slavish; and it is said that his strong
grief at the death of Charles the First hastened his death.
He was well versed in classic literature, and enjoyed the advantages of
a refined and liberal education. Having studied civil law for four years
in France, he succeeded in 1611 to an independent estate, and took up
his residence in Hawthornden. Its cliffs, caves, and wooded dells were
in harmony with his genius, and he spent many happy years in this
beautiful retreat. His first publication was a volume of occasional
poems, of various merit, to which succeeded a moral treatise, in prose,
called "Cypress Grove," in allusion probably to the fairy nook on the
face of the rock where he meditated and wrote, and a second poetical
work entitled "Flowers of Zion." He also wrote the History of the Five
James's, a production of no great merit, in which he urges, to an
extravagant length, the doctrine of the absolute supremacy of kings.
"The Cypress Grove" contains reflections upon death, written in a solemn
and agreeable strain, and contains some fine passages. "This earth,"
says he, "is as a table book, and men are the notes; the first are
washen out, that new may be written in. They who forewent us did leave
room for us; and should we grieve to do the same to those who should
come after us? Who, being suffered to see the exquisite rarities of an
antiquary's cabinet, is grieved that the curtain be drawn, and to give
place to new pilgrims? And when the Lord of the Universe hath shown us
the amazing wonders of his various frame, should we think it hard, when
he thinketh time, to dislodge? This is his unalterable and inevitable
decree; as we had no part of our will in our entrance into this life, we
should not presume to any in our leaving it; but soberly learn to will
that which he wills, whose very will giveth being to all that it wills."
The death of a beautiful young lady, to whom he was betrothed, affected
him deeply; and he sought relief to his wounded feelings in foreign
travel. On returning, some years afterwards, he met a young lady by the
name of Logan, bearing a strong resemblance to the former object of his
affections; on account of which he solicited and obtained her hand in
marriage.
Drummond was intimate with Drayton and Ben Jonson. The latter paid him a
visit at Hawthornden, and they had much free conversation together.
Drummond kept private notes of these conversations, which subsequently
saw the light, and were found to be somewhat injurious to Jonson's
memory. But Drummond himself had no hand in their publication.
As a poet Drummond belonged to the school of Spenser, though far
inferior to the latter in strength of conception and splendor of
imagination. His poems are distinguished for their singular harmony and
sweetness of versification. They seem to partake of the character of the
quiet romantic scenery amid which they were composed. His "Tears on the
Death of Moeliades," (Prince Henry, son of James I.,) and his "River
Forth Feasting," have been much admired. His sonnets, however, are his
best productions. They flow with as much grace and beauty, (though not
perhaps with the same variety,) as the romantic river which murmurs past
his "wooded seat." His madrigals, complimentary verses, and other short
pieces, abound in foolish conceits, and what is worse, in coarse and
licentious language. But he was one of the best poets of the age, and
only inferior to two or three of his great contemporaries.
The following sonnet--"To His Lute"--is very sweet. It was probably
written after the death of the lady to whom he was betrothed;
My lute be as thou wert when thou didst grow,
With thy green mother, in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage[83] did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to join the spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before;
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle still her loss complain.
[Footnote 83: Warbling.]
His sonnet "In Praise of a Solitary Life" was written, we can well
imagine, in his summer bower on the banks of the Esk. It is peculiarly
harmonious:
Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world doth live his own,
Thou solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal love.
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince' throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath.
How sweet are streams, to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horror, troubles, slights:
Woods, harmless shades have only true delights.
The following, "To a Nightingale," is still more beautiful:
Sweet bird! that singst away the early hours
Of winters past or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick as by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres--yes, and to angels' lays.
But we have entered the vale of Roslin, and there, in its beauty, stands
the Chapel of Roslin, one of the most exquisite architectural ruins in
Scotland. It was founded in 1484, or even earlier than that, by the
Earl of Caithness and Orkney. The whole Chapel is profusely decorated
with the most delicate sculpture both within and without. The roof, the
capitals, key-stones and architraves, are all overlaid with sculpture,
representing foliage and flowers, grotesque figures, sacred history and
texts of Scripture. The fine fluted column called the "Apprentice's
Pillar," so named from a tradition which no one believes, and which
therefore we do not repeat, is exceedingly beautiful, being ornamented
with wreaths of foliage and flowers twining around it in spiral columns.
So perfect are these alto relievos, that the author of a pamphlet
describing them, says that he can liken them to nothing but Brussels
lace.
How solemn a thing it is in this chequered light, to wander amid these
sounding aisles and ancient monuments! In the vaults beneath lie the
Barons of Roslin, all of whom, till the time of James the Seventh, were
buried without a coffin, in complete armor. This circumstance, and the
vulgar belief that on the night preceding the death of any of these
barons, the chapel appeared in flames, has been finely described by
Walter Scott, in his touching ballad of Rosabelle.
O listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feats of arms I tell;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And gentle ladye deign to stay!
Rest thee in castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy Firth to-day.
"The blackening wave is edged with white,
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the water sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
"Last night the gifted seer did view,
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay!
Then stay thee, fair, in Ravensheuch;
Why cross the gloomy Firth to-day?"
"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir,
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye mother there,
Sits lonely in her castle hall.
"'Tis not because the ring they ride--
And Lindesay at the ring rides well--
But that my sire the wine will chide
If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle."
O'er Roslin all that dreary night,
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam,
'Twas broader than the watchfire's light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copsewood glen,
'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
Each baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seem'd all on fire, within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar pale;
Shone every pillar, foliage bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair,--
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold,
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold--
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
And each St. Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell,
But the sea caves rung, and the wild winds sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
We now pass over a bridge of great height, spanning a deep cut in the
solid rock, and reach Roslin Castle, with its triple tier of vaults,
standing upon a peninsular rock overhanging the romantic glen of the
Esk. This castle was, for ages, the seat of the St. Clairs, or
Sinclairs, descended from William de Sancto Clare, the son of Waldernus
de Clare, who came to England with William the Conqueror, and fought at
the battle of Hastings. The enumeration of their titles, says Sir Walter
Scott, would take away the breath of a herald. Among others, they were
Princes of the Orcades, Dukes of Oldenburgh, Lord Admirals of the
Scottish Seas, Grand Justiciaries of the kingdom, Wardens of the border,
Earls of Caithness, titularies of more than fifty baronies, patrons and
Grand Masters of Masonry in Scotland, &c. &c.
Of the grandeur and opulence of the family, some conception may be
derived from the following description, given in a manuscript in the
"Advocate's Library," of the state maintained by William St. Clare,
founder of the chapel.--"About that time (1440) the town of Roslin,
being next to Edinburgh and Haddington in East Lothian, became very
populous by the great concourse of all ranks and degrees of visitors
that resorted to this Prince, at his palace of the Castle of Roslin; for
he kept a great court, and was royally served at his own table, in
vessels of gold and silver, Lord Dirleton being his master of the
household, Lord Borthwick his cup-bearer, and Lord Fleming his carver,
&c. He had his halls and other apartments richly adorned with
embroidered hangings. He flourished in the reigns of James the First and
Second. His princess, Elizabeth Douglass, was served by seventy-five
gentlewomen, whereof fifty-three were daughters of noblemen, all clothed
in velvets and silks, with their chains of gold and other ornaments, and
was attended by two hundred riding gentlemen in all her journeys; and if
it happened to be dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings
were at the foot of Blackfriars' Wynd, eighty lighted torches were
carried before her."
The old castle is almost entirely gone, and the present structure is a
comparatively modern one. It belongs to the Earl of Rosslyn, descended
from a collateral branch of the St. Clair family.
It is interesting to think of the magnificent old barons who kept state
in the mouldering castles which everywhere adorn the Scottish landscape.
Some of them were noble specimens of humanity, but the greater
proportion of them were but splendid barbarians. They led a sort of rude
animal life, and were distinguished chiefly for their towering pride and
ungovernable passion. The following story of a hunting match between
King Robert Bruce and Sir William St. Clair, throws an interesting
light on the spirit of the age and the history of the St. Clair family.
"The king had been repeatedly baulked by a fleet white deer which he had
started in his hunt among the Pentland Hills; and having asked an
assembled body of his nobles whether any dogs in their possession could
seize the game that had escaped the royal hounds, Sir William St. Clair
promptly offered to pledge his head that two favorite dogs of his called
'Help and Hold,' would kill the deer before she crossed the March burn.
The king instantly accepted the knight's bold and reckless offer, and
promised himself to give the forest of Pentland Moor in guerdon of
success. A few slow hounds having been let loose to beat up the deer,
and the king having taken post on the best vantage-ground for commanding
a view of the chase, Sir William stationed himself in the fittest
position for slipping his dogs, and in the true style of a Romanist, who
asks a blessing upon a sin, and supposes the giver of the blessing to be
a creature, earnestly prayed to St. Katherine to give the life of the
deer to his dogs. Away now came the raised deer, and away in full chase
went Sir William on a fleet-footed steed; and hind and hunter arrived
neck and neck at the critical March burn. Sir William threw himself in a
desperate fling from his horse into the stream; 'Hold,' just at this
crisis of fate, stopped the deer in the brook, and 'Help' the next
instant came up, drove back the chase, and killed her on the winning
side of the stream. The king, who had witnessed the nicely poised
result, came speedily down from his vantage-ground, embraced Sir
William, and granted him, in free forestry, the lands of Logan House,
Kirkton, and Carncraig. Sir William, in gratitude for the fancied
interference of St. Katherine in his favor, built the chapel of St.
Katherine in the Hopes. The tomb of the wildly adventurous knight who
was so canine in his nature as to reckon his life not too high a pledge
for the fleetness and fierceness of his dogs, is still to be seen in
Roslin chapel; and it very properly represents the sculpture of his
armed person to be attended by a greyhound, as a joint claimant of the
honor and fame of his exploits."
In the neighboring moor of Roslin is the scene of a great battle, in
1302, in which the Scottish army gained, in one day, three successive
victories, a circumstance touchingly referred to by _Delta_, Dr. Moir of
Musselburgh, author of 'Casa Wappy,' 'Wee Willie,' and many other
exquisite contributions to Blackwood's Magazine.
"Three triumphs in a day!
Three hosts subdued by one!
Three armies scattered like the spray,
Beneath one summer sun
Who pausing 'mid this solitude
Of rocky streams and leafy trees,--
Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood,
Would ever dream of these?
Or have a thought that ought intrude
Save birds and humming bees?"
How delightful, as we wander amid these hoary ruins and leafy bowers, so
still and beautiful under the rich light of a summer noon, to think that
the old stormy times of feudal warfare have passed away forever, and
that peace, with balmy wing, is brooding over this and other Christian
lands.
But in this everyday life, the wants of nature must be met. Let us hie
then to the village inn, just beyond the chapel. With our keen
appetites, a snug dinner there will relish better than the most splendid
banquet of the St. Clairs.