Melrose Abbey--The Eildon Hills--Thomas the
Rhymer--Dryburgh--Monuments to the Author of 'The Seasons' and Sir
William Wallace--Kelso--Beautiful scenery--A Pleasant
Evening--Biographical Sketch of Leyden, Poet, Antiquary, Scholar
and Traveller--The Duncan Family--Journey Resumed--Twisel
Bridge--Battle of Flodden--Norham Castle--Berwick upon
Tweed--Biographical Sketch of Thomas Mackay Wilson, author of 'The
Border Tales'--Conclusion--'Auld Lang Syne.'
After visiting "fair Melrose," whose rains, rising in the centre of a
rich landscape, and rendered immortal by the exquisite descriptions of
Sir Walter Scott, are the most interesting and beautiful of any in
Scotland;--wandering over the Eildon Hills, the Trimontium of the
Romans, from the summits of which some thirty miles of wild and varied
scenery can be surveyed; gazing on the ruins of Ercildoune, the
manor-house of Thomas the Rhymer, whose real name was Thomas Learmont,
author of "The Romance of Tristan," a poem of the thirteenth century, in
the language of antique Chaucer; lingering in Dryburgh Abbey, embosomed
in a richly wooded haugh on the banks of the Tweed; and especially
gazing, in reverent homage, on the grave of "the Great Magician of the
North," in St. Mary's Aisle, so sad and yet so fair; crossing the Tweed,
and pausing a few moments, to examine a circular temple on the banks of
the river, dedicated to the Muses, and surmounted by a bust of Thomson,
author of "The Seasons," and a little further on the colossal statue of
Sir William Wallace, the hero of Scotland, which stands upon a rocky
eminence and overlooks the river, and a fine prospect of "wood and
water, mountain and rock scenery," we pass along the banks of the Tweed,
till we come to the handsome town of Kelso, on the margin of the river,
with its ancient Abbey and delightful environs.
As the day is far spent, we will stay here for the night. But, before
the sun goes down, let us wander over the neighborhood, which is
singularly beautiful, and redolent with the genius of Scott and of
Leyden, who has described it in his "Scenes of Infancy."
"Bosom'd in woods where mighty rivers run,
Kelso's fair vale expands before the sun;
Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,
And fringed with hazel, winds each flowery dell,
Green spangled plains to dimpled lawns succeed,
And Tempe rises on the banks of Tweed:
Blue o'er the river Kelso's shadow lies,
And copse-clad isles amid the water rise."
As the view from the bridge which spans the river is said to be one of
the richest in Scotland, we linger there till the sun goes down. 'Tis a
soft, still, summer afternoon, beginning to glide into the long and
beautiful twilight. The rays of the sun are yet upon the mountains, and
tinge the summits of the woods, the rocks, and the castellated edifices,
which adorn the landscape. The Tweed is gliding, in shadow, through the
wooded vale, and the songs of the mavis and blackbird are echoing among
the trees. A little above the bridge the clear waters of the Teviot and
the Tweed flow together, as if attracted by each other's beauty. Beyond
are the picturesque ruins of Roxburgh Castle, and somewhat nearer the
ducal palace of Fleurs, rising amid a rich expanse of wooded
decorations, sloping down to the very margin of the river; in front are
gleaming two green islets of the Tweed, and between that river and the
Teviot reposes the beautiful peninsula of Friar's Green, with the soft
meadow in its foreground. On the south bank of the river are the mansion
and woods of Springwood Park, and the bridge across the Teviot, on which
are reposing the mellow rays of the setting sun. On the right the town
lies along the bank of the river, with its elegant mansions and
venerable abbey. There too is Ednam House, near which the poet Thomson
had his birth. Far beyond these, the eye rests pleasantly on "the triple
summits" of the Eildon Hills, looking down protectingly upon the vale of
Tweed, the hills of Stitchell and Mellerstain, and the striking ruin of
Home Castle, still arrayed in the purple and gold of departing day.
Intermingled with all these are the windings and rippling currents of
the river, clumps of rich green foliage, orchards laden with fruit,
tufted rocks, verdant slopes, single trees of lofty stature, standing
out from the rest, in the pride and pomp of their "leafy umbrage,"
cattle browsing peacefully on the banks of the stream, here and there a
sylvan cottage, and an infinite variety of light and shade, of blending
colors and changing forms, hallowed, moreover, by the hoary memories and
poetical associations of by-gone days. No wonder that Leyden loved to
wander in such scenes, or that Scott, a more transcendent genius, should
have ascribed to this influence the awakening in his soul "of that
insatiable love of natural scenery, more especially when combined with
ancient ruins, or remains of our fathers' piety and splendor," which
gave a charm to his life, and imparted to the productions of his genius
a warmth and richness of coloring unequalled in the history of
literature.
But it is time to return to our comfortable hotel in Kelso, where mine
host, who is an honest, round-faced, rosy-cheeked, good-natured Scot,
will give us good cheer for supper, and a bed soft as down upon which to
repose our weary limbs.
Well now, this is pleasant! Here in this snug room, with a cheerful cup
of tea, and such toast, broiled chicken, and other edibles, as mine host
only can produce, we feel as easy and independent as kings, aye, and a
great deal more so; for who so satisfied and happy as the man, whatever
his estate, who has a clear conscience, a mind brimful of sweet
memories, a heart grateful to God and attached to those he loves? Let
any person only do what is right, trust in God, enjoy nature, cultivate
his mind, exercise his body, and he may secure as much happiness as
falls to the lot of mortals. Trials may come, but joys will come also.
All things shall "work together for good."
But it is easy moralizing over a good cup of tea, with a cheerful fire
blazing in the grate, and a soft bed in prospect for weary limbs.
Moreover, I promised to give you some account of Leyden, poet and
antiquary, scholar and traveler.
John Leyden was born in 1775, in Denholm, Roxburghshire, not far from
Kelso, of poor but honest parents. He displayed in early life the most
eager desire for learning, but possessed few opportunities for
gratifying it, as he had to spend much of his time in manual toil. His
parents, however, seeing his thirst for knowledge, resolved to send him
to Edinburgh University. He entered this institution in his fifteenth
year, and made unusual progress in his studies. He distinguished himself
in the Latin and Greek languages, acquired the French, Spanish, Italian
and German, besides forming some acquaintance with the Hebrew, Arabic
and Persian. During his college vacations he returned to the humble roof
of his parents, and as the accommodations of the house were scanty, he
looked for a place of study elsewhere. "In a wild recess," says Sir
Walter Scott, who has furnished an animated biography of Leyden, "in the
den or glen which gives name to the village of Denholm, he contrived a
sort of furnace for the purpose of such chemical experiments as he was
adequate to performing. But his chief place of retirement was the small
parish church, a gloomy and ancient building, generally believed in the
neighborhood to be haunted. To this chosen place of study, usually
locked during week days, Leyden made entrance by means of a window,
read there for many hours in the day, and deposited his books and
specimens in a retired pew. It was a well chosen spot for seclusion, for
the kirk, (excepting during divine service,) is rather a place of terror
to the Scottish rustic, and that of Cavers was rendered more so by many
a tale of ghosts and witchcraft, of which it was the supposed scene, and
to which Leyden, partly to indulge his humor, and partly to secure his
retirement, contrived to make some modern additions. The nature of his
abstruse studies, some specimens of natural history, as toads and
adders, left exposed in their spirit vials, and one or two practical
jests played off upon the more curious of the peasantry, rendered his
gloomy haunt, not only venerated by the wise, but feared by the simple
of the parish."
Leyden was originally intended for the clerical profession, but
abandoned it for more secular employments. His spirit was intense,
restless and ambitious, and he longed for foreign travel and literary
distinction. After spending five years at college, he became tutor to a
highly respectable family, with whose sons he repaired to the University
of St. Andrews, where he pursued his Oriental studies, and in 1799
published a History of African Discoveries. He was the author, also, of
various translations and poems, which attracted considerable attention
and introduced him to the best society. In 1800 he was ordained as a
minister, and his discourses were highly popular; but he was
dissatisfied with them, and felt that he was called to a different
sphere. He continued to write and compose, contributed to Lewis's "Tales
of Wonder," and Scott's "Border Minstrelsy." He was an enthusiastic
admirer of the old ballads, and on one occasion actually walked between
forty and fifty miles for the sole purpose of visiting an old person who
possessed an ancient historical ballad. He edited the "Scot's Magazine,"
for a year, and published "The Complaynt of Scotland," an old work
written about 1548, which he accompanied with a learned dissertation,
notes and a glossary. His strong desire to visit foreign lands induced
his friends to procure for him an appointment in India, where he might
study the oriental languages and literature. The only situation which
they found available was that of assistant surgeon, for which it was
necessary to have a medical diploma. But such was the energy, decision
and perseverance of Leyden's character, that he qualified himself in six
months; and not long after set out for Madras. Before taking his
departure he finished his "Scenes of Infancy," as it were, the last
token of his love for Scotland, which he never again beheld. He was
resolved to distinguish himself or die in the attempt. Indeed a
premonition of such an issue seems to have haunted his mind, and was
expressed, with touching beauty, in his "Scenes of Infancy."
"The silver moon at midnight cold and still,
Looks sad and silent o'er yon western hill;
While large and pale the ghostly structures grow,
Reared on the confines of the world below.
Is that dull sound the hum of Teviot's stream?
Is that blue light the moon's or tomb-fire's gleam?
By which a mouldering pile is faintly seen,
The old deserted church of Hazeldean,
Where slept my fathers in their natal clay,
Till Teviot's waters rolled their bones away?
Their feeble voices from their stream they raise--
'Rash youth! unmindful of thy early days,
Why didst thou quit the simple peasant's lot?
Why didst thou leave the peasant's turf-built cot,
The ancient graves where all thy fathers lie,
And Teviot's stream that long has murmur'd by?
And we, when death so long has clos'd our eyes,
How wilt thou bid us from the dust arise,
And bear our mouldering bones across the main.
From vales that knew our lives devoid of stain?
Rash youth! beware, thy home-bred virtues save,
And sweetly sleep in thy paternal grave.'"
After his arrival in Madras, his health became impaired, and he removed
to Prince of Wales Island. He resided there some time, visiting the
neighboring countries, and amassing curious information on the
literature and history of the Indo-Chinese, which he embodied in an
elaborate dissertation read before the Asiatic Society at Calcutta.
Quitting Prince of Wales Island, Leyden was appointed a professor in the
Bengal College, which he soon exchanged for the office of judge, a more
lucrative employment. His spare time was devoted to the prosecution of
his oriental studies. "I may die in the attempt," he wrote to a friend,
"but if I die without surpassing Sir William Jones a hundredfold in
oriental learning, let never a tear for me profane the eye of a
borderer." In 1811 he accompanied the governor general to Java. His
spirit of bold adventure led him literally to rush upon death. He threw
himself into the surf in order to be the first Briton who should set
foot upon Java. When the invaders had taken possession of Batavia, the
same reckless eagerness took him into a cold damp library, in which were
many books and manuscripts. Affected perhaps by the disease of the
climate he had a fit of shivering on leaving the library, and declared
that the atmosphere was enough to give any one a mortal fever. In three
days after he died, August 28, 1811, on the eve of the battle which
secured Java to the British Empire.
Leyden's Poetical Remains were published in 1819, with a memoir. In
addition to the "Scenes of Infancy," it contains some vigorous ballads.
To one of these, "The Mermaid," as well as to the untimely death of its
author, Sir Walter Scott has referred in his "Lord of the Isles."
"Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore
Still rings to Corrievreckin's roar,
And lovely Colonsay;
Scenes sung by him who sings no more:
His bright and brief career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quenched is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour:
A distant and a deadly shore
Has Leyden's cold remains."
His "Scenes of Infancy" is distinguished for the sweetness of its
versification, and its pleasant pictures of the vale of Teviot. In
strength and enthusiasm, it is much inferior to his ballads. The
opening of "The Mermaid," has been praised by Sir Walter Scott "as
exhibiting a power of numbers, which for mere melody of sound has rarely
been excelled."
On Jura's heath how sweetly swell
The murmurs of the mountain bee!
How softly, mourns the writh'd shell,
Of Jura's shore, its parent sea.
But softer, floating o'er the deep,
The mermaid's sweet, sea-soothing lay,
That charmed the dancing waves to sleep,
Before the bark of Colonsay.
But better known, and far more affecting, is Leyden's "Ode to an Indian
Gold Coin," written in Cherical, Malabar, which in addition to its vigor
and beauty, has a fine moral which it is not necessary to point out.
Slave of the dark and dirty mine!
What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine
So bright, whom I have bought so dear?
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear,
For twilight converse arm in arm;
The jackal's shriek bursts on my ear,
When mirth and music wont to cheer.
By Cherical's dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child;
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,
Where loves of youth and friendship smiled
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!
Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!
The perished bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy played,
Revives no more in after time.
Far from my sacred natal clime
I haste to an untimely grave;
The daring thoughts that soared sublime
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.
Slave of the mine, thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.
A gentle vision comes by night
My lonely widowed heart to cheer.
Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding-stars to mine;
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!
I cannot bear to see thee shine.
For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!
I crossed the tedious ocean wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart; the grave
Dark and untimely met my view--
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!
Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame, the lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne?
From love, from friendship, country, torn,
To memory's fond regrets the prey:
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!
Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!
While conversing about Leyden, we must not forget a gentler, purer
spirit, Mary Lundie Duncan, who first saw the light "amid the blossoms
of Kelso," and whose young heart first warbled its poetic strains on the
banks of the Tweed. Her "Memoir," by her gifted mother, is one of the
most beautiful and touching biographies in the English language.
Possessed of genius and piety, at once pure and tender, her brief life
was the fair but changeful spring-time which preceded the long summer of
eternity.
Sweet bird of Scotia's tuneful clime,
So beautiful and dear,
Whose music gushed as genius taught,
With Heaven's own quenchless spirit fraught,
I list--thy strain to hear.
Bright flower on Kelso's bosom born,
When spring her glories shed,
Where Tweed flows on in silver sheen,
And Tiviot feeds her valleys green,
I cannot think thee dead.
Fair child--whose rich unfoldings gave
A promise rare and true,
The parent's proudest thoughts to cheer,
And soothe of widowed woe the tear,--
Why hid'st thou from our view?
Young bride, whose wildest thrill of hope
Bowed the pure brow in prayer,
Whose ardent zeal and saintly grace,
Did make the manse a holy place,
We search--thou art not there.
Fond mother, they who taught thy joys
To sparkle up so high;
Thy first born, and her brother dear
Catch charms from every fleeting year:--
Where is thy glistening eye?
Meek Christian, it is well with thee,
That where thy heart so long
Was garnered up, thy home should be;--
Thy path with Him who made thee free;--
Thy lay--an angel's song.
_Lydia H. Sigourney._
Some of Mary Lundie Duncan's poems are characterized not merely by
purity and elevation of sentiment, but by sweetness and melody of
versification. The following written at "Callander," though not without
defects, indicates the possession of true poetical genius.
How pure the light on yonder hills,
How soft the shadows lie;
How blythe each morning sound that fills
The air with melody!
Those hills, that rest in solemn calm
Above the strife of men,
Are bathed in breezy gales of balm
From knoll and heathy glen.
In converse with the silent sky,
They mock the flight of years;
While man and all his labors die
Low in this vale of tears.
Meet emblem of eternal rest,
They point their summits grey
To the fair regions of the blest,
Where tends our pilgrim way.
The everlasting mountains there
Reflect undying light;
The ray which gilds that ambient air,
Nor fades, nor sets in night.
Then summer sun more piercing bright.
That beam is milder too;
For love is in the sacred light
That softens every hue.
The gale that fans the peaceful clime
Is life's immortal breath,
Its freshness makes the sons of time
Forget disease and death.
And shall we tread that holy ground,
And breathe that fragrant air;
And view the fields with glory crowned
In cloudless beauty fair?
* * * * *
Look up! look up, to yonder light,
That cheers the desert grey:
It marks the close of toil and night,
The dawn of endless day.
How sweet your choral hymns will blend
With harps of heavenly tone;
When glad you sing your journey's end
Around your Father's throne.
Mary's contributions to "The Philosophy of the Seasons," over the
signature of M. L. D., such as "The Rose," "The Bat," "Sabbath Morning,"
an "Autumnal Sabbath Evening," are simple and elegant, indicating the
possession of good sense and a refined imagination. Like her brother
Archibald Lundie, who went to the South Sea Islands in order to benefit
his health, and to labor in the sublime work of Christian missions, Mary
passed away in the morning of her days, but not without leaving a
blessed fragrance behind her, which yet lingers, not over Scotland
alone, but over the whole Christian world. And well might her stricken
yet resigned and hopeful mother say, in the words quoted at the close of
her daughter's _Memoir_:
"I know thou art gone where thy forehead is starred
With the beauty that dwelt in thy soul;
Where the light of thy loveliness cannot be marred,
Nor thy heart be flung back from its gaol:
I know thou hast drank of the Lethe that flows
Through a land where they do not forget;
That sheds over memory only repose;
And takes from it only regret.
"And though like a mourner that sits by a tomb,
I am wrapt in a mantle of care;
Yet the grief of my bosom--oh! call it not gloom--
Is not the black grief of despair.
By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,
Far off thy bright vision appears;
And hope like the rainbow, a creature of light,
Is born like the rainbow--in tears."
_J. K. Hervey._
The Duncan family to which Mary Lundie, by her marriage with one of the
sons, belonged, is one of the most interesting in Scotland. All of its
members seem possessed of fine talents, devoted piety, and generous
affections. Two of the sons, with the father, were ministers of the
established church of Scotland at the time of the secession of the Free
Church from that body, and made a sacrifice, for conscience' sake, of
agreeable situations and handsome incomes. Without the slightest
hesitation, and without a murmur even, they abandoned their beautiful
manses, their churches and people, and threw themselves, with their
brethren of the Free Church, upon the providence of God, not knowing
what might be the issues of that sublime movement. "The Philosophy of
the Seasons,"[179] though written mainly by the father, the Rev. Dr.
Duncan of Ruthwell, received contributions from all the members of the
family, and remains a splendid monument of their talents, piety and
mutual affection. It is fast becoming a classic. Filled with
information, and imbued with a spirit of fervid piety, and, moreover,
written in a lucid, flowing style, it is well fitted at once to instruct
and please.
[Footnote 179: Published by R. Carter, in four handsome octavos.]
As Dr. Duncan has recently deceased, a brief sketch of his life may not
be uninteresting in this connection.
Dr. Henry Duncan was "a son of the Manse." He was born in 1774, at
Lochrutton, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, of which his father and
his grandfather were ministers successively, during a period of eighty
years, a striking instance of pastoral permanence. If wealth consists
"in the number of things we love," then those good men must have been
rich beyond the common lot of ministers; and young Henry must have
received from them a rich heritage of blessings. He was educated at the
Universities of St. Andrews, Glasgow, and Edinburgh. While attending the
latter he was a member of the "Speculative Society," to which many of
the most distinguished literary characters belonged, and associated
freely with Lord Brougham, the Marquis of Landsdowne, Dr. Andrew Thomson
and others. He became the pastor of the Established church in Ruthwell,
Dumfriesshire, where he labored with great success for many years. He
died in the forty-seventh year of his ministry.
Dr. Duncan was imbued with a spirit of enlarged Christian benevolence,
and felt a peculiar interest in the amelioration of the condition of
the poorer classes. Hence he formed the scheme of the "Cheap Repository
Tracts," addressed to the working classes, and designed to enforce the
most useful lessons suited to their condition. It was in this collection
that his "Cottage Fireside" was first published, a production which
became exceedingly popular, and passed through many editions. The book
abounds in happy delineations of Scottish manners, fine strokes of
humor, and admirable lessons of practical wisdom. "The South Country
Weaver," possesses the same qualities and aims; and, in a time of
excessive political excitement, did much to allay the discontent and
revolutionary tendency of the people. He is also said to be the author
of another work of a higher grade, written in the same style of
fictitious narrative, and intended to vindicate the principles and
proceedings of the Scottish Covenanters, from the aspersions cast upon
them by the author of Waverley. This production has been highly esteemed
by good judges of literary merit, but it never became popular.
It may well be supposed that Dr. Duncan felt a peculiar interest, not
only in the spiritual but also in the temporal condition of his own
parish, and hence he was ever devising plans for its benefit. In this
respect he much resembled the benevolent Oberlin, whose well directed
schemes turned the barren parish of Waldbach into a little paradise.
Entering upon the duties of his charge at a time of national scarcity
and distress, he imported from Liverpool, at considerable expense, and
with great personal inconvenience, large quantities of food which he
distributed among his poor parishioners He also devised new modes and
sources of employment, and cheered them amid their privations by his
counsel and sympathy. He instituted among them two admirable "Friendly
Societies," one for males and another for females, the advantages of
which are enjoyed to this day. But perhaps his highest claim to
distinction as a philanthropist was the establishment of "The Ruthwell
Parish Bank," the first "Savings Bank" in Europe, which, it is said, was
suggested to him partly by the beneficial results and partly by the
admitted defects of the Friendly Societies. His undoubted title to be
regarded as the originator of "Savings Banks," has been acknowledged by
the highest authorities; but it is not so generally known at what an
immense expenditure of time, talent, energy and pecuniary means he
succeeded in accomplishing this good object.
Dr. Duncan's learning and talents were of a high order, and these were
devoted exclusively to the benefit of his fellow men. His principal
literary work, "The Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons," was planned and
written in a single year, an astonishing instance of mental energy,
industry and talent. "Never were the different kingdoms and varying
aspects of nature, the characteristics of the seasons, and all the grand
and beautiful phenomena of the year, more philosophically and more
eloquently described than in this charming book. The comprehensive views
of the philosopher, the poetic feeling of the lover of nature, and the
pious reflection of the Christian divine, are all combined in its pages,
and win at once the admiration and affection of the reader." Here genius
and piety, the love of nature and the love of God spread their sunlight
over the face of creation, and make visible to all reverent and
thoughtful minds
"The Gospel of the stars--great Nature's Holy Writ."
As a preacher Dr. Duncan was interesting and instructive, but not
particularly striking and popular. In 1839 he was elected Moderator of
the General Assembly, the highest honor the church could confer. Warmly
attached to evangelical religion, and deeply interested in the purity
and progress of the church of Christ throughout the world, he earnestly
promoted the cause of Christian missions, and kindred schemes of
benevolence. He was intimately associated with Dr. Chalmers and others,
in sustaining the great principles of vital Christianity, the supremacy
of Christ in his own church, and particularly the freedom and
independence of his ministers. "True, therefore, to the principles he
had espoused, and ever warmly defended--true to what he considered the
genuine constitution of the Scottish church, this venerable and amiable
father left, in the ever memorable year 1843, that manse, which he had
inhabited for four and forty long and happy years, and which his own
fine taste had so greatly beautified and adorned--that hallowed home in
which his dutiful and attached children had been reared--in which his
first beloved wife had died, and which was associated with many
delightful recollections of joy and kindness, and prayer, indelibly
engraven on many hearts--for _there_ was many a young idea fostered, and
many a guest and many a stranger hospitably entertained. But with a
cloud of many eminent witnesses, whose names will be embalmed in the
records of their country, Dr. Duncan lifted up his testimony for the
glorious prerogative of Zion's King, and counted the reproach of Christ
greater riches than all the treasures of earth. And actuated by the same
spirit of faith as the martyrs and confessors of other days--the men of
whom the world was not worthy--he abandoned, at an advanced age, all the
comforts of his lovely and endeared home, and all the emoluments and
delights connected with it, and meekly took up his lowly dwelling in an
humble cottage by the way-side, willingly enduring hardship, and
submitting to ingratitude from man, that he might honor his God and hold
fast his integrity, dearer to him than life. He was one of seven
moderators of the old General Assembly, men like himself of high name
and holy deeds, who sacrificed all their honors and emoluments, and cast
in their lot with the Free Church of Scotland, that they might display a
banner for the truth, and who, when driven by a cruel and miserable
policy from those altars which they sanctified, went forth, a veteran
band of Christian heroes, and preached the Gospel of peace and salvation
under the broad canopy of heaven, with gray hairs streaming in the
breeze."
During the summer of 1843 Dr. Duncan preached in the open air, but
finally succeeded by great efforts, in securing a site, and erecting
upon it a church and a manse, a school and a schoolmaster's house. A
suitable successor was appointed to this charge, and Dr. Duncan removed
his residence to the city of Edinburgh. But his affections lingered
around his beloved Ruthwell, and he undertook a journey to England to
secure funds to pay off the debt upon the new buildings and bring them
to a state of completion. Having accomplished his object, he returned to
Scotland in excellent spirits, and reached Comlogan Castle, the
residence of his brother-in-law. On that and the succeeding day he
occupied himself in laying out the grounds about the manse and giving
directions respecting the buildings. On the following Sabbath he
preached to an overflowing audience. Monday and Tuesday were devoted to
visiting his old parishioners. He was invited to address a prayer
meeting at the house of an elder of the Established church, and it was
while engaged in the performance of that duty that the messenger of
Death met him. He had not spoken ten minutes, when his voice trembled,
his body shuddered, and it was evident to all that he was struck with a
sudden paralysis. He was immediately conveyed to Comlogan Castle. "On
his way, though his speech was much affected, his consciousness was
entire, and he repeatedly lifted up his hand, in devout admiration of
God's beautiful works, for the moon, surrounded by thousands of stars,
was shedding its calm and chastened lustre over the face of Nature, and
presented a meet emblem of the inward peace of the dying saint, whose
characteristic taste and love of Nature's beauties were still manifested
even in this trying hour."[180] After two days, in which he suffered
little pain, he gently "fell asleep in Jesus," on Thursday evening, 12th
of February, 1846.
[Footnote 180: "Dumfries Advertiser and Galloway Standard," from which
we quoted a preceding extract.]
Behold the western evening light,
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.
The winds breathe low; the yellow leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;
So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.
How beautiful on all the hills,
The crimson light is shed!
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.
How mildly on the wandering cloud
The sunset beam is cast!
So sweet the memory left behind,
Where loved ones breathe their last
And lo! above the dews of night
The vesper star appears;
So faith lights up the mourner's heart,
Whose eyes are dim with tears.
Night falls, but soon the morning light
Its glories shall restore;
And thus the eyes that sleep in death
Shall wake to close no more.
_Peabody._
Daylight is on the hills, and we are off once more down the Tweed, which
gathers volume by accessions from tributary streams, and mirrors in its
clear bosom many a happy home, nestling among the trees on its banks. We
pass Coldstream, on the north bank of the Tweed, from its proximity to
England a sort of Gretna Green in former times, where Lord Brougham was
married at one of the hotels; whence we journey to Tillmouth; at which
place the Till, a narrow, deep, sullen stream, flows into the Tweed.
Beneath Twisel Castle, which stands upon its banks, you see the ancient
bridge by which the English crossed the Till before the battle of
Flodden.
--"They cross'd
The Till, by Twisel Bridge.
High sight it is, and haughty, while
They drew into the deep defile;
Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall,
Beneath the castle's airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing;
Troop after troop their banners rearing,
Upon the eastern bank you see,
Still pouring down the rocky den
Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim wood glen
Standards on standards, men on men
In slow succession still,
And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,
And passing on, in ceaseless march
To gain the opposing hill."
_Marmion._
Flodden Field, on which the "flowers of the forest," were cut down so
mercilessly, is not far from here, and the whole region seems invested
with an air of "dule and wae."
"Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for once by guile won the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that focht aye the foremost.
The prime o' our land are cauld in the clay.
"We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away."[181]
[Footnote 181: "The Flowers of the Forest," by Miss Jane Elliot, one of
the sweetest and most affecting ballads of Scotland. By the 'Flowers of
the Forest' are meant the young men of Ettrick Forest, slain at Flodden
Field.]
Pursuing our way, we come to Norham Castle, so magnificently described
in Marmion.
"Day set on Norham's castle steep,
And Tweed's fair river broad and deep,
And Cheviot's mountains lone;
The battled towers, the donjon keep,
The loop-hole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,
In yellow lustre shone."
Nine miles further on, we arrive at "Berwick upon Tweed," where the
river falls into the German Ocean, and where our wanderings in Scotland
cease,--the scene of fierce struggles between the Scots and English.
North Berwick was sometimes in the hands of the one, sometimes in the
hands of the other. Its streets often ran blood; its walls echoed the
tramp of armies, the shrieks of the wounded and the groans of the dying.
Its old ramparts are yet standing; but all is quiet and passionless
now. A sort of stillness pervades the place, in striking contrast with
the havoc and turmoil of the ancient Border wars. The environs are full
of historic recollections, which have been well illustrated in the
"Border Tales," by John Mackie Wilson, who was a native of Berwick, and
resided here till his death. This event took place, suddenly and
unexpectedly, on the 2d of September, 1835, when he was only thirty-one
years of age. His early days were spent, in peace and happiness, under
the parental roof. At school he was distinguished for his love of
knowledge, and the rapidity with which he executed all his tasks. At a
suitable age he was apprenticed to a printer, and found the employment
congenial, as it brought him into contact with books. Eagerly thirsting
for knowledge, he soon exhausted his scanty means of gratifying his
taste in Berwick on Tweed, and leaving the place of his nativity,
repaired to London, where he encountered the greatest difficulties and
hardships. It is said that some of the most touching descriptions of the
sufferings endured by the aspirant for fame were actually endured by
himself, and "that the sobs and tears which involuntarily burst from the
family circle when these tales were read, were poured forth for him
whose pen had described them." Often amid the splendor of London, did he
wander "homeless and friendless." But nothing could repress the native
ardor and buoyancy of his mind. And amid all the darkness of the night
which enveloped his pathway, he was ever looking for sunrise. Despair
and poverty, however, drove him from the British metropolis, and he was
forced to seek in the provinces what he could not find in London, nor
did he seek in vain. He reaped "a golden harvest of opinions;" but
poverty continued to be his companion for years. During a sojourn in the
city of Edinburgh, he published several dramas and other poems, which
had a share of success. He wrote a series of "Lectures and Biographical
Sketches," which he delivered with considerable eclat in different towns
of Scotland and England. Three years before his death "he rested from
his wanderings," in his native village, among his friends and early
associates, having been invited to become editor of "The Berwick
Advertiser," which he conducted with great spirit. Amid his labors as an
editor, he found time to indulge his taste for literature, and the
matter of his journal was often enlivened by his own literary and
poetical effusions. But it was "The Border Tales," which made him a
decided favorite with the public, and gave him a warm place in the
Scottish heart. They were published in a fugitive form, and commanded a
circulation far beyond the author's most sanguine hopes. It was from
these that he and his friends saw a prospect of reward for his toils.
But the scene which was thus opening upon him was blighted,--and from
the high place which he had gained in the estimation of his townsmen,
from the caresses of his friends, and from the reproaches of his foes,
he now lies "where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at
rest."
We do not admire Wilson's poetry as a whole; and yet some beautiful
strains might be culled from it. He wrote rapidly and diffusely;
throwing off everything at a first draft, without much correction or
polish. His "Border Tales" are quite miscellaneous in their character,
and contain much that he would doubtless have thrown out, had he lived
to place them in a permanent form. They are written diffusely and
carelessly. But with all their faults, they give indications of genius,
humor and pathos, a keen insight into character, great descriptive
powers, and a fine conception of the beautiful and true. Some of them
are told with great pith and raciness; and though inferior in some
respects, to Professor Wilson's "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life,"
are more natural and easy, more characteristic and amusing. Upon the
whole, they give a better idea of the Scottish character than the
Professor's splendid, but exaggerated pictures. James Mackay Wilson died
too young for his fame; but his simple tales will be read, for many a
day, in the homes of "bonny Scotland." Among other things, they give a
just representation of the religious character of the Scottish
peasantry. While their faults and foibles are depicted with graphic
power, their solemn faith, their profound enthusiasm, and their
leal-hearted piety are exhibited in beautiful relief. Justice is done to
the old Covenanters, whose rough patriotism and burning zeal were the
salvation of their native land. Long may their martyr spirit, softened
by charity, prevail in Scotland; and generations yet unborn shall "rise
up and call her blessed."
In this series of sketches, now brought to a close, it has been the
author's aim to make a contribution to literature, which, while it might
prove attractive, would yet exert a pure moral influence. Such an
excursion beyond the peculiar limits of his profession, he thinks, was
permitted him, and may tend in some slight degree to promote the great
object for which he desires to live. At all events, if he has
accomplished nothing more, he has yet succeeded in calling up "a gentle
vision" of "Auld Lang Syne," by which his own heart has been solaced and
cheered.
"Lang Syne! how doth the word come back,
With magic meaning to the heart,
As memory roams the sunny track,
From which hope's dreams were loath to part!
No joy like by-past joy appears;
For what is gone we fret and pine;
Were life spun out a thousand years,
It could not match Lang Syne!
"Lang Syne!--ah, where are they who shared
With us its pleasures bright and blithe?
Kindly with some hath fortune fared;
And some have bowed beneath the scythe
Of death; while others scattered far
O'er foreign lands, at fate repine,
Oft wandering forth 'neath twilight's star,
To muse on dear Lang Syne!
"Lang Syne!--the heart can never be
Again so full of guileless truth;
Lang Syne!--the eyes no more shall see
Ah, no! the rainbow hopes of youth.
Lang Syne!--with thee resides a spell
To raise the spirit, and refine.
Farewell!--there can be no farewell
To thee, loved, lost Lang Syne!"
_Dr. Moir._