_HOME HOLIDAYS._
The recreations of each summer’s holiday alternated between foreign
travel through unfamiliar scenes, and a sojourn in some choice centre of
Scottish scenery and historical associations. But it was indispensable
for William Nelson’s full enjoyment of either that it should be shared
with Mrs. Nelson and his children. Indeed, the hints that occasionally
transpire in his letters, of the pleasure with which he exchanged their
summer resort for Salisbury Green and Parkside, show that he had been
thinking far more of their happiness than his own. He liked his children
to travel, and while they were still young repeatedly sent them abroad,
either with a tutor and governess, or under the care of some trusted
friend. He had a strong prejudice against Continental boarding-schools,
and instead of sending his daughters to one, he preferred arranging for
their spending successive winters abroad in charge of a friend, where
they had the advantage of masters who came daily to them. The same
feeling animated him in later years, alike in his plans for foreign
travel, and in the choice of a summer haunt among favourite Scottish
scenery.
Of the latter, pleasant memories come back to me of many a ramble by the
Tweed and its tributaries the Ettrick, the Leader, the Yarrow, and other
haunted streams; and by St. Mary’s Loch, which has wooed alike the poets
of elder and of modern times. A mere residence in the country, however
attractive the scenery might be, speedily proved irksome to William
Nelson. His active mind required constant occupation; and the physical
impediments which increasing obesity, accompanied by a retarded action
of the heart, interposed in the way of long pedestrian excursions, only
led to a change in the methods of attaining the same end. He was ever on
the look-out for some fresh and unfamiliar scene. In the summer of 1879
he made his way to St. Kilda, a curious little, outlying, ocean-girt
rock of the Hebrides, the only one of a lonely group that is inhabited--
“Nature’s last limit, hemmed with ocean round.”
Its population numbered in all seventy-five, a decrease from the
previous year; for, as one of them said, “they had lost a foine woman,
the only one who coot speak Enklish.” The rude little hamlet, with its
primitive stone dwellings, each of two apartments, attracted Mr.
Nelson’s curious study; and beyond it a no less primitive bit of
masonry incovered the Tober Childa Chalda, or St. Kilda’s Well, by the
village. But this visit to St. Kilda is noticeable here for an incident
associated with one of William Nelson’s peculiarities that bordered on
eccentricity. Though a business man of punctual habits, and exacting
habitual punctuality in others, he never carried a watch, and indeed, I
believe, never possessed one. He had some inexplicable way of guessing
the time, and could tell it generally with wonderful approach to
accuracy. He never missed a train, or failed to keep an appointment, and
could not see what people wanted with watches. He said he did perfectly
well without one. But this St. Kilda trip furnished an occasion when,
for once, he deplored the want of a timepiece. Immediately on landing on
the island the party were met by the minister, who eagerly inquired if
any of them had a watch, to tell him what o’clock it was. It turned out,
on inquiry, that the minister’s watch, which was the only one on the
island, had been sent away for repair six months before; and if William
Nelson had been the fortunate possessor of one, here was an opportunity
for its useful disposal.
The following summer was passed at Philiphaugh, rich in memories of
Montrose and Leslie; of Alison Rutherford, the songstress; of Scott,
sheriff, as well as poet and novelist; of Hogg, Wordsworth, and all the
legends of the Dowie Dens of Yarrow. The river famed in song and story
flowed by near the house, with “the Duchess’s Walk,” a charming wooded
path on the opposite bank of the river, leading through the grounds of
Bowhill to Newark Castle. Kirkhope Tower, Branksome Hall, Melrose Abbey,
and many another hoary pile, were within reach. William Nelson’s memory
was stored with passages from his favourite poets; and as the
associations of the scene called them to remembrance, he would repeat
long pieces suggested by the locality or adapted to it. It is the centre
of old traditions of the Flodden men; and many a spot along the Tweed
and its tributaries tempted us each new day to wander through scenes
that told everywhere of the Last Minstrel and his Lay. In a letter to
Mr. Campbell he says: “I write this at Philiphaugh, a mansion that we
have taken for summer quarters. It is about two miles from Selkirk, the
scene of the defeat of the Marquis of Montrose. The estate is still
owned by the Murrays of Philiphaugh, the same family who have held it
since the old times of the Border raids and the Debatable Land. A cairn
near the house, now overgrown with ivy, is said to mark the spot where
the Highlanders were surprised by Leslie, and the Marquis turned and
fled. A stone on the cairn is inscribed, ‘To the memory of the
Covenanters who fought and fell on the field of Philiphaugh, and won the
battle there, A.D. September 13, 1645.’ The grounds and woods are
extensive and fine; and there is good fishing for Fred, as the Yarrow
and the Ettrick are close at hand; and there will be good shooting for
him when the time comes.... We had Dr. and Mrs. Wilson and their
daughter with us lately. We enjoyed their visit much; and oh! how fond
Dr. Wilson is of Auld Reekie and its associations, though, alas, there
is but little left now of the ancient city.”
Again, in the summer of 1883 came a concise message by ocean cable,
followed by the ampler invitation: “I have taken Cowdenknowes for the
summer. Come and let us have a look at its surroundings; do not fail.
Cowdenknowes, I may tell you, is an old mansion, historically
interesting, which is situated in one of the most lovely districts in
the south of Scotland. It is about five miles from Melrose; and the
remains of the castle of Thomas the Rhymer, which consist of very
picturesque ivy-covered walls, are on the property. The Leader passes
through the grounds, and it is an excellent trouting-stream. It has
already been laid under contribution in this way by Professor Annandale
and Fred, whenever the water was in a good state for the rod.” Here, as
at Philiphaugh, some fresh ramble was planned each morning; while the
evenings were beguiled with pleasant converse, and apt quotations
germane to the scenes of that land of romance. The ruined castle of
Thomas of Ercildoun has already been noted as close by. In a
neighbouring valley was Oakwood Tower, of old the dwelling of the
wondrous Michael Scott,--
“A wizard of such dreaded fame,
That when in Salamanca’s cave
Him listed his magic wand to wave,
The bells would ring in Notre Dame.”
The Eildon Hills, the tokens of his power, and Melrose, where his bones
were laid “on St. Michael’s night,” are only a few miles off. The
picturesque ruin of Smailholme Tower, where the later minstrel spent the
happiest days of his childhood, was within reach; Abbotsford, the Fairy
Dean, and the Rhymer’s Glen, Dryburgh, and the vale of Tweed, haunted at
every winding with some old tale or song, all wooed us by turns. So each
day had its excursion, its legend of some sort to investigate, its ruin
to explore. It was with William Nelson on the Tweed as on the Nile: he
was indefatigable in the pursuit of information concerning every
minutest object of interest, and never was satisfied till he had seen
for himself, and questioned and sifted all available evidence. The
memories of many a pleasant day, with the incidents of kindly
intercourse and genial humour that added fresh sunshine to the scene,
would furnish material enough to add many a chapter over which old
friends would not readily tire. But such reminiscences can only be
glanced at here. I select, therefore, from among those home holidays
the latest of all: a summer at Glenfeochan.
Glenfeochan is a romantic glen of the West Highlands, through which the
Feochan finds its way to the sea. Oban is only six miles off, and so
steamers and boats and all the attractions of the sea are at hand, such
as ever had a fascination for William Nelson. For he guessed, as has
been seen, that could the pedigree of the Nelsons of Throsk be followed
up, they might prove to be of the stock of old Danish rovers, the sons
of Thor, whose home was on the sea; and so he welcomed the hint at an
etymology of the Bannockburn farm from the Thor of the Vikings.
Unquestionably he possessed not a little of their steady hardihood and
love of adventure, softened though it was by transmission through a
sober race of Covenanters, who tilled the carse where Bruce had
triumphed, and, when needs were, could emulate him in sturdy resistance
to the tyrant.
Glenfeochan House is beautifully situated at the foot of the glen. It
lies low--perhaps a little too low--nestling among the hills, with glens
and lochs on every hand. The drawing-room windows looked across the
river to the sea; and when the curtains were drawn, and a fire was found
not unpleasant in the cool autumn evenings, the emotional delight with
which William Nelson welcomed the songs of Scotland, or some of his
favourite hymns, was infectious. His taste in music was simple, but it
yielded him intense pleasure, and not infrequently moved him to tears.
But such evening relaxations were generally the close of a busy day; for
Oban is a choice centre for the explorer. It afforded means of access to
the fiords or sea-lochs of Argyleshire, and to the outlying Hebrides.
There were Iona and Staffa, Glencoe and Mull, with the ruined keep of
Duart Castle, the Lady Rock, and the legend of “Fair Ellen of Lorne,”
which is perpetuated in Campbell’s ballad of “Glenara.” There was the
vitrified fort of Dun MacUisneachan at Loch Etive to explore; and on the
opposite side of the loch, Dunstaffnage, the home of the Dalriadic
kings, where of old was held in safe keeping the _liah fhail_, or stone
of destiny, now enshrined in the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey.
The unique cairn or serpent-mound of Loch Nell, another object of
special curiosity, was visited more than once, in the hope of arriving
at some definite idea of its actual character. For the fact of a huge
saurian mound, like some of those in the valley of the Ohio, lying there
in a secluded nook between the hills of Lorne that form the steep
escarpment of Glenfeochan, was a thing too exceptional for William
Nelson to allow to pass without some attempt at a solution of its
mysteries.
But the choicest of that summer’s explorations was a day on Eilean
Naombh, or Holy Island. Our Highland boatmen called it Oil Tsiach n’an
Naombh (the College of the Holy People), if we understood rightly; for
we had a good deal more Gaelic than tended to our illumination. Our
party was pleasantly augmented by the addition of the Rev. Dr. Walter
Smith; and William Nelson’s sense of humour was keenly excited by his
report of a dialogue between two of the Highlanders, who, happily for
us, spoke in English. “James,” said the younger of the two, “I have been
told that when the deceiver tempted our mother Eve, it was in Gaelic
that he spoke.”--“Well, Donald, I should think it not at all improbable.
The Gaelic is a very sweet and persuasive language, particularly when
well spoken!” The idea that the Devil’s Gaelic must necessarily be of
the best, was a subject of much mirthful comment. Holy Island, the
southernmost of the Garvelloch Isles, lies opposite Scarba, with the
famous whirlpool of Corryvrechan between. The landing is in a deep cove,
where the first object of attraction is St. Columba’s Well, a clear
fountain of fresh water bubbling out of the living rock on the margin of
the sea. A flight of steps leads up from the sacred pool; and on a level
area a short way above stands the chapel of St. Columba, a little ruined
cell of only twenty-one feet long. It is of the most primitive Celtic
type. A narrow, square-headed opening in the east end, deeply splayed
externally, constitutes the east window; under which is the simple
altar-slab of slate, still entire. On a neighbouring height a rude
enclosure, marked by an upright stone with an incised cross, is
traditionally known as the grave of St. Eithne, the mother of St.
Columba. But the special objects we were in search of were a pair of
bee-hive houses, which we found not far from the chapel. They are built
of unhewed slabs, without cement, conjoined like a figure ∞, rude as any
Hottentot kraal, and old, probably, as the days of the sainted
missionary’s first sojourn among the pagan Celts. The little island is
uninhabited, and out of the reach of ordinary tourists, so that time and
weather are the only injurers of its curious relics. The day at Holy
Island was one of rare enjoyment to all, but especially to William
Nelson, whose intelligent inquisitiveness and love of adventure were
equally gratified.
Within more easy reach of Glenfeochan, in a sequestered nook among the
hills, lies the ancient cemetery of Kilbride, with its ruined church,
its holy well, and moss-grown sepulchral memorials. Here, among others
of note in the district, lie the Macdougals of Lorne, whose castle of
Dunolly stands at the mouth of Oban Bay, with their more modern mansion
near by, where is still preserved the famous Brooch of Lorne. But here,
above all, lies prostrate, in three detached pieces, a singularly
beautiful sculptured cross, with a figure of the crucifixion, and the
traces that show where a crown of bronze, or other more precious metal,
surrounded the Saviour’s head. Its inscription was conned and puzzled
over in repeated visits. Rubbings were taken of it, and the legend at
length deciphered, showing that it was erected in 1616 by the lord of
the neighbouring manor, Alexander Campbell of Laeraig.
The Cross of Kilbride had at this time an unwonted interest, for William
Nelson was already enlisted in the project of erecting at Kinghorn a
memorial cross to Alexander III., the last of the Celtic kings, in the
successful accomplishment of which, as will be seen hereafter, he took
an active part. But, meanwhile, some of the Glenfeochan experiences of a
more special character are worth noting. A letter that followed me to
Canada, written in the middle of October, supplies the details. “Our
stay at Glenfeochan,” he writes, “is fast drawing to a close, Fred only
remaining behind till the end of the week, unless great success with his
rod should tempt him to stay longer. The sight of Loch Nell on Friday
last made his teeth water, as salmon were leaping in it at the north end
in great numbers; he is sure he saw at least forty of them so engaged.
He was not rewarded, however, with even a rise from any of them, and he
had to be contented with bringing home nothing but a single sea-trout,
which, however, was a very respectable one as to size, and in splendid
condition.... There was very nearly being a terrible tragedy here, the
story of which is this. We had staying with us a son of Mr. Keeley
Halswell, the artist, a boy of eleven years of age. He made friends with
the son of the gardener, a boy about eight; and the two went one day to
the loft over the stable to catch mice, they being accompanied by
Bertram’s little dog, Gip. There is in the loft a large chest for
holding grain for the horses, but it was empty at the time; and what did
the two little fellows do? They lifted up the lid and got into the
chest, in order that they might not be seen by the mice; and down came
the lid, the catch took hold, and they were imprisoned like poor Ginevra
of Rogers’s ‘Italy,’--
‘When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there
Fastened them down,’
but happily not for ever. They made what noise they could, and Bertram
heard this; but he thought it was just the boys amusing themselves, and
so he paid no attention to it. Thus it went on, and the poor little
fellows so suffered from want of fresh air that they could not speak to
each other, and were getting very faint. Young Halswell had a dreadful
headache; when at what would have been in all likelihood their last
effort, they tried the lid of the chest, and found to their surprise
that it opened, and they were free, after a confinement that must have
lasted about three hours. For their release they were indebted to the
little dog Gip. After the lid came down they heard the little creature
running round the chest and leaping on it in a state of great
excitement, as if conscious that there was something wrong. His leaps
were continued for a long time; and they are sure that in one of them he
must have pushed his nose at the hasp of the lid and opened it, and
hence their release. Well done, Gip! Nothing could have been more
extraordinary or more unexpected than this.” In the same letter he
refers to a robbery that had just taken place at Parkside, by which
about £250 had been carried off out of the safe. The police seemed to
think that the robbery might have been committed by some one in the
works. It was amusingly characteristic of the writer to find him in a
subsequent letter seemingly deriving much satisfaction from the fact
that the rogue had not been convicted!
His recreations, as already stated, alternated between such pleasant
rambles among the beauties of nature and objects of historic and
archæological interest in his own country as have been glanced at here,
and a journey through novel scenes in foreign lands. The previous summer
had been devoted to the tour in the Baltic and Russia, which has
furnished some brief notes for a previous chapter. Writing to his
friend, Major MacEnery, soon after his return, Mr. Nelson thus
indicated the plans he was already maturing for another season: “We
went over a good many thousand miles in our late journeyings. The only
breakdown was that of Florence, at Moscow, which came in the way to
prevent our all going to the Volga, and seeing some of the strange
sights that are to be witnessed there, especially at the great fair of
Nijni-Novgorod. So we had to leave our visit to that part of the world
till another opportunity; and when I go next to Moscow, which I hope
will be in the course of next summer or autumn, if all’s well, I will
not be satisfied unless I go down the Volga to Astrakhan, at the extreme
north of the Caspian Sea, and sail down that sea to Baku, where the
celebrated oil wells are, and take the railway then across to Batoum on
the Black Sea, and go thence to the Crimea, and so find my way home by
Greece and Vienna: and this will be a glorious journey.”
With such visions of future journeyings in strange lands the year 1884
had drawn to a close. The “breakdown at Moscow,” referred to above,
though it so far balked the plans of the travellers, does not appear to
have materially lessened the pleasure of their trip. In a letter of Mr.
Simon Fraser MacLeod, I find allusions only to “our visit to this
delightful and picturesque old city of Moscow.” The view of it from the
Kremlin surpassed in its novel and singularly picturesque aspect
anything ever seen by them before. They saw also a no less novel
illustration of sacred art, thus described by the same young traveller:
“The Church of the Assumption is a golden pile assuredly; and besides
the head of a nail from the true cross, and a portion of the Virgin’s
mantle, it contains a sacred painting by St. Luke, the beloved
physician. He may have excelled in his latter profession; but prepared
as we were to find any merits in his painting of the holy mother, we
could not discover even the lines of a face or any pretence of a
likeness possible through the rawness of the colours used by the
evangelist in those early and primitive days of art. Mr. Nelson, by the
aid of a candle dimly burning, thought at one time he had discovered
something resembling a beautiful face; but on my suggesting that it was
but the reflection of his own expressive features that he saw, we came
to the conclusion that such was the actual state of the matter.” All was
novel, interesting, and delightful; for the tour was to prove for two
bright young members of the party the prelude to their joining hand in
hand to enter together on the journey of life. They shared in the
Glenfeochan holiday of the following summer, where their own final
arrangements were settled, to the satisfaction of all; and so with
pleasant memories and brightest hopes the family gathered once more
round the cheerful hearth of Salisbury Green.