"Shone every pillar foliage-bound"--
suggests to the mind the profusion and elaborateness of the leafy
decorations in the inside. Among these, one pillar, garlanded with
spiral wreaths of carved foliage, is called the "Apprentice's Pillar;"
the tradition being, that while the master was gone to Rome to get some
further hints on executing the plan, a precocious young mason, whom he
left at home, completed it in his absence. The master builder summarily
knocked him on the head, as a warning to all progressive young men not
to grow wiser than their teachers. Tradition points out the heads of the
master and workmen among the corbels. So you see, whereas in old Greek
times people used to point out their celebrities among the stars, and
gave a defunct hero a place in the constellations, in the middle ages he
only got a place among the corbels.
I am increasingly sorry that I was beguiled out of my personal
examination of this chapel, since I have seen the plates of it in my
Baronial Sketches. It is the rival of Melrose, but more elaborate; in
fact, it is a perfect cataract of architectural vivacity and ingenuity,
as defiant of any rules of criticism and art as the leaf-embowered
arcades and arches of our American forest cathedrals. From the
comparison of the plates of the engravings, I should judge there was
less delicacy of taste, and more exuberance of invention, than in
Melrose. One old prosaic commentator on it says that it is quite
remarkable that there are no two cuts in it precisely alike; each
buttress, window, and pillar is unique, though with such a general
resemblance to each other as to deceive the eye.
It was built in 1446, by William St. Clair, who was Prince of Orkney,
Duke of Oldenburgh, Lord of Roslin, Earl of Caithness and Strathearn,
and so on _ad infinitum_. He was called the "Seemly St. Clair," from his
noble deportment and elegant manners; resided in royal splendor at this
Castle of Roslin, and kept a court there as Prince of Orkney. His table
was served with vessels of gold and silver, and he had one lord for his
master of household, one for his cup bearer, and one for his carver. His
princess, Elizabeth Douglas, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen,
fifty-three of whom were daughters of noblemen, and they were attended
in all their excursions by a retinue of two hundred gentlemen.
These very woods and streams, which now hear nothing but the murmurs of
the Esk, were all alive with the bustle of a court in those days.
The castle was now distinctly visible; it stands on an insulated rock,
two hundred and twenty yards from the chapel. It has under it a set of
excavations and caverns almost equally curious with those of
Hawthornden; there are still some tolerably preserved rooms in it, and
Mrs. W. informed me that they had once rented these rooms for a summer
residence. What a delightful idea! The barons of Roslin were all buried
under this Chapel, in their armor, as Scott describes in the poem. And
as this family were altogether more than common folks, it is perfectly
credible that on the death of one of them a miraculous light should
illuminate the castle, chapel, and whole neighborhood.
It appears, by certain ancient documents, that this high and mighty
house of St. Clair were in a particular manner patrons of the masonic
craft. It is known that the trade of masonry was then in the hands of a
secret and mysterious order, from whom probably our modern masons have
descended.
The St. Clair family, it appears, were at the head of this order, with
power to appoint officers and places of meeting, to punish
transgressors, and otherwise to have the superintendence of all their
affairs. This fact may account for such a perfect Geyser of
architectural ingenuity as has been poured out upon their family chapel,
which was designed for a _chef-d'oeuvre_, a concentration of the best
that could be done to the honor of their patron's family. The documents
which authenticate this statement are described in Billings's Baronial
Antiquities. So much for "the lordly line of high St. Clair."
When we came back to the house, and after taking coffee in the drawing
room, Miss S. took me over the interior, a most delightful place, full
of all sorts of out-of-the-way snuggeries, and comfortable corners, and
poetic irregularities. There she showed me a picture of one of the early
ancestors of the family, the poet Drummond, hanging in a room, which
tradition has assigned to him. It represents a man with a dark,
Spanish-looking face, with the broad Elizabethan ruff, earnest,
melancholy eyes, and an air half cavalier, half poet, bringing to mind
the chivalrous, graceful, fastidious bard, accomplished scholar, and
courtier of his time, the devout believer in the divine right of kings,
and of the immunities and privileges of the upper class generally. This
Drummond, it seems, was early engaged to a fair young lady, whose death
rendered his beautiful retreat of Hawthornden insupportable to him, and
of course, like other persons of romance, he sought refuge in foreign
travel, went abroad, and remained eight years. Afterwards he came back,
married, and lived here for some time.
Among other traditions of the place, it is said that Ben Jonson once
walked all the way from London to visit the poet in this retreat; and a
tree is still shown on the grounds under which they are said to have
met. It seems that Ben's habits were rather too noisy and convivial to
meet altogether the taste of his fastidious and aristocratic host; and
so he had his own thoughts of him, which, being written down in a diary,
were published by some indiscreet executor, after they were both dead.
We were shown an old, original edition of the poems. I must confess I
never read them. Since I have seen the material the poet and novelist
has on this ground, all I wonder at is, that there have not been a
thousand poets to one. I should have thought they would have been as
plenty as the mavis and merle, and sprouting out every where, like the
primroses and heather bells.
Our American literature is unfortunate in this respect--that our nation
never had any childhood, our day never had any dawn; so we have very
little traditionary lore to work over.
We came home about five o'clock, and had some company in the evening.
Some time to-day I had a little chat with Mrs. W. on the Quakers. She is
a cultivated and thoughtful woman, and seemed to take quite impartial
views, and did not consider her own sect as by any means the only form
of Christianity, but maintained--what every sensible person must grant,
I think--that it has had an important mission in society, even in its
peculiarities. I inferred from her conversation that the system of plain
dress, maintained with the nicety which they always use, is by no means
a saving in a pecuniary point of view. She stated that one young friend,
who had been brought up in this persuasion, gave it as her reason for
not adopting its peculiar dress, that she could not afford it; that is
to say, that for a given sum of money she could make a more creditable
appearance were she allowed the range of form, shape, and trimming,
which the ordinary style of dressing permits.
I think almost any lady, who knows the magical value of bits of
trimming, and bows of ribbon judiciously adjusted in critical locations,
of inserting, edging, and embroidery, considered as economic arts, must
acknowledge that there is some force in the young lady's opinion.
Nevertheless the Doric simplicity of a Quaker lady's dress, who is in
circumstances to choose her material, has a peculiar charm. As at
present advised, the Quaker ladies whom I have seen very judiciously
adhere to the spirit of plain attire, without troubling themselves to
maintain the exact letter. For instance, a plain straw cottage, with its
white satin ribbon, is sometimes allowed to take the place of the close
silk bonnet of Fox's day.
For my part, while I reverence the pious and unworldly spirit which
dictated the peculiar forms of the Quaker sect, I look for a higher
development of religion still, when all the beautiful artistic faculties
of the soul being wholly sanctified and offered up to God, we shall no
longer shun beauty in any of its forms, either in dress or household
adornment, as a temptation, but rather offer it up as a sacrifice to Him
who has set us the example, by making every thing beautiful in its
season.
As to art and letters, I find many of my Quaker friends sympathizing in
those judicious views which were taken by the society of Friends in
Philadelphia, when Benjamin West developed a talent for painting,
regarding such talent as an indication of the will of Him who had
bestowed it. So I find many of them taking pleasure in the poetry of
Scott, Longfellow, and Whittier, as developments of his wisdom who gives
to the human soul its different faculties and inspirations.
More delightful society than a cultivated Quaker family cannot be found:
the truthfulness, genuineness, and simplicity of character, albeit not
wanting, at proper times, a shrewd dash of worldly wisdom, are very
refreshing.
Mrs. W. and I went to the studio of Hervey, the Scotch artist. Both he
and his wife received us with great kindness. I saw there his
Covenanters celebrating the Lord's Supper--a picture which I could not
look at critically on account of the tears which kept blinding my eyes.
It represents a bleak hollow of a mountain side, where a few trembling
old men and women, a few young girls and children, with one or two young
men, are grouped together, in that moment of hushed prayerful repose
which precedes the breaking of the sacramental bread. There is something
touching always about that worn, weary look of rest and comfort with
which a sick child lies down on a mother's bosom, and like this is the
expression with which these hunted fugitives nestle themselves beneath
the shadow of their Redeemer; mothers who had seen their sons "tortured,
not accepting deliverance"--wives who had seen the blood of their
husbands poured out on their doorstone--children with no father but
God--and bereaved old men, from whom, every child had been rent--all
gathering for comfort round the cross of a suffering Lord. In such hours
they found strength to suffer, and to say to every allurement of worldly
sense and pleasure as the drowning Margaret Wilson said to the tempters
in her hour of martyrdom, "I am _Christ's child_--let me go."
Another most touching picture of Hervey's commemorates a later scene of
Scottish devotion and martyr endurance scarcely below that of the days
of the Covenant. It is called Leaving the Manse.
We in America all felt to our heart's core a sympathy with that high
endurance which led so many Scottish ministers to forsake their
churches, their salaries, the happy homes where their children were born
and their days passed, rather than violate a principle.
This picture is a monument of this struggle. There rises the manse
overgrown with its flowering vines, the image of a lovely, peaceful
home. The minister's wife, a pale, lovely creature, is just locking the
door, out of which her husband and family have passed--leaving it
forever. The husband and father is supporting on his arm an aged, feeble
mother, and the weeping children are gathering sorrowfully round him,
each bearing away some memorial of their home; one has the bird cage.
But the unequalled look of high, unshaken patience, of heroic faith, and
love which seems to spread its light over every face, is what I cannot
paint. The painter told me that the faces were _portraits_, and the
scene by no means imaginary.
But did not these sacrifices bring with them, even in their bitterness,
a joy the world knoweth not? Yes, they did. I know it full well, not
vainly did Christ say, There is no man that hath left houses or lands
for my sake and the gospel's but he shall receive manifold more _in this
life_.
Mr. Hervey kindly gave me the engraving of his Covenanters' Sacrament,
which I shall keep as a memento of him and of Scotland.
His style of painting is forcible and individual. He showed us the
studies that he has taken with his palette and brushes out on the
mountains and moors of Scotland, painting moss, and stone, and brook,
just as it is. This is the way to be a national painter.
One pleasant evening, not long before we left Edinburgh, C., S., and I
walked out for a quiet stroll. We went through the Grass Market, where
so many defenders of the Covenant have suffered, and turned into the
churchyard of the Gray Friars; a gray, old Gothic building, with
multitudes of graves around it. Here we saw the tombs of Allan Ramsay
and many other distinguished characters. The grim, uncouth sculpture on
the old graves, and the quaint epitaphs, interested me much; but I was
most moved by coming quite unexpectedly on an ivy-grown slab, in the
wall, commemorating the martyrs of the Covenant. The inscription struck
me so much, that I got C---- to copy it in his memorandum book.
"Halt, passenger! take heed what you do see.
Here lies interred the dust of those who stood
'Gainst perjury, resisting unto blood,
Adhering to the Covenant, and laws
Establishing the same; which was the cause
Their lives were sacrificed unto the last
Of prelatists abjured, though here their dust
Lies mixed with murderers and other crew
Whom justice justly did to death pursue;
But as for them, no cause was to be found
Worthy of death, but only they were found
Constant and steadfast, witnessing
For the prerogatives of Christ their King;
Which truths were sealed, by famous Guthrie's head,
And all along to Mr. Renwick's blood
They did endure the wrath of enemies,
Reproaches, torments, deaths, and injuries;
But yet they're those who from such troubles came
And triumph now in glory with the Lamb.
"From May 27, 1681, when the Marquis of Argyle was beheaded, to
February 17, 1688, when James Renwick suffered, there were some
eighteen thousand one way or other murdered, of whom were executed
at Edinburgh about one hundred noblemen, ministers, and gentlemen,
and others, noble martyrs for Christ."
Despite the roughness of the verse, there is a thrilling power in these
lines. People in gilded houses, on silken couches, at ease among books,
and friends, and literary pastimes, may sneer at the Covenanters; it is
much easier to sneer than to die for truth and right, as they died.
Whether they were right in all respects is nothing to the purpose; but
it is to the purpose that in a crisis of their country's history they
upheld a great principle vital to her existence. Had not these men held
up the heart of Scotland, and kept alive the fire of liberty on her
altars, the very literature which has been used to defame them could not
have had its existence. The very literary celebrity of Scotland has
grown out of their grave; for a vigorous and original literature is
impossible, except to a strong, free, self-respecting people. The
literature of a people must spring from the sense of its nationality;
and nationality is impossible without self-respect, and self-respect is
impossible without liberty.
It is one of the trials of our mortal state, one of the disciplines of
our virtue, that the world's benefactors and reformers are so often
without form or comeliness. The very force necessary to sustain the
conflict makes them appear unlovely; they "tread the wine press alone,
and of the people there is none with them." The shrieks, and groans, and
agonies of men wrestling in mortal combat are often not graceful or
gracious; but the comments that the children of the Puritans, and the
children of the Covenanters, make on the ungraceful and severe elements
which marked the struggles of their great fathers, are as ill-timed as
if a son, whom a mother had just borne from a burning dwelling, should
criticize the shrieks with which she sought him, and point out to
ridicule the dishevelled hair and singed garments which show how she
struggled for his life. But these are they which are "sown in weakness,
but raised in power; which are sown in dishonor, but raised in glory:"
even in this world they will have their judgment day, and their names
which went down in the dust like a gallant banner trodden in the mire,
shall rise again all glorious in the sight of nations.
The evening sky, glowing red, threw out the bold outline of the castle,
and the quaint old edifices as they seemed to look down on us silently
from their rocky heights, and the figure of Salisbury Crags marked
itself against the red sky like a couchant lion.
The time of our sojourn in Scotland had drawn towards its close. Though
feeble in health, this visit to me has been full of enjoyment; full of
lofty, but sad memories; full of sympathies and inspirations. I think
there is no nobler land, and I pray God that the old seed here sown in
blood and tears may never be rooted out of Scotland.