The Genius of Scotland Part 12

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 cla.s.sic 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 ent.i.tled "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 pa.s.sages. "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 coa.r.s.e 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 b.u.t.tress 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 pa.s.s 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 t.i.tles, 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, t.i.tularies 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 ma.n.u.script 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 Dougla.s.s, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, whereof fifty-three were daughters of n.o.blemen, 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sion. 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 a.s.sembled body of his n.o.bles 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 grat.i.tude 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 circ.u.mstance 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?