The Genius of Scotland Part 20

With them each day was holy; but that morn On which the angel said, 'See where the Lord Was laid,' joyous arose--to die that day Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways, O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat With greensward gay, and flowers that strangers seem Amid the heathery wild, that all around Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled A tyrant's and a bigot's b.l.o.o.d.y laws; There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array That in the times of old had scathed the rose On England's banner, and had powerless struck The infatuate monarch and his wavering host, Yet ranged itself to aid his son dethroned,) The lyart veteran heard the Word of G.o.d By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased Her plaint; the solitary place was glad.

And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear Caught doubtfully at times, the breeze-borne note.

But years more gloomy followed, and no more The a.s.sembled people dared, in face of day, To worship G.o.d, or even at the dead Of night, save when the wint'ry storm raved fierce, And thunder peals compelled the men of blood To crouch within their dens, then dauntlessly The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell By rocks o'ercanopied, to hear the voice, Their faithful pastor's voice: he, by the gleam Of sheeted lightning, oped the sacred Book, And words of comfort spoke: over their souls His accents soothing came--as to her young The heathfowl's plumes, when at the close of eve She gathers in her mournful brood, dispersed By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads Fondly her wings, close nestling 'neath her breast They cherished, cower amid the purple blooms."

This is finely pictured; and, coming from a member of the Episcopal Church, does honor to his heart and head. Sir Walter Scott has somewhat injured the memory of the Scottish Covenanters, by presenting the darker features of their character, and forgetting utterly their earnest piety, their generous fervor, their heroic endurance. Many of them, doubtless, were deficient in high-bred courtesy and learned refinement. Others were narrow-minded and superst.i.tious. But the great ma.s.s of them were men of lofty faith, of generous self-sacrifice. They feared G.o.d, and perilled their lives for freedom, in the high places of the field. "Lately," says a vigorous writer in Blackwood's Magazine, "the Mighty Warlock of Caledonia has shed a natural and a supernatural light round the founders of the Cameronian dynasty; and as his business was to grapple with the ruder and fiercer portion of their character, the gentle graces of their nature were not called into action, and the storm and tempest and thick darkness of John Balfour of Burley, have darkened the whole breathing congregation of the Cameronians, and turned their sunny hillside into a dreary desert." It requires men of no ordinary character to become martyrs for principle, especially when that principle is one of the highest order, and has been chosen calmly, deliberately, and in the fear of G.o.d. When such men go forth to defend the right, and shed their life's blood for its enthronement, their's is no vulgar enthusiasm, no unnatural and infuriate fanaticism. Read the following from James Hislop, once a poor shepherd boy, and afterwards a school-teacher, written near the grave of the pious and redoubtable Cameron, and several of his followers, slain by tyrants in the moor of Aird's-moss, and say whether such martyrs for truth are worthy of our reverence!

"In a dream of the night I was wafted away To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay, Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen, Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood; When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All b.l.o.o.d.y and torn 'mong the heather was lying.

'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew, Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and mountain flowers blue.

And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud, The song of the lark was melodious and loud, And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep, Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

But oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings, Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings, Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones, who with Cameron were lying Concealed 'mong the mist where the heathfowl was flying, For the hors.e.m.e.n of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed; With eyes turned to heaven, in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the G.o.d of salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing: But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter, As the host of unG.o.dly rushed on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded, Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as firm and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended, Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining, And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the path of the thunder the hors.e.m.e.n are riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye, A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!"

But we are forgetting ourselves; and as we propose spending the Sabbath in a small country hamlet, at some distance, we must be off immediately.

It would be gratifying to return to Perth and hear some of the clergymen there, Dr. Young especially, who is a preacher of great depth and energy; but the Sabbath will be sweeter amidst the woods and hills.

We enter a quiet unfrequented road, skirting around those fine clumps of trees, and that green hill to the west, and after wandering a few miles, we pa.s.s into a narrow vale, through which a small wooded stream makes its noiseless way, and adorned on either side with rich green slopes, clumps of birches, and tufts of flowering broom. As you ascend the vale, it gradually widens, the acclivities on either side recede to a considerable distance, and the road, taking a sudden turn, runs over the hill to the left, and dives into a sort of natural amphitheatre, formed by the woods and braes around it. On the further side you descry a small antique-looking church, with two or three huge ash trees, and one or two silver larches shading it, at one end, a pretty mansion built of freestone, and handsomely slated, at a little distance at the other.

Approaching, we find a few stragglers, as if in haste, entering the church door; the bell has ceased tolling, and the service probably is about to commence. We enter, and find seats near the door. How tenderly and solemnly that old minister, with his bland look, and silver locks, reads the eighty-fourth psalm, and how reverently the whole congregation, with book in hand, follow him to the close. A precentor, as he is called, sitting in a sort of desk under the pulpit, strikes the tune, and all, young and old, rich and poor, immediately accompany him.

The minister then offers a prayer, in simple Scripture language, somewhat long, but solemn and affecting. He then reads another psalm, which is sung, as the first was, by the whole congregation, and with such earnest and visible delight, that you feel at once that their hearts are in the service. The preacher then rises in the pulpit and reads the twenty-third psalm, as the subject of his exposition, or lecture, as the Scottish preachers uniformly style their morning's discourse. His exposition is plain and practical, occasionally rising to the pathetic and beautiful. Ah, how sweetly he dwells upon the good Shepherd of the sheep, and how tenderly he depicts the security and repose of the good man pa.s.sing through the dark valley and the shadow of death. His reverend look, the tremulous tones of his voice, his Scottish accent, and occasionally Scottish phrases, his abundant use of Scriptural quotations, and a certain Oriental cast of mind, derived, no doubt, from intimate communion with prophets and apostles, invest his discourse with a peculiar charm. It is not learned; neither is it original and profound; but it is _good_, good for the heart--good for the conscience and the life. Old preachers, like old wine, in our humble opinion, are by far the best. Their freedom from earthly ambition, their deep experience of men and things, their profound acquaintance with their own heart, their evident nearness to heaven, their natural simplicity and authority, their reverend looks and tremulous tones, all unite to invest their preaching with a peculiar spiritual interest, such as seldom attaches to that of young divines. Everything, of course, depends upon personal character, and a young preacher may be truly pious, and thus speak with much simplicity and power. But, other things being equal, old preachers and old physicians, old friends and old places possess qualities peculiar to themselves.

After the sermon, prayer is offered, and the whole congregation unite in a psalm of praise. The interval of worship, it is announced, will be one hour. A portion of the congregation return to their homes, but most of them remain. Some repair to a house of refreshment in the neighborhood, where they regale themselves on the simplest fare, such as bread and milk, or bread and beer. Others wander off, in parties, to the green woods or sunny knolls around, and seated on the greensward, eat their bread and cheese, converse about the sermon, or such topics as happen to interest them most. The younger people and children are inclined to ramble, but are not permitted to do so. Yet the little fellows will romp, '_a very little_,' and occasionally run off, but not so far as to be beyond call. A large number of the people have gone into the grave-yard connected with the church. Some are seated on the old flat tombstones, others on the greensward, dotted all around with the graves of their fathers. See that group there. The old man, with "lyart haffets" and broad bonnet, looks like one of the old Covenanters. The old lady, evidently his wife, wears a sort of hooded cloak, from which peeps forth a nicely plaited cap of lace, which wonderfully sets off her demure but agreeable features. These young people around them are evidently their children and grandchildren. How contented they look, and how reverently they listen to the old man. Let us draw near, and hear the conversation.

"Why, grandfaither," says one of the younger lads, "don't you think the auld Covenanters were rather sour kind o' bodies?"

"Sour!" replies the old man, "they had eneuch to mak' them sour. Hunted from mountain to mountain, like wild beasts, it's nae wonder if they felt waefu' at times, or that they let human pa.s.sion gain a moment's ascendancy. But they were guid men for a' that. They were the chosen o'

G.o.d, and wrastled hard against princ.i.p.alities and powers, against the rulers o' the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Reading their lives, I've aften thocht they must ha'e been kind o' inspired. Like the auld prophets and martyrs, they were very zealous for the Lord G.o.d, and endured, cheerfully, mair distress and tribulation than we can well imagine."

"Weel, weel!" says one of the girls, "I wish they had been a wee bit gentler in their ways, and mair charitable to their enemies."

"Ah, Nancy," is the quick reply of the old man, "ye ken but little about it. A fine thing it is for us, sitting here in this peacefu' kirk-yard, wi' nane to molest us or mak' us afraid, to talk about gentleness and charity. But the auld Covenanters had to encounter fire and steel. They wandered over muir and fell, in poverty and sorrow, being dest.i.tute, afflicted, tormented. But oh, my bairns! they loved and served the Lord!

They endured as seeing him who is invisible; and when they cam' to dee, they rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer for his name. Nae doot, some of them were carnal men, and ithers o' them had great imperfections. But the maist o' them were unco holy men, men o' prayer, men o' faith, aye, and men of charity of whom the world was not worthy."

This answer silences all objections.

But the bell, from the old church tower, begins to toll.

"Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground, The aged man, the bowed down, the blind Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased, These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach The house of G.o.d--these, spite of all their ills, A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise They enter in; a placid stillness reigns, Until the man of G.o.d, worthy the name, Opens the book, and reverentially The stated portion reads."

The services of the afternoon are much the same as those of the morning, except that the preacher comments briefly on the portion of Scripture read at the opening of the service, and delivers a regular discourse, from a single text. The congregation follow the preacher with evident attention, and look up in their Bibles, which all have in their hands, the pa.s.sages of Scripture cited as proofs and ill.u.s.trations. This, with an occasional cough, and a little rustling from the children, are the only sounds which break the solemn stillness of the scene.

Dismissed, with a solemn benediction, all take their several ways homeward. The sun is going down; but its mellow light yet lingers upon the uplands, and tinges the foliage of the trees with supernal tints. A sabbath stillness reigns over hill and dale. The very trees appear to slumber; the birds are silent, except a single thrush, which, in the deep recesses of that shadowy copsewood, appears to be singing "her hymn to the evening." A little later, you might hear the voice of psalms from the low thatched cottage, on the hillside or in the glen. For, in Scotland, family worship is generally maintained, and singing, in which the whole family join, always forms a part of the exercises.

"They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the n.o.blest aim; Perhaps _Dundee's_ wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive _Martyrs_, worthy of the name, Or n.o.ble _Elgin_ beets the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays."

Wandering thus, through the fields, with Sabbath influences all around us, it is impossible not to be grateful and devout. A holy calm steals upon the mind--a heavenly beat.i.tude, akin to that of angels and the spirits of just men made perfect.

"Oh Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales; But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight, Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs; Or when the simple service ends, to hear The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man, The father and the priest, walk forth alone Into his garden plat and little field, To commune with his G.o.d in secret prayer-- To bless the Lord that in his downward years His children are about him: sweet, meantime The thrush that sings upon the aged thorn, Brings to his view the days of youthful years, When that same aged thorn was but a bush!

Nor is the contrast between youth and age To him a painful thought; he joys to think His journey near a close; heaven is his home."

Thus, in his own simple and charming style, Grahame describes the Sabbath evening. So beautiful it is, so Sabbath-like, in its spirit and tone, that we venture one extract more.

"Now, when the downward sun has left the glens, Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic The shepherd's shadow, thrown athwart the chasm, As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.

How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry, Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt.

But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!

'Tis from yon heath-roofed shieling; now it dies Away, now rises full; it is the song Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear; It is the music of the heart, the voice Of venerable age, of guileless youth, In kindly circle seated on the ground Before their wicker door. Behold the man, The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks Beam in the parting ray; before him lies, Upon the smooth-cropt sward the open book, His comfort, stay, and ever new delight; While heedless at his side, the lisping boy Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch."

CHAPTER XVII.

Lochleven--Escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle--Michael Bruce--Sketch of his Life--Boyhood--College Life--Poetry--"Lochleven"--Sickness--"Ode to Spring"--Death--"Ode to the Cuckoo."

Pursuing our journey southward, next day finds us on the banks of Lochleven, distinguished not so much from the beauty of its situation, as from its poetic and historical a.s.sociations. It is adorned with four small islands, the princ.i.p.al of which are St. Serf's Isle near the east end, so called from its having been the site of a priory dedicated to St. Serf, and another near the sh.o.r.e on the west side, which immediately attracts the eye, from its containing the picturesque ruins of Lochleven Castle, in which Mary, Queen of Scots, was confined, and from which she made her wonderful escape. Here, also, Patrick Graham, Archbishop of St.

Andrews, and grandson of Robert the Third, was imprisoned, in consequence of a generous attempt to reform the profligate lives of the Catholic clergy. In this place he died, and was buried in the monastery of St. Serf. The keys of the castle, thrown into the lake at the time of Queen Mary's flight, have recently been found by a young man belonging to Kinross, and are now in the possession of the Earl of Morton.

The castle, with its ma.s.sive tower yet standing, looks dismal enough, but how much it is beautified by the fine old trees and shrubbery which encircle it, and the mellow light which mantles its h.o.a.ry sides!

"Gothic the pile, and high the solid walls, With warlike ramparts, and the strong defence Of jutting battlements: an age's toil!

No more its arches echo to the noise Of joy and festive mirth. No more the glance Of blazing taper through its window beams, And quivers on the undulating wave; But naked stand the melancholy walls, Lash'd by the wint'ry tempest, cold and bleak That whistles mournful through the empty halls And piecemeal crumble down the towers to dust."

This description is by Michael Bruce, whose early promise and premature death have awakened so much sympathy among all cla.s.ses in Scotland. He was born in the vicinity of Lochleven, and has written a poem of considerable merit descriptive of the lake and surrounding scenery. His "Ode to Spring," and especially his "Ode to the Cuckoo," now universally acknowledged to be his, are among the most beautiful poems in the English language. He was born at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, on the 27th of March, 1746. By going round to the north-east bank of the lake, we shall find this village, insignificant in itself, but sweetly situated on the south-west declivity of the Lomond hills. Ascending a narrow lane, we reach, near its centre, the house in which Bruce was born. It consists of two stories, with a thatched roof. Michael's parents were very poor, and occupied only the upper part of the house, which served them at once for a workshop and dwelling. "A true nestling place of genius," exclaims his biographer, quoting the words of Washington Irving respecting the birth-place of Shakspeare, "which delights to hatch its offspring in bye corners." Mean as it is, an angelic soul has been here, and a charm lingers upon its homely walls.

Dr. Huie of Edinburgh has given the following touching account of a visit which he paid to this place, in company with one of Bruce's old friends. "On returning," says he, "from Portmoak church-yard, where Bruce is buried, I attended my venerable guide to the lowly dwelling where the parents of the poet resided. We first entered the garden: 'This,' said Mr. B. 'was a spot of much interest to Michael. Here he used alternately to work and to meditate. There stood a row of trees which he particularly cherished, but they are now cut down,' added the good old man, and as he said this, he sighed. 'Here again,' said he, 'was a bank of soft gra.s.s on which Michael was accustomed to recline after he became too weak to walk; and here his father would sit beside him in the evening, and read to amuse him.' We next entered the house. I experienced an involuntary feeling of awe when I found myself in the humble abode, where neglected worth and talents had pined away and died.

The little square windows cast but a feeble light over the apartment, and the sombre shades of evening, for the sun had now set, were strikingly in unison with the scene. 'There,' said my conductor, 'auld Saunders used to sit at his loom. In that corner stood the bed where the auld couple slept, in this the bed which was occupied by Michael, and in which he died,' The good old man's eyes filled as he spoke. I found it necessary to wipe my own. I was not ashamed of my tears. They were a tribute to departed genius, and there was nothing unmanly in their flow."

Saunders Bruce, as he was called, the father of Michael, had eight children, and as the business of weaving has always been a poor one in Scotland, it was with extreme difficulty that he was enabled to give Michael a suitable education, though early perceiving in him the seeds of genius. Saunders was a pious thoughtful man, universally respected, and a sort of village chronicle. He is supposed to be referred to in the poem of Lochleven, in the lines commencing,--

"I knew an aged swain whose h.o.a.ry head Was bent with years, the village chronicle," etc.