CHAPTER XXII.
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."