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.
CHAPTER XIV.
PROJECTED TRAVEL—THE END.
THE route from Oban to Edinburgh passes through some of the most beautiful and romantic scenes of Scottish landscape: by the Pass of Brander, Loch Awe, St. Fillans, and Doune Castle, to Stirling; and then by Bannockburn, the Strath of Falkirk, and the old Nelson homestead of Throsk, to “the gray metropolis of the north.” After a few days or weeks of zealous exploration around Glenfeochan, or off to neighbouring islands and more distant glens, in the fashion already described, a run into Edinburgh was a welcome change. There William Nelson was equally at home when making a pleasure of business or a business of his most favourite pleasures.
The city, built on the picturesque heights surrounding the Castle Rock, embosomed among hills, and looking out on the sea, has a singular fascination for its citizens; and with William Nelson it was a passion, like that of the old Hebrew for Jerusalem, or the Athenian for the City of the Violet Crown. The Cockburn Association, which has already been referred to, takes its name from Lord Cockburn, the friend of Scott, of Brougham, and Jeffrey; the enthusiastic advocate of whatever tended to protect the historical remains and to preserve the beauty of their native city; and the mantle of the genial old judge seemed to have been bequeathed to William Nelson, with a double portion of his spirit. As an active member of the council of the association, his zeal in protesting against every piece of tasteless vandalism was unremitting. But his enthusiasm would not allow him to be content with mere wishes or denouncements. He had the means as well as the will, and when civic officials and Government functionaries dallied and disputed over needful reforms, he took them in hand himself, on a scale of liberality all the more admirable from the genuine modesty which repelled all public recognition. And yet evidence survives to show how far his aims exceeded even his own comprehensive liberality.
With the fancy that begot for Edinburgh in the heyday of its literary glory the name of the Modern Athens, there grew up in the minds of a past generation the idea of rearing on the Calton Hill, as a modern Acropolis, a reproduction of the Parthenon, with, it is to be presumed, the sculptures of some Scottish Phidias as its final adornment. It was to constitute a sacred Pantheon, in special commemoration of those to whom the nation owed the welcome boon of an honourable peace after the protracted strife of the Napoleonic wars. In old school-boy days it had been a matter of liveliest interest to watch the process of construction that promised the accomplishment of this ambitious scheme. One after another, the lofty Doric columns rose to the number of twelve; and then the work stopped. The builders had neglected the wise maxim to sit down first and count the cost, whether they had sufficient means to finish it. The funds had given out at that early stage. The boys that had watched the first efforts of its builders grew gray with years; and the abortive Parthenon—a monument of ambitious folly—became familiar to the eyes of a new generation, till they ceased to realize its absurdity. There were indeed men of taste whom it continued to offend. David Roberts, himself a native of Edinburgh, and with the keen eye of an artist for architectural effect, was loath to abandon the dream of a new Parthenon. The late D. R. Hay, the ingenious author of “The Laws of Harmonious Colouring” and “The Natural Principles of the Harmony of Form,” united with James Ballantyne, the poet, and a little band of kindred spirits, in a vain effort to revive the scheme. But the later Renaissance had died out. The taste of the age had reverted once more to mediæval art, and their exertions proved fruitless. William Nelson thoroughly appreciated the absurdity of this gigantic failure. With grim mirth he satirized the builders who had made such a beginning and were not able to finish. But he did not despair of seeing even that huge blot erased; and in May 1887, while busy with his Castle and other restorations, he thus wrote in a letter intended for his friend Dr. Field, but which was found among his papers, unfinished, after his death: “Here is a matter that I have been thinking of for some time; and in case you may think that I am off the rails in regard to it mentally, I have to say, ‘I am not mad, most noble Festus; I speak the words of truth and soberness.’ You will be aware that it was intended, a great many years ago, that there should be a building on the Calton Hill here, which would be a facsimile of the Parthenon at Athens, and twelve pillars which were intended for the portico of the building were erected. But there were no funds to go further; and the pillars in consequence stand, as it were, a monument of Scottish folly. Now it would be a grand thing, not only for Edinburgh, but for Scotland generally, if the building were completed, and were made a Walhalla for statues and busts of Scotchmen who have distinguished themselves in the service of their country and otherwise; and it would be all the better if the completion of the building were to be made an international object. Now I know that your worthy brother, Cyrus Field, likes to do things that are international, and I will take it kind if you will have a talk with him on this subject; and if he will open his purse and give a grand contribution towards the completion of what would be a truly noble building, I would get the matter started.” He then goes into a calculation of the cost. He had consulted with an architect, who estimated the necessary sum as not less than £150,000. He then goes on to say: “I send you a photograph of the poor shivering pillars that have been erected; and I hope that there is spirit enough among moneyed men in America and Scotland not to allow them to stand much longer in their solitary condition.” A blank in the letter shows that some estimated item had yet to be ascertained; and so the letter lay unfinished and unsent.
It is thus apparent that there were scarcely any limits to his ideal of the Edinburgh of the future. The maintenance of his native city in unblemished honour and beauty was the source of many a fascinating dream, and took form at times in the union of such idealizations with his practical liberality. Hence the desertion of the Highlands for the city was no exchange of the poetry of life for mere prosaic realities. Edinburgh was rich in all the materials wherewith to fashion an ever-new romance: a thing of beauty to be preserved or to be made more beautiful. There the landscape gardener, the architect, and decorator, were all busily at work on his plans for renovating St. Bernard’s Well. The sculptor’s studio had to be visited to learn of the progress of the new statue. Then, too, official formalities and obstructions had at length yielded to his quiet persistency, and the plans were in progress for restorations, not only on the great hall of the Castle, but also on the Argyle Tower, and the venerable little oratory known as St. Margaret’s Chapel. With the latter object in view, more than one excursion had been made to Iona, where the little Norman structure styled the Chapel of St. Oran is affirmed to have been built by St. Margaret, the queen of Malcolm Canmore. Hence it was assumed to furnish the fittest model for a design to replace the somewhat commonplace modern restoration of the original doorway. A photograph of it was accordingly secured, and placed, for that purpose, in the architect’s hands.
The Argyle Tower, of old the state prison, was to be freed from manifold incongruities of modern barbarism, as has since been done in the best taste. But William Nelson’s sympathies were not narrowed within the bounds of his native city, and a special occasion now invited his practical co-operation elsewhere. The approaching anniversary of the death of the good king Alexander III., last and best of Scotland’s Celtic kings, was to be signalized by the erection of a memorial cross to mark the scene of that fatal event of six centuries before, the fruits of which are bewailed in the fine old fragment of native elegy preserved for us in Wyntoun’s Chronicles, the earliest known lyric in the Scottish language. The old chronicler pictures the prosperity of the nation under the rule of him that led Scotland in love and loyalty; and then he says,—
“This failèd fra he died suddenly;
This sang was made of him forthi:
When Alexander our king was dead,
That Scotland led in love and lea,
Away wes söns of ale and bread,
Of wine and wax, of gaming and glee;
Our gold was changèd into lead.
Christ, born into virginity,
Succor Scotland and remede
That stad is in perplexity.”
Kinghorn, the birthplace of William Nelson’s mother, and the scene of many of the happiest days of his own childhood and youth, was the place historically associated with the national disaster. When he carried off his sisters to revisit the old scenes, it will be remembered that one of the special spots pointed out to them was “The King’s Crag,” as the point is called which tradition assigns as the actual cliff over which, when his horse stumbled, Alexander III. was precipitated. The event was thus associated with many of William Nelson’s earliest recollections; and the proposal to mark it with a suitable monument was responded to by him with hearty enthusiasm. From its initiation his zeal never flagged. First came his subscription, the most liberal of all; then correspondence and deliberations as to the design, the inscription, the most durable and best material. He writes to the Rev. Charles Shaw from Glenfeochan in October 1886, in reference to the appeal for subscriptions:—“Let me know as soon as you can what is the result, and I will then see what I can do to make up the sum.” In December he discusses the details of the design and material. He fears, from its exposed site on the highroad from Burntisland to Kinghorn, that the monument will be liable to injury; has “called the architect Mr. Blanc’s attention some time ago to this circumstance, and that he ought not to forget it in making his finished drawings.” Again he writes in the following February:—“Mr. Blanc says that the memorial cross ought decidedly to be of Peterhead granite; and you will please hold me responsible for whatever shortcoming there may be in consequence.” Then comes an equally characteristic passage: “I don’t think there is any occasion for you or Dr. Rogers telling the committee of what you call my handsome offer. If this were done, the matter would, I have no doubt, be blazoned forth in the newspapers, and I would not like that at all.” The next proposition was that he should unveil the monument, in the erection of which he had manifested so practical an interest. But that he would not hear of, and suggested the Earl of Elgin as Lord Lieutenant of the county, and a good man to boot. “Failing him, you should apply to Lord Napier and Ettrick, or Lord Rosebery.”
When at length the memorable day arrived, there was not only the beautiful memorial cross to unveil, but a new public park and golfing ground to open. The authorities of the ancient burgh would not be balked of their wish to mark in some way their sense of Mr. Nelson’s generous co-operation in the work, so Lord Elgin and he were both admitted to all the honours and privileges of burgesses of Kinghorn. The speech of the latter, in reply to the provost’s address in handing to him his burgess ticket, is too replete with characteristic feeling and personal reminiscences to be omitted here. He was no orator, and indeed shrank with instinctive reserve from all public appearances; but the simple utterances of genuine feeling are the best of all oratory.