Though really in England, it is yet near enough to the border to be included among the Lions of Scotland. It lies on the coast, about a dozen miles south of Berwick-upon-Tweed, the nearest approach to it, being from the railway station of Beal. Here the visitor will find the one-horse cart of the postmaster, offering the only conveyance to one of the most romantic and retired spots in the kingdom.
Holy Island, in circumference about eight miles, lies three miles from the land; but is only an island at high tide. At other times, the receding waters leave the sands bare, with the exception of two or three channels, not more than six inches deep, and afford a passage for vehicles, marked by a long row of stakes, intended especially to guide travellers in winter, when the snow falls thickly on the path. In summer there is always a strong wind blowing over these sands, drying them from the salt water, forming picturesque patterns along the ever-changing ground, and dashing a thin veil of sand along the way. Woe to the unlucky wight who loses his hat in this place! With nothing to intercept it, the unfortunate headgear is at once taken by the wind and sent flying over the sandy plain, faster than human foot can run, far out to the island, and often over it to the sea beyond. The frolicsome dog, which generally accompanies the postmaster's cart, is the only hope on which the hatless wretch can then rely; and usually this reliance is not in vain.
Holy Island contains a population of some 600 souls, mostly fishermen. Not a tree grows on the island; but at the south end, where a low village crouches down against the continual sweepings of the stormy winds, are a few fields, fragrant with clover, and gleaming with buttercups; and, in one of these fields, scarce a stone's throw from the beating surf, stand the ruins of Lindisfarn Abbey, one of the earliest seats of Christianity in Great Britain, and one closely identified with the traditionary career of St. Cuthbert. The front walls, portions of the side walls, a diagonal arch richly ornamented, and the chancel recently repaired to arrest further decay, remain to tell of its former beauty. The area within the ruins is strewn with sea shells and pebbles, while about the bases, whence once sprang aloft the clustered pillars of the nave, grow in rich profusion hardy yellow flowers. The sharp sea winds have eaten into the stone in many places, reducing it to an apparent honeycomb. No ripple of gentle streamlet falls on the ear; no luxuriant foliage offers its pleasant shade; no ivy drapery, stirred by the summer breeze, floats from the decaying walls; but instead of these gentle attractions, which Tinter and Bolton and Valle Crucis offer, we have at Lindisfarn the boom of the ocean surf and the biting freshness of the keen sea wind.
Scott thus describes Holy Island and Lindisfarn:
'The tide did now its floodmark gain,
And girdled in the saint's domain:
For, with the flow and ebb, its style
Varied from continent to isle;
Dryshod, o'er sands, twice every day,
The pilgrims to the shrine find way;
Twice every day, the waves efface
Of staves and sandalled feet the trace.
As to the port the galley flew,
Higher and higher rose to view
The castle, with its battled walls,
The ancient monastery's halls—
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
Placed on the margin of the isle.
In Saxon strength that abbey frowned,
With massive arches broad and round,
That rose alternate, row on row,
On ponderous columns, short and low,
Built ere the art was known,
By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk,
The arcades of an alley'd walk,
To emulate in stone.'
The scenes of Sarrow and Ettrick vales, associated with the life and described in the poetry of the Ettrick shepherd, deserve more attention from tourists than they usually receive. The single tomb in Ettrick kirkyard, the site of his birthplace near by, marked by a stone in the wall, bearing the letters J. H., Poet; Chapelhope, the scene of the 'Brownie o' Bodsbeck,' 'Sweet St. Mary's Lake,' Mount Benger, and the new monument recently erected on the shores of St. Mary's, representing the poet seated on a rock, his plaid thrown loosely over his shoulders, and his shepherd's dog by his side—all these localities cannot fail to interest those who know James Hogg, either by his works, or by his character, so powerfully and singularly delineated in the pages of 'Noctes Ambrosianæ.'
Burns, the Ploughman—Scott, the Minstrel—Hogg, the Shepherd! How much does Scotland owe to the magic of their pens! Without them, her mountains and lakes and streams would never have known the presence of that indefatigable, money-spending feature of modern life—the tourist; for, without them, few indeed would be the Lions of Scotland.
WE TWO.
We own no houses, no lots, no lands;
No dainty viands for us are spread;
By sweat of our brows, and toil of our hands,
We earn the pittance that buys us bread.
And yet we live in a grander state,
Sunbeam and I, than the millionaires
Who dine off silver or golden plate,
With liveried lacqueys behind their chairs.
We have no riches in bonds or stocks;
No bank books show, our balance to draw;
Yet we carry a safe-key, that unlocks
More treasure than Crœsus ever saw.
We wear no velvets, nor satins fine;
We dress in a very homely way;
But, ah! what luminous lustres shine
About Sunbeam's gowns and my hodden gray.
When we walk together—(we do not ride,
We are far too poor)—it is very rare
We are bowed unto from the other side
Of the street—but not for this do we care.
We are not lonely; we pass along,
Sunbeam and I, and you cannot see
(We can) what tall and beautiful throng
Of angels we have for company.
No harp, no dulcimer, no guitar,
Breaks into singing at Sunbeam's touch;
But do not think that our evenings are
Without their music; there is none such
In the concert halls where the palpitant air
In musical billows floats and swims;
Our lives are as psalms, and our foreheads wear
A calm like the feel of beautiful hymns.
When cloudy weather obscures our skies,
And some days darken with drops of rain,
We have but to look in each other's eyes,
And all is balmy and bright again.
Ah! ours is the alchemy that transmutes
The dregs to elixir, the dross to gold;
And so we live on Hesperian fruits,
Sunbeam and I, and never grow old.
Never grow old: and we live in peace,
And we love our fellows, and envy none;
And our hearts are glad at the large increase
Of plenteous virtue under the sun.
And the days pass by with their thoughtful tread,
And the shadows lengthen toward the west;
But the wane of our young years brings no dread,
To break our harvest of quiet rest.
Sunbeam's hair will be streaked with gray,
And Time will furrow my darling's brow;
But never can Time's hand take away
The tender halo that clasps it now.
So we dwell in wonderful opulence,
With nothing to hurt us, nor upbraid;
And my life trembles with reverence,
And Sunbeam's spirit is not afraid.