The NITH, its name-river, in its course of some seventy miles, rising in Ayrshire, passes through the Queen of the South, as its citizens proudly designate Dumfries, and, during the last ten miles of its existence, is rather an estuary than a river. It has many important tributaries—the Carron, with its almost Alpine gorge, known as the Wallpath; the Enterkin, with its famed Enterkin pass, of old time the bridle-path from Clydesdale to Nithsdale, noted for the famous rescue in 1684 of a band of Covenanting prisoners who were being conveyed to Edinburgh; the Minnick Water, with its many traditions of the Hill Folk; and “many mo’.”
Every variety of scenery diversifies the banks of those streams, and there is a great mass of legendary lore as to the famous men who dwelt by their waters; but one name swallows up all the rest. How to follow the windings of the Nith, or tread the High Street of Dumfries, without thinking of Robert Burns? He sang of the streams of Nith in his choicest verse. “Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes” is linked with one tributary, and the song he fitted to “Ca’ the yowes to the knowes”—most musical fragment of old Scots poetry—reminds of another. Among the beautiful ruins of Lincluden Abbey, surrounded by the defaced monuments of the great house of Douglas, he saw that “Vision” which he has commemorated in so remarkable a poem. Not far off is Friars’ Carse, where the bacchanalian contest related in “The Whistle” took place. In Dumfries, as an exciseman, he spent the last five years of his life. Let us find place for one incident of his closing days. He had gone to the little village of Brow, on the Solway, to try the effect of the seaside. During a visit to the manse, one of the family remarked the sun shining in his eyes and made some effort to adjust the blind. Burns noted it; “Thank you, my dear, for your kind attention—but ah, let him shine! He will not shine long for me.” This was the end of June, 1796; on the twenty-first of July he was dead. “Who will be our poet now?” was the quaint inquiry of an honest Dumfries burgher. Who, indeed! His remains were buried in the churchyard of St. Michael’s. “They were originally interred in the north corner, upon which spot a simple table-stone was raised to his memory; but in 1815 his ashes were removed to a vault beneath an elegant mausoleum, which was erected by subscription, as a tribute to his genius, at a cost of £1,450. This monument contains a handsome piece of marble sculpture, executed by Turnerelli, representing the genius of Scotland finding the poet at the plough, and throwing ‘her inspiring mantle’ over him.” Well meant, and yet—! We remember standing in the cemetery at Montmartre by the plain stone that bears the name, and nothing but the name, of Heine. It had a simple, a pathetic, dignity beyond the reach of the most cunningly carved monument. One thought of the “elegant mausoleum” at Dumfries, and sighed for the “simple table-stone” which humble but pious hands had placed as the first and, still after a century the best, monument to Robert Burns. Do you doubt which himself had chosen?
Of the antiquities of Dumfries we will only mention its famous mediæval bridge over the Nith, built by Devorgilla, mother of John Baliol. A remarkable old dame this Devorgilla! Balliol College, Oxford, was endowed by her liberality; and we shall come across another of her foundations presently. The Queen of the South has a long history; its most important event is connected with the house rival to Baliol. On the 4th of February, 1306, Robert the Bruce disputing with the Red Cumyn in the Greyfriars’ Monastery, struck and wounded him with his dagger. He burst out remorseful, exclaiming, “I fear I have slain the Red Cumyn.” “I mak siccar,” was the grimly pithful remark of Kirkpatrick of Closeburn as he rushed in, and—exit the Red Cumyn!
Photo: J. Rutherford, Jardington, Dumfries.
LINCLUDEN ABBEY (p. [319]).
Even in Scotland this district is remarkable for old castles and abbeys. Of these one first notes Drumlanrig Castle, in Durisdeer parish, on a drum, or long ridge of hill, on the right bank of the Nith. It is a huge and splendid building, finished in 1689 after ten years’ labour, by the first Duke of Queensberry, who spent but one night within its walls. It had splendid woods, which old “Q,” that picturesque rascal of the Georgian period, shamelessly depleted, for which he was righteously castigated by Wordsworth; his descendants have repaired the damage, and poets and forest nymphs are at length appeased and consoled. The Highlanders, passing by here in the ’45, amused themselves by stabbing the portrait of William III. with their claymores. Again, there is Caerlaverock Castle, the Ellangowan of Scott’s “Guy Mannering,” situated on the left bank of the Nith, just where it becomes part of the Solway Firth. A wild romantic spot! The boiling tides of the Solway and the Nith approach its walls; and of old time it was so hemmed by lake and marsh as to deserve the name of the “Island of Caerlaverock.” It has a long romantic history, in keeping with its environment. It has been in possession of the Maxwells since the beginning of the thirteenth century, and you can still spell out their motto, “I bid ye fair,” on its mouldering walls. They took—as was but seemly in so ancient a family—the Stuart side in the rising of 1715; and the title of Baron Herries, held since 1489, was destroyed by attaint in 1716. It was revived, however, in favour of William Constable Maxwell by various Parliamentary proceedings ending in 1858; then high revel was held in the long deserted courts of Caerlaverock, and little imagination was needed to recall the incidents of a long-vanished feudal day.
