William Nelson A Memoir 22

William Nelson A Memoir 22

CHAPTER XIII.

 

_HOME HOLIDAYS._

 

 

The recreations of each summer’s holiday alternated between foreign

travel through unfamiliar scenes, and a sojourn in some choice centre of

Scottish scenery and historical associations. But it was indispensable

for William Nelson’s full enjoyment of either that it should be shared

with Mrs. Nelson and his children. Indeed, the hints that occasionally

transpire in his letters, of the pleasure with which he exchanged their

summer resort for Salisbury Green and Parkside, show that he had been

thinking far more of their happiness than his own. He liked his children

to travel, and while they were still young repeatedly sent them abroad,

either with a tutor and governess, or under the care of some trusted

friend. He had a strong prejudice against Continental boarding-schools,

and instead of sending his daughters to one, he preferred arranging for

their spending successive winters abroad in charge of a friend, where

they had the advantage of masters who came daily to them. The same

feeling animated him in later years, alike in his plans for foreign

travel, and in the choice of a summer haunt among favourite Scottish

scenery.

 

Of the latter, pleasant memories come back to me of many a ramble by the

Tweed and its tributaries the Ettrick, the Leader, the Yarrow, and other

haunted streams; and by St. Mary’s Loch, which has wooed alike the poets

of elder and of modern times. A mere residence in the country, however

attractive the scenery might be, speedily proved irksome to William

Nelson. His active mind required constant occupation; and the physical

impediments which increasing obesity, accompanied by a retarded action

of the heart, interposed in the way of long pedestrian excursions, only

led to a change in the methods of attaining the same end. He was ever on

the look-out for some fresh and unfamiliar scene. In the summer of 1879

he made his way to St. Kilda, a curious little, outlying, ocean-girt

rock of the Hebrides, the only one of a lonely group that is inhabited--

 

“Nature’s last limit, hemmed with ocean round.”

 

Its population numbered in all seventy-five, a decrease from the

previous year; for, as one of them said, “they had lost a foine woman,

the only one who coot speak Enklish.” The rude little hamlet, with its

primitive stone dwellings, each of two apartments, attracted Mr.

Nelson’s curious study; and beyond it a no less primitive bit of

masonry incovered the Tober Childa Chalda, or St. Kilda’s Well, by the

village. But this visit to St. Kilda is noticeable here for an incident

associated with one of William Nelson’s peculiarities that bordered on

eccentricity. Though a business man of punctual habits, and exacting

habitual punctuality in others, he never carried a watch, and indeed, I

believe, never possessed one. He had some inexplicable way of guessing

the time, and could tell it generally with wonderful approach to

accuracy. He never missed a train, or failed to keep an appointment, and

could not see what people wanted with watches. He said he did perfectly

well without one. But this St. Kilda trip furnished an occasion when,

for once, he deplored the want of a timepiece. Immediately on landing on

the island the party were met by the minister, who eagerly inquired if

any of them had a watch, to tell him what o’clock it was. It turned out,

on inquiry, that the minister’s watch, which was the only one on the

island, had been sent away for repair six months before; and if William

Nelson had been the fortunate possessor of one, here was an opportunity

for its useful disposal.

 

The following summer was passed at Philiphaugh, rich in memories of

Montrose and Leslie; of Alison Rutherford, the songstress; of Scott,

sheriff, as well as poet and novelist; of Hogg, Wordsworth, and all the

legends of the Dowie Dens of Yarrow. The river famed in song and story

flowed by near the house, with “the Duchess’s Walk,” a charming wooded

path on the opposite bank of the river, leading through the grounds of

Bowhill to Newark Castle. Kirkhope Tower, Branksome Hall, Melrose Abbey,

and many another hoary pile, were within reach. William Nelson’s memory

was stored with passages from his favourite poets; and as the

associations of the scene called them to remembrance, he would repeat

long pieces suggested by the locality or adapted to it. It is the centre

of old traditions of the Flodden men; and many a spot along the Tweed

and its tributaries tempted us each new day to wander through scenes

that told everywhere of the Last Minstrel and his Lay. In a letter to

Mr. Campbell he says: “I write this at Philiphaugh, a mansion that we

have taken for summer quarters. It is about two miles from Selkirk, the

scene of the defeat of the Marquis of Montrose. The estate is still

owned by the Murrays of Philiphaugh, the same family who have held it

since the old times of the Border raids and the Debatable Land. A cairn

near the house, now overgrown with ivy, is said to mark the spot where

the Highlanders were surprised by Leslie, and the Marquis turned and

fled. A stone on the cairn is inscribed, ‘To the memory of the

Covenanters who fought and fell on the field of Philiphaugh, and won the

battle there, A.D. September 13, 1645.’ The grounds and woods are

extensive and fine; and there is good fishing for Fred, as the Yarrow

and the Ettrick are close at hand; and there will be good shooting for

him when the time comes.... We had Dr. and Mrs. Wilson and their

daughter with us lately. We enjoyed their visit much; and oh! how fond

Dr. Wilson is of Auld Reekie and its associations, though, alas, there

is but little left now of the ancient city.”

 

Again, in the summer of 1883 came a concise message by ocean cable,

followed by the ampler invitation: “I have taken Cowdenknowes for the

summer. Come and let us have a look at its surroundings; do not fail.

Cowdenknowes, I may tell you, is an old mansion, historically

interesting, which is situated in one of the most lovely districts in

the south of Scotland. It is about five miles from Melrose; and the

remains of the castle of Thomas the Rhymer, which consist of very

picturesque ivy-covered walls, are on the property. The Leader passes

through the grounds, and it is an excellent trouting-stream. It has

already been laid under contribution in this way by Professor Annandale

and Fred, whenever the water was in a good state for the rod.” Here, as

at Philiphaugh, some fresh ramble was planned each morning; while the

evenings were beguiled with pleasant converse, and apt quotations

germane to the scenes of that land of romance. The ruined castle of

Thomas of Ercildoun has already been noted as close by. In a

neighbouring valley was Oakwood Tower, of old the dwelling of the

wondrous Michael Scott,--

 

“A wizard of such dreaded fame,

That when in Salamanca’s cave

Him listed his magic wand to wave,

The bells would ring in Notre Dame.”

 

The Eildon Hills, the tokens of his power, and Melrose, where his bones

were laid “on St. Michael’s night,” are only a few miles off. The

picturesque ruin of Smailholme Tower, where the later minstrel spent the

happiest days of his childhood, was within reach; Abbotsford, the Fairy

Dean, and the Rhymer’s Glen, Dryburgh, and the vale of Tweed, haunted at

every winding with some old tale or song, all wooed us by turns. So each

day had its excursion, its legend of some sort to investigate, its ruin

to explore. It was with William Nelson on the Tweed as on the Nile: he

was indefatigable in the pursuit of information concerning every

minutest object of interest, and never was satisfied till he had seen

for himself, and questioned and sifted all available evidence. The

memories of many a pleasant day, with the incidents of kindly

intercourse and genial humour that added fresh sunshine to the scene,

would furnish material enough to add many a chapter over which old

friends would not readily tire. But such reminiscences can only be

glanced at here. I select, therefore, from among those home holidays

the latest of all: a summer at Glenfeochan.

 

Glenfeochan is a romantic glen of the West Highlands, through which the

Feochan finds its way to the sea. Oban is only six miles off, and so

steamers and boats and all the attractions of the sea are at hand, such

as ever had a fascination for William Nelson. For he guessed, as has

been seen, that could the pedigree of the Nelsons of Throsk be followed

up, they might prove to be of the stock of old Danish rovers, the sons

of Thor, whose home was on the sea; and so he welcomed the hint at an

etymology of the Bannockburn farm from the Thor of the Vikings.

Unquestionably he possessed not a little of their steady hardihood and

love of adventure, softened though it was by transmission through a

sober race of Covenanters, who tilled the carse where Bruce had

triumphed, and, when needs were, could emulate him in sturdy resistance

to the tyrant.

 

Glenfeochan House is beautifully situated at the foot of the glen. It

lies low--perhaps a little too low--nestling among the hills, with glens

and lochs on every hand. The drawing-room windows looked across the

river to the sea; and when the curtains were drawn, and a fire was found

not unpleasant in the cool autumn evenings, the emotional delight with

which William Nelson welcomed the songs of Scotland, or some of his

favourite hymns, was infectious. His taste in music was simple, but it

yielded him intense pleasure, and not infrequently moved him to tears.

But such evening relaxations were generally the close of a busy day; for

Oban is a choice centre for the explorer. It afforded means of access to

the fiords or sea-lochs of Argyleshire, and to the outlying Hebrides.

There were Iona and Staffa, Glencoe and Mull, with the ruined keep of

Duart Castle, the Lady Rock, and the legend of “Fair Ellen of Lorne,”

which is perpetuated in Campbell’s ballad of “Glenara.” There was the

vitrified fort of Dun MacUisneachan at Loch Etive to explore; and on the

opposite side of the loch, Dunstaffnage, the home of the Dalriadic

kings, where of old was held in safe keeping the _liah fhail_, or stone

of destiny, now enshrined in the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey.

The unique cairn or serpent-mound of Loch Nell, another object of

special curiosity, was visited more than once, in the hope of arriving

at some definite idea of its actual character. For the fact of a huge

saurian mound, like some of those in the valley of the Ohio, lying there

in a secluded nook between the hills of Lorne that form the steep

escarpment of Glenfeochan, was a thing too exceptional for William

Nelson to allow to pass without some attempt at a solution of its

mysteries.

 

But the choicest of that summer’s explorations was a day on Eilean

Naombh, or Holy Island. Our Highland boatmen called it Oil Tsiach n’an

Naombh (the College of the Holy People), if we understood rightly; for

we had a good deal more Gaelic than tended to our illumination. Our

party was pleasantly augmented by the addition of the Rev. Dr. Walter

Smith; and William Nelson’s sense of humour was keenly excited by his

report of a dialogue between two of the Highlanders, who, happily for

us, spoke in English. “James,” said the younger of the two, “I have been

told that when the deceiver tempted our mother Eve, it was in Gaelic

th