William Nelson A Memoir 23

William Nelson A Memoir 23

Within more easy reach of Glenfeochan, in a sequestered nook among the

hills, lies the ancient cemetery of Kilbride, with its ruined church,

its holy well, and moss-grown sepulchral memorials. Here, among others

of note in the district, lie the Macdougals of Lorne, whose castle of

Dunolly stands at the mouth of Oban Bay, with their more modern mansion

near by, where is still preserved the famous Brooch of Lorne. But here,

above all, lies prostrate, in three detached pieces, a singularly

beautiful sculptured cross, with a figure of the crucifixion, and the

traces that show where a crown of bronze, or other more precious metal,

surrounded the Saviour’s head. Its inscription was conned and puzzled

over in repeated visits. Rubbings were taken of it, and the legend at

length deciphered, showing that it was erected in 1616 by the lord of

the neighbouring manor, Alexander Campbell of Laeraig.

 

The Cross of Kilbride had at this time an unwonted interest, for William

Nelson was already enlisted in the project of erecting at Kinghorn a

memorial cross to Alexander III., the last of the Celtic kings, in the

successful accomplishment of which, as will be seen hereafter, he took

an active part. But, meanwhile, some of the Glenfeochan experiences of a

more special character are worth noting. A letter that followed me to

Canada, written in the middle of October, supplies the details. “Our

stay at Glenfeochan,” he writes, “is fast drawing to a close, Fred only

remaining behind till the end of the week, unless great success with his

rod should tempt him to stay longer. The sight of Loch Nell on Friday

last made his teeth water, as salmon were leaping in it at the north end

in great numbers; he is sure he saw at least forty of them so engaged.

He was not rewarded, however, with even a rise from any of them, and he

had to be contented with bringing home nothing but a single sea-trout,

which, however, was a very respectable one as to size, and in splendid

condition.... There was very nearly being a terrible tragedy here, the

story of which is this. We had staying with us a son of Mr. Keeley

Halswell, the artist, a boy of eleven years of age. He made friends with

the son of the gardener, a boy about eight; and the two went one day to

the loft over the stable to catch mice, they being accompanied by

Bertram’s little dog, Gip. There is in the loft a large chest for

holding grain for the horses, but it was empty at the time; and what did

the two little fellows do? They lifted up the lid and got into the

chest, in order that they might not be seen by the mice; and down came

the lid, the catch took hold, and they were imprisoned like poor Ginevra

of Rogers’s ‘Italy,’--

 

‘When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there

Fastened them down,’

 

but happily not for ever. They made what noise they could, and Bertram

heard this; but he thought it was just the boys amusing themselves, and

so he paid no attention to it. Thus it went on, and the poor little

fellows so suffered from want of fresh air that they could not speak to

each other, and were getting very faint. Young Halswell had a dreadful

headache; when at what would have been in all likelihood their last

effort, they tried the lid of the chest, and found to their surprise

that it opened, and they were free, after a confinement that must have

lasted about three hours. For their release they were indebted to the

little dog Gip. After the lid came down they heard the little creature

running round the chest and leaping on it in a state of great

excitement, as if conscious that there was something wrong. His leaps

were continued for a long time; and they are sure that in one of them he

must have pushed his nose at the hasp of the lid and opened it, and

hence their release. Well done, Gip! Nothing could have been more

extraordinary or more unexpected than this.” In the same letter he

refers to a robbery that had just taken place at Parkside, by which

about £250 had been carried off out of the safe. The police seemed to

think that the robbery might have been committed by some one in the

works. It was amusingly characteristic of the writer to find him in a

subsequent letter seemingly deriving much satisfaction from the fact

that the rogue had not been convicted!

 

His recreations, as already stated, alternated between such pleasant

rambles among the beauties of nature and objects of historic and

archæological interest in his own country as have been glanced at here,

and a journey through novel scenes in foreign lands. The previous summer

had been devoted to the tour in the Baltic and Russia, which has

furnished some brief notes for a previous chapter. Writing to his

friend, Major MacEnery, soon after his return, Mr. Nelson thus

indicated the plans he was already maturing for another season: “We

went over a good many thousand miles in our late journeyings. The only

breakdown was that of Florence, at Moscow, which came in the way to

prevent our all going to the Volga, and seeing some of the strange

sights that are to be witnessed there, especially at the great fair of

Nijni-Novgorod. So we had to leave our visit to that part of the world

till another opportunity; and when I go next to Moscow, which I hope

will be in the course of next summer or autumn, if all’s well, I will

not be satisfied unless I go down the Volga to Astrakhan, at the extreme

north of the Caspian Sea, and sail down that sea to Baku, where the

celebrated oil wells are, and take the railway then across to Batoum on

the Black Sea, and go thence to the Crimea, and so find my way home by

Greece and Vienna: and this will be a glorious journey.”

 

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