Volume V Part 1 (2/2)
or to know something more of the details of that extraordinary parish, of which one surviving verse draws the following sombre picture:--
”Oh! what a paris.h.!.+--eh! what a paris.h.!.+
Oh! what a parish is that o' Dunkel': They 've hang'd the minister, droon'd the precentor; They 've pu'd doon the steeple, and drunk the kirk-bell.”
The Scottish lyrics, lying all about, thus countless and scattered--
”Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallambrosa”--
are not like those which mark and adorn the literature of many other countries, the euphonisms of a meretricious court, or the rhymed musings of philosophers, or conceits from Pagan mythology, or the glancing epigrams of men of wit and of the world, or mere hunting choruses and Baccha.n.a.lian catches of a rude squirearchy. They are the ballads, songs, and tunes of the people. In their own language, but that language glittering from the hidden well of poesy--in ideas which they at once recognise as their own, because photographed from nature--these lyrics embody the loves and thoughts of the people, the themes on which they delight to dwell, even their pa.s.sions and prejudices; and vibrate in their memories, quickening the pulses of life, knitting them to the Old Land, and shedding a poetic glow over all the commonplaces of existence and occupation. It is the faithful popular memory, more than anything else, which has been the ark to save the ancient lyrics of Scotland. Not only so, but there is reason to believe that our national lyrics have, generally speaking, been creations of the men, and sometimes of the women, of the people. They are the people's, by the t.i.tle of origin, no less than by the feeling of sympathy.
This, of course, is clear, as regards the great masters of the lyre who have appeared within the period of known authors.h.i.+p--Ramsay, Burns, Tannahill, Hogg, and Cunningham. The authors of the older lyrics--I mean both compositions and tunes--are, with few exceptions, absolutely unknown; but were there room here for discussion, it might be shewn that all the probabilities lead up, princ.i.p.ally, to the ancient order of Minstrels, who from very early times were nearly as much organised and privileged and honoured in Scotland, as ever were the troubadours in Provence and Italy. Ellis, in the Introduction to his ”Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances,” alluding to Scott's publication of ”Sir Tristrem,” remarks--”He has shewn, by a reference to ancient charters, that the Scottish minstrels of this early period enjoyed all the privileges and distinctions possessed by the Norman trouveurs, whom they nearly rivalled in the arts of narration, and over whom they possessed one manifest advantage, in their familiar acquaintance with the usual scenes of chivalry.” These minstrels, like the majority of poetic singers, were no doubt sons of the people--bold, aspiring, and genius-lit--bursting strong from their mother earth, with all her sap and force and fruitfulness about them. Amongst the last of the professed minstrels was one Burn, who wonned on the Borders as late as the commencement of the eighteenth century, and who, in his pleasant, chirping ditty of ”Leader Haughs and Yarrow,” takes to himself this very t.i.tle of _Minstrel_.
”But Minstrel Burn cannot a.s.suage His grief while life endureth, To see the changes of this age, That fleeting time procureth.
For many a place stands in hard case, Where blythe folk kenn'd nae sorrow, With Homes that dwelt on Leader-side, And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow.”
Of this minstrel Burn there is a quaint little personal reminiscence. An aged person at Earlstoun many years ago related, that there used to be a portrait of the minstrel in Thirlestane Castle, near Lauder, ”representing him as a douce old man, _leading a cow by a straw-rope_.”
The master of the ”gay science” gradually slipping down from the clouds, and settling quietly and doucely on the plain hard ground of ordinary life and business! Let all pale-faced and sharp-chinned youths, who are spasmodic poets, or who are in danger of becoming such, keep steadily before them the picture of minstrel Burn, ”leading a cow by a straw-rope”--and go and do likewise.
But as trees and flowers can only grow and come to perfection in soils by nature appropriate to them, so it is manifest that all this rich and fertile growth of lyrics, of minstrelsy and music, could only spring up amongst a people most impressionable and joyous. I speak of the Lowland population, and especially of the Borderers, with whose habits, manners and customs, alone I am personally acquainted; and the lingering traces of whose old forms of life--so gay, kindly, and suggestive--I saw some thirty years ago, just before they sank under the mammonism, commonplace, critical apery, and cold material self-seeking, which have hitherto been the plague of the present generation. We have become more practical and knowing than our forefathers, but not so wise. We are now a ”fast people;” but we miss the true goal of life--that is, _sober happiness_. Fast to smattering; fast to outward, isolated show; fast to bankruptcy; fast to suicide; fast to some finale of enormous and dreadful infamy. Bah! rather the plain, honest, homely life of our grandfathers--
”Far from the madding crowd's ign.o.ble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.”
Or rather (for every age has its own type, and old forms of life cannot be stereotyped and reproduced), let us have a philosophic and Christian combination of modern adventure and ”gold-digging” with old-fas.h.i.+oned balance of mind, and neighbourliness, and open-heartedness, and thankful enjoyment.
Our Scottish race have been--yes, and notwithstanding modern changes, still are--a joyous people--a people full of what I shall term _a lyric joyousness_. I say they still are--as may be found any day up the Ettricks, and Yarrows, and Galas--up any of our Border glens and dales.
The Borderers continue to merit the tribute paid to them in the odd but expressive lines of Wordsworth:--
”The _pleasant men of Tiviotdale_, Fast by the river Tweed.”
From time immemorial they have been enthusiastic lovers of song and music, and have been thoroughly imbued with their influences. Bishop Leslie, a contemporary of the state of manners which he describes, has recorded of them, upwards of two centuries ago--”That they take extreme delight in their music, and in their ballads, which are composed amongst themselves, celebrating the deeds of their ancestors, or the valour and success of their predatory expeditions;” which latter, it must be remembered, were esteemed, in those days, not only not criminal, but just, honourable, and heroic. What a gush of mirth overflows in king James' poem of ”Peebles to the Play,” descriptive of the Beltane or May-day festival, four hundred years ago! at Peebles, a charming pastoral town in the upper district of the vale of the Tweed:--
”At Beltane, when ilk body bouns To Peebles to the play, To hear the singin' and the soun's, The solace, sooth to say.
By firth and forest forth they wound, They graithit them full gay: G.o.d wot what they would do that stound, For it was their feast-day, They said, Of Peebles to the play!
”Hop, Calye, and Cardronow Gatherit out thick-fald, With, _Hey and How and Rumbelow!_ The young folk were full bald.
The bagpipe blew, and they out threw Out of the towns untald: Lord! sic ane shout was them amang, When they were owre the wald, There west Of Peebles to the play!”
Thirty years ago, the same joyousness prevailed in a thousand forms--in hospitality, in festivity, in merry customs, in an exquisite social sense, in the culture of the humorous and the imaginative, in impressibility to every touch of n.o.ble and useful enthusiasm. It would be easy to dilate upon the causes which seem to have produced this choice joyous spirit in so unexpected a region as the far, bleak North: but that would be a lengthened subject; and we must content ourselves at present with the fact. And, instead of branching out into general vague ill.u.s.trations of what I mean by this lyric joyousness, I shall _localise_ it, and embody the meaning in a sketch, light and imperfect it must be, of a real place and a real life--such as mine own eyes witnessed when a boy--and in the fond resuscitation of which, amidst the usual struggles and anxieties allotted to middle age, memory and feeling now find one of their most soothing exercises.
Let me transport the reader in imagination to the Vale of the Tweed, that cla.s.sic region--the Arcadia of Scotland, the haunt of the Muses, the theme of so many a song, the scene of so many a romantic legend. And there, where that most crystalline of rivers has attained the fulness of its beauty and splendour--just before it meets and mingles in gentle union with its scarce less beauteous sister, ”sweet Teviot”--on one of those finely swelling eminences which everywhere crown its banks, rise the battlements of Fleurs Castle, which has long been the seat of the Roxburghe family. It is a peerless situation; the great princely mansion, ever gleaming on the eye of the traveller, at whatever point he may be, in the wide surrounding landscape. It comes boldly out from the very heart of an almost endless wood--old, wild, and luxuriant; having no forester but nature--spreading right, left, and behind, away and away, till lost in the far horizon. Down a short s.p.a.ce in front, a green undulating haugh between, roll the waters of the Tweed, with a bright clear radiance to which the brightest burnished silver is but as dimness and dross. On its opposite bank is a green huge mound--all that now remains of the mighty old Roxburgh Castle, aforetime the military key of Scotland, and within whose once towering precincts oft a.s.sembled the royalty, and chivalry, and beauty of both kingdoms. At a little distance to the east of Fleurs, the neat quaint abbey-town of Kelso, with its magnificent bridge, nestles amid greenery, close to the river. And afar to the south, the eye, tired at last with so vast a prospect, and with such richness and variety of scenery, rests itself on the cloud-capt range of the Cheviots, in amplitude and grandeur not unmeet to sentinel the two ancient and famous lands.
Upwards of thirty years ago, the ducal coronet of Roxburghe was worn by a n.o.bleman who was then known, and is still remembered on Tweedside, as the ”Good Duke James.” The history of his life, were there any one now to tell it correctly, would be replete with interest. I cannot pretend to authentic knowledge of it; but I know the outline as I heard it when a child--as it used to be recited, like a minstrel's tale, by the gray-haired cottager sitting at his door of a summer evening, or by some faithful old servant of the castle, on a winter's night, over his flagon of ale, at the rousing hall-fire. And from all I have ever learned since, I judge that these country stories in the main were accurate.
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