My dear Sir,—I have just
received your note with a request for an article for the October number
of the Young Men's Christian Magazine, and, on thinking of what might be
most suitable, it has occurred to me that what is freshest to my own
mind may be best for your readers, and so I shall give an account of a
visit I paid the other day to the little town of Douglas, not far from
your own great city, and of two things that specially interested me
there. I must first, however, tell how I reached Douglas, and what I saw
on the way. It can be visited most directly from Glasgow by the railway
to Lanark, and the branch from there to Muirkirk and Ayr. I came upon
it, however, from the opposite quarter. My residence has been for a few
days at Abington, a small village on the Clyde, and a station on the
Caledonian Railway. Abington is a model of cleanliness, comfort, and
general good conduct, where the people retain much of the old Scottish
character of a church-going, and, as I trust, God-fearing kind, with a
spirit of independence that respects the rights of others, while it
knows its own,—a very different thing from the jealous, boisterous
self-assertion that sometimes passes for manliness. I was glad to see on
this visit that Sir Edward Colebrooke has been adding to the number of
the cottages, or rather houses, for their superior accommodation and
appearance take them out of the class of the old cottage. It is pleasant
to see something of this process going on, for, much as we may think of
Glasgow, its wonderful expansion and intelligent energy, we need a
balance in the country districts if we are to preserve national health,
both physical and moral. We want small towns, villages, crofts, for
calming the pulse. The city may be the heart of the nation, but there is
such a thing as enlargement of the heart, and that is a dangerous
disease. The landlords then are wise who try to reverse the march of
depopulation which has made so many Highland and Lowland glens grassy
solitudes, and has added ‘ field to field that they may dwell alone,’
instead of making ‘families like a flock'. There is, of course, wisdom
required as to ways and means, but the peopling of the country districts
should be kept in view by proprietors for social and moral reasons,
which means, in the end, economical and political ones. It will tend to
the equilibrium of society and the good of us all, and so we hope Sir
Edward Colebrooke’s example will be largely followed. But to my story.
The road from Abington to
Douglas is, for the greater part, the old coach highway from Carlisle to
Glasgow. It used to resound often to the ‘ clanging horn,’ but now, left
aside by the railway, it is more familiar with ‘ the whistling of
plovers, and the bleating of sheep.’ It quits the main valley of the
Clyde, passes one of its tributaries—Duneaton Water (the water of the
hill of fire), and then stretches, like a white ribband, over the brown
moorlands of Crawford-john. Those who feel an interest in how it strikes
a stranger should read a book published a few years since—the
Journal of
Dora Wordsworth, the sister of the poet, who came here, with her brother
and Coleridge, to explore Scotland, which was then, to them, an unknown
region. It was a curious piece of almost Quixotic adventure, with their
own simple-minded pony, which took the place of Sancho, and with
something attached to it which was neither cart nor carriage, an object
of as great wonder to the natives as any of them could be to the
travellers. They came in this fashion from Cumberland, up Nithsdale,
through one of the grand defiles that lead to Wanlockhead and Leadhills,
and then over the ridge of Glengonnar—the stream of gold—to pursue this
road to Lanark and Glasgow. We are particular about their route, because
the genial editor, Principal Shairp, has mistaken it from not knowing
the country, and sends them round by Elvanfoot and Crawford. The charm
of the journal lies in the quiet insight of the strangers into the heart
of the scenery and the people, and, almost as much, in their happy
ignorance of all they were to see, which fills them with a constant
surprise. Black’s Picturesque Tourist's Guide had not been born, and
they wandered into Scotland like Adam and Eve into the world, when it
was all before them where to choose, and nobody to tell them what to
admire. One drawback they certainly had, that they seem to have had as
little knowledge of past associations as if they were exploring Africa,
and as if Wallace, and Bruce, and the Covenanters had been among ‘the
brave men who lived before Agamemnon.’ But Wordsworth got it somehow in
this tour, and it came out afterwards, with fresh dew on it, in his
Scottish sonnets. In our journey we had one advantage over them in the
best of guides, Mr. Logan, the Free Church minister of Abington, who
knows every nook that touches the story of Cavalier or Covenanter. It
was a bare wavy upland of moor and moorland farms for miles on miles,
and a wavy circle of great hills folded round it, with glens running
away at every ‘lurk' and all the hills and glens fuller of histories
than of people. They had been the battle-ground of eighteen hundred
years, since Agricola entered them by the pass of the little Clyde, till
Claverhouse sent his dragoons through their mosses, and made them, in
the words of Hen wick, ‘all flowered with martyrs.’ There was the Arbory
hill, with its threefold ring of fence peering over the top, within
which the old Damnonii, of British stock, watched their enemies—Romans,
were they, or Saxons, or Danes, for these valleys have had all in turn?
There was the ancient kirk of Crawford, with Constantine, a Culdee
saint, at its foundation, and not far off, concealed by the bend of the
Clyde, the ruins of Crawford Castle, where ‘ wight Wallace ’ performed
one of his feats of arms, himself by name and birth a son of the
primitive race, not de Vciux, as some would have it, but Walcis.
Sweeping round by the Lowthers, their sides glowing in sunshine and
heather of the deepest purple, were the massive mountains that enclose
Dalveen and the Enterkin, the Menoek and the Crawick, the first three
the wildest, the last one of the most beautiful passes in the south of
Scotland. On the extreme boundary, like an outflanking buttress, was
Cairntable, on whose skirts the Douglas boasted he could keep himself
against English Henry and all his host; and, nearer and higher, Tinto,
with the mist slowly rolling up under the sunlight, as if it promised to
show us the far-famed ‘kist’ and the ‘caup’ in it. For a lesson in the
romance of landscape and of history, I do not know any place in the
three kingdoms where one could learn more than on this bit of road, and
he is no true Scotsman who would not feel his heart rise at the reading
of it. Within the circle of the hills there are many things worthy of
notice, were there time. At a little distance the primitive village of
Crawfordjohn lay on its ‘knowe,’ like Jerusalem 'set round about with
mountains,’ but not ' compactly built together.’ It looks like a cluster
of boulders from a past epoch, or the town of Kendal, of which Gray the
poet has said, ‘It must have been built on the plan of partners in a
dance posturing to one another in all directions, and petrified in the
act.’ ^Nevertheless, Crawfordjohn has a good repute for worthy people,
and it has curious stories of the old times, of Prince Charlie’s
Highlandmen as they passed in the ’45, and of Covenanting celebrations.
The lie-formed Presbyterians, better known as the Cameronians, seem to
have chosen this district for their renewals of the Solemn League after
the Pievolution. At Auchensaugh in 1712, the year of the imposition of
patronage, a declaration of principles was issued which had historical
significance in that time - honoured Church. There, or at Crawfordjohn,
I forget which, the meetings and sermons continued three days, till
provender failed, and the occasion got the name of ‘preach-hunger’ But
it is time to get on our way.
Some miles over the moor
brought us to a little glen, bare at first, but beautifully green, and
then widening and filling with wood,—birch and rowan and oak,—till it
led us into Douglasdale. It was like the entrance to it, warm with
plentiful trees, and rich also with yellow fields among them, and the
peewit gave us over to the corneraik. Prom the look of it we could
believe what we were told, that the vale of Douglas is a fortnight
before the country round it. For the name, the legend of ‘Sholto
Douglas,’—‘ See the dark, grey man/—must, I fear, be given up, and we
must have recourse to the colour ' dark grey ’ or ‘ dark green/ found in
the genius of the place. It may have been the water, or if it was on an
autumn day like ours that the first Celt looked on it, the foliage of
oak and ash deepening into the forecast of fall, and the blue-green
Scotch firs glooming more heavily in the sunshine over their red trunks,
would bring the word Winglas, to his lips. On the way up to the town,
the ‘Castle Perilous' or the place where it stood, is seen through the
woods. Only a fragment of the original fortress remains near the modern
mansion, and it is hard to say what made it a pride and a terror. It has
no frowning rock or lofty mound, and we must set down its strength to
the moats and marshes which old Scottish keeps coveted, or still more to
the hearts of the race that manned the walls. But we have to do to-day
not with the castle but the town. It is a queer irregular place, with
its High Street in the lowest part, winding narrow and sometimes
narrower among houses of all shapes and sizes, some with signs of old
dignity, and some of plain modern monotony. In the middle of the town,
on a swelling knoll which looks down on Douglas Water and a fair green
holm, is the first thing we have come to see, the old Church of St.
Bride, by whom the mighty Lords of Douglas were wont to swear when they
meant never to go back. It was once a stately edifice, but little more
is left than the chancel, restored by the late Countess with a pious
care for the graves and monuments of her ancestors. The remains of many
of the long line repose below, and the monuments of some fill niches in
the chapel. Chief among them is that of the good Sir James, whose story
is known to every Scottish schoolboy, and whom we always rank next to
"Wallace and Bruce in the heroic times of the national history. He lies
there in dark stone, considerably maimed, but still conspicuous in the
act of drawing his sword with the right hand, while the left holds the
scabbard. A man of giant strength he was, skilled in all the
accomplishments of his time as a gallant and gentle knight, with a
dauntless heart and stedfast soul to match, dashed in word and deed with
a grim playfulness. This last feature comes out in his compeers, Bruce
and Wallace, as we read the old chronicles,—the dry humour that survives
in many a Scot to this day, though Sydney Smith had not the eye to see
it, and Englishmen are only beginning to find it out through Dean
Ramsay. But the first quality in Sir James was moral, invincible loyalty
to a cause that must often have seemed a lost one, but which was the
cause of his country, for the oppressed against the aggressor. All we
see of him is in keeping with our first glimpse at Erickstane, when in
his youthful enthusiasm he threw himself before the uncrowned Bruce and
owned him king at the hazard of land and life, down to the time when,
far away, he cast among the thickest of the Saracens the heart he had
often followed,—‘Lead on, as thou wert wont to do,’—and followed it to
die. Xor must we forget that fine touch of a noble nature on the eve of
Bannockburn, when, having gained leave to help Randolph in his pressing
peril, he held back when he saw victory, least he should steal a flower
from his friend’s chaplet. ‘The times then were great, and the men,’ to
adapt a phrase of Pochter’s, and we cannot doubt that these things found
their way into the country’s heart deep down, and long after came up in
other shapes.
The next spot in Douglas
belongs to a subsequent time and a different struggle. "We had heard, in
an incidental way, that the house was still standing in which the head
of Richard Cameron was kept for a night when the troops were carrying
it, along with the prisoners taken at Airsmoss, to Edinburgh. We found
the traditional house, with a face over the door enclosed in a dull
yellow border, intended for the sun and explained by the sign, the ‘Sun
Inn.’ It is a quiet, respectable house, and we were kindly shown through
the rooms connected with the incident. On the ground floor is a cellar
which is said to have been the town prison, and the thick walls, the
heavy vaulted roof, and the iron grating on the original window attest
the truth of the tradition. Directly above is the room associated with
Cameron’s name, and known in the town as the ‘ stone-room,’ the only
room in an upper story paved with stone, and thus fitted for securing
prisoners in a firmer grasp. While the head and hands of Cameron were
kept above, the prison chamber below seems to have held Hackstoun of
Rathillet, reserved for the scaffold which he afterwards mounted in the
Grassmarket of Edinburgh. On the wall of the house behind, joined to the
prison, but apparently at one time a separate tenement, is the date
1621, with the initials I. H.—A. C., the builder and his wife, long
forgotten. Wodrow in his History gives a letter of Haekstoun’s in which
he tells that, when he was at Douglas, Janet Clellan was kind to him,
and brought a surgeon who stanched his wounds. The name Clellan belongs
also to the brave and good soldier from this district who fell in the
last fight of the Revolution time. Might the A. C. on the old house be a
member of the friendly family ? On leaving the place and passing down
the High Street, we saw an old man considerably above fourscore, sitting
before the door of his house and enjoying the cool of the day. On
speaking with him, we found, curiously enough, that he had been born and
brought up in the house we had just left, and had heard from his father
the story of ‘the stone-room.’ This carried us fully more than half-way
across the interval, and to a time when all the events were very much in
the thoughts of the people. It is a pity they should be forgotten, for
we need their memory in these days when principles hang loose. The
history of Airsmoss should be read over again in this year of grace
1880. It is exactly 200 years ago, on the 22nd of last June, since a
small body of horsemen, early in the morning, rode from the hills into
the quiet town of Sanquhar, and there, at the market cross, where an
obelisk now stands, read the famous declaration in which they renounced
their allegiance to the perjured profligate and tyrant, Charles II. It
was a desperate act forced on them by desperate wrongs, and those who
blame them should remember that it was only the flash before the stroke
of 1688, of which we now enjoy the results. A month after, on the 22nd
of July, when a company of the Covenanters was met at Airsmoss, not far
from where John Brown of Priesthill was afterwards shot by Claverhouse,
they were attacked by the dragoons. The hill vapours were lying low, and
‘ the bridle reins rang through the thin misty covering ’ before the
wanderers were aware. Cameron, who was among them, broke into the
memorable prayer, ‘ Lord spare the green and take the ripe,’ and, in the
deadly struggle which followed, he was killed, and Hackstoun and others
captured. The lingering and barbarous death inflicted by the orders of
the Council upon the prisoners, and especially on Hackstoun, cannot be
now put into type with proper regard to feeling. The head and hands of
Cameron were taken to his father, then in prison in Edinburgh for the
same cause, and he was asked if he knew them. His words are surely the
most touching of all the memories of that cruel time. ‘ I know, I know
them! they are my son’s, my dear son’s! it is the Lord: good is the will
of the Lord, who cannot wrong me nor mine, but has made goodness and
mercy to follow ns all our days.’ After which, by order of the Council,
his head was fixed upon the Netherbow port, and his hands beside it,
with the fingers upward —a kind of preaching ‘at the entry of the city,
at the coming in at the doors' that told more for his cause, and against
the persecutors, than all the words he could have spoken.
One cannot help weird,
dreamy thoughts about that old house at Douglas, on the night of
Airsmoss, the martyr’s head in the room above, the wounded prisoner in
the dungeon below, Earlshall and his troopers proud of their prize, and
confident of their power to hold Scotland down. But the good Sir James
of ‘the bleeding heart ’ and Cameron’s gory head belong to the same set
of events in history,—instances of seeming losses thrown by courage and
faith forward as pledges of victory,—only, the latter is higher and more
sure. We cannot help thinking that, had Sir James of Douglas belonged to
that later time, he would have been with Argyle and Warriston and
Baillie of Jerviswood— certainly not with Claverhouse and Earlshall and
Lag. The great men of the war for national independence, Wallace and
Bruce, Douglas and Randolph, and Walter Stewart, were the forerunners of
the Reformers and of the sons of the Covenant. They made room for them
in Scotland where they might ‘grow and stand' and they bequeathed them
their hatred of oppression and their dauntless spirit. They show us how
the kingdoms of this world rise up, in another time, into the kingdom of
our God and his Christ, and how the laurels of chivalry prepare for a
nobler flower in the faith and patience of the saints; for the struggle
of the Covenant was the old battle in a more sacred cause which ‘ raised
the poor out of the dust and set them with princes, even the princes of
the people.’
If our Scottish nobility
wish to prove themselves worthy of their ancestry, they will go back
over the degenerate selfishness of the Stuart line, to those who gained
the reverence and affection of the nation by showing that they shared
its sympathies. It would make the task of patriotism in coming times
more easy. It is pleasant to think, in this connection, that the spirit
of the good Sir James did, to some extent, influence his successors;
though they did not identify themselves with the oppressed, they used
their power to shield them. Douglas-dale was filled with Covenanters who
were comparatively safe. So much was this felt that, when the Marquis of
Douglas threw in his lot with the Government of the Revolution, 800 men,
the flower of the West country, placed themselves under his orders, and
formed the famous 2Gtli or Caineronian regiment. Its first review took
place on the green field beside Douglas Water, under St. Bride’s
Church—its first fight, at Dunkeld, when it drove back the far superior
force of Claverhouse, who had just fallen in the pass of Killiecrankie.
Who can doubt that the memory of Richard Cameron was with these men when
they fought, and with their brave leader Cleland when he fell? The
Covenant struggle was carried to its end chiefly by young men who filled
up the ranks of those who fell in great numbers at the Restoration, or
shortly thereafter. Of these, three have left their mark most
distinctly, Hugh M'Kail, Richard Cameron, and James Renwick. M'Kail is
known to us chiefly by his seraphic song on the scaffold. Death silenced
while it transfigured him. But Cameron and Renwiek have left us some of
their living utterances; they are evidently imperfectly reported, taken
down in hasty snatches amid flight and fight, by men who had often to
lay down the pen for the sword. But enough remains to let us see that,
while Renwiek followed as the milder Elisha, under the Ahabs and
Jezebels of the time, Cameron was the Elijah, the lonely burning prophet
of our Scottish Cheriths and Horebs. The poet has caught it, when he
speaks of ‘ the word by Cameron thundered, and by Renwiek poured in
gentle strain.’ An idea of Cameron’s power may be gained from an extract
given by Dodds in his lectures on the Covenanters, and an idea at the
same time of the power that carried these men through that long weary
wilderness march—the manna from the skies, the water from the rock that
followed them. Nothing else, nothing less, could have done it. Richard
Cameron is perhaps, taken all in all, the main figure in that heroic
period of the Scottish Church. The most remarkable thing is that he died
very young, probably not more than thirty, for his exact age is not
known, and that the period of his active effort covered only months, not
years; but in that short burning life he transfused his spirit into the
heart of the people, and had his name borne long after as the watchword
of men willing to dare all and lose all for conscience’ sake. And so we
could not but regard with special interest ‘the stone-room’ of the town
of Douglas.
The moral of our story
shall be brief and practical; I am sure also it will be pleasant. It is
that the young men of Scotland should make themselves acquainted with
this period of the nation’s history, acquainted with it so as to drink
it in. There are many works that lie to hand—those of the two [‘Cries,
father and son; Pollok’s Tales of the Covenanters; Simpson’s Traditions;
Dodds’ lectures, with which may be conjoined his Lays of the Covenant,
lately issued; Miss "Watson’s Lives of Cameron, Cargill, Peden, and
Henwich; for those who wish to go deeper, the publications of the Wodrow
Society offer an abundant store ; and for those who would understand the
richness of old Scottish theology there is the admirable volume of Dr.
Walker of Carnwath. The next thing is that they should visit the scenes,
not as blind pilgrims of Loretto or Lourdes, but with an intelligent
love that will draw courage and faith from these noble memories. Few
cities have the heritage of Glasgow on the Clyde—the lower windows of
the house looking down through the magnificent Firth among lochs and
Highland mountains and winding shores, shut in by distant Arran—and the
upper chambers opening on visions of the ‘valleys that run among the
hills,’ filled with records of a past which may give patriotic spirit
and Christian nobility of soul to all who have a heart to learn. |