Excerpt
THE DOOM OF SOULIS. "They roll'd him up in a sheet of lead—A sheet of lead for a funeral pall;They plunged him in the caldron red,And melted him—lead, and bones, and all."—Leyden.
A Gazetteer would inform you that Denholm is a village beautifully situated near the banks of the Teviot, about midway between Jedburgh and Hawick, and in the Parish of Cavers; and perhaps, if of modern date, it would add, it has the honour of being the birth-place of Dr. Leyden. However, it was somewhat early on a summer morning, a few years ago, that a young man, a stranger, with a fishing-rod in his hand, and a creel fastened to his shoulders, entered the village. He stood in the midst of it, and, turning round—"This, then," said he, "is the birth-place of Leyden—the son of genius—the martyr of study—the friend of Scott!"
Few of the villagers were astir; and at the first he met—who carried a spade over his shoulder, and appeared to be a ditcher—he inquired if he could show him the house in which the bard and scholar was born.
"Ou, ay, sir," said the man, "I wat I can; I'll show ye that instantly, and proud to show you it, too."
"That is good," thought the stranger; "the prophet is dead, but he yet speaketh—he hath honour in his own country."
The ditcher conducted him across the green, and past the end of a house, which was described as being the school-house, and was newly built, and led him towards a humble building, the height of which was but a single storey, and which was found occupied by a millwright as a workshop. Yet, again, the stranger rejoiced to find that the occupier venerated his premises for the poet's sake, and that he honoured the genius of him who was born in their precincts.
"Dash it!" said the stranger, quoting the habitual phrase of poor Leyden, "I shall fish none to-day."
And I wonder not at his having so said; for it is not every day that we stand beneath the thatch-clad roof—or any other roof—where was born one whose name time will bear written in undying characters on its wings, until those wings droop in the darkness of eternity.
The stranger proceeded up the Teviot, oftentimes thinking of Leyden, of all that he had written, and occasionally repeating passages aloud. He almost forgot that he had a rod in his hand—his eyes did anything but follow the fly, and, I need hardly say, his success was not great.
About mid-day, he sat down on the green bank in solitariness, to enjoy a sandwich, and he also placed by his side a small flask, containing spirits, which almost every angler, who can afford it, carries with him. But he had not sat long, when a venerable-looking old man saluted him with—
"Here's a bonny day, sir."
The old man stood as he spoke. There was something prepossessing in his appearance he had a weatherbeaten face, with thin white hair, blue eyes, that had lost somewhat of their former lustre, his shoulders were rather
bent; and he seemed a man who was certainly neither rich nor affluent, but who was at ease with the world, and the world was at ease with him.
They entered into conversation, and they sat down together. The old man appeared exactly one of those characters whom you will occasionally find fraught with the traditions of the Borders, and still tainted with, and half believing in, their ancient superstitions. I wish not to infer that superstition was carried to a greater height of absurdity on the Borders than in other parts of England and Scotland, nor even that the inhabitants of the North were as remarkable in early days for their superstitions, as they now are for their intelligence; for every nation had its superstitions, and I am persuaded that most of them might be traced to a common origin. Yet, though the same in origin, they change their likeness with the character of a nation or district. People unconsciously made their superstitions to suit themselves, though their imaginary effects still terrified them. There was, therefore, a something characteristic in the fables of our forefathers, which fables they believed as facts. The cunning deceived the ignorant—the ignorant were willing to deceive themselves; and what we now laugh at as the clever trick of a hocus-pocus man, was, scarce more than a century ago, received as a miracle—as a thing performed by the hand of the "prince of the powers of the air." Religion without knowledge, and still swaddled in darkness, fostered their idle fear; yea, there are few superstitions, though prostituted by wickedness, that did not owe their existence to some glimmering idea of religion. They had not seen the lamp which lightens the soul, and leadeth it to knowledge; but having perceived its far-off reflection, plunged into the quagmire of error—and hence proceeded superstition....