CHAPTER XIV.

The Necropolis--Jewish Burial Place--Monument to John Knox--Monuments of William Macgavin and Dr.

d.i.c.k--Reminiscences--Character and Writings of Dr. d.i.c.k--Pollok and 'the Course of Time'--Grave of Motherwell--Sketch of his Life--His Genius and Poetry--'Jeanie Morrison.'--'My Heid is like to rend, Willie.'--'A Summer Sabbath Noon.'

East of the Cathedral, a few steps, lies the Necropolis, on the brow of a hill which overlooks the city and the surrounding regions. We pa.s.s over the "Bridge of Sighs," so named from its leading to the Cemetery, and consisting of a handsome arch, spanning the "Molendinar Burn," a brawling rivulet, whose waters, collected into a small basin, dash over an artificial cascade into the ravine below. The Necropolis covers the rocky eminence formerly crowned with dark firs, and supposed, in ancient times to have been a retreat of the Druids, who here performed their fearful rites. But how sweet and peaceful now, ornamented with fine trees and shrubbery, shady walks, and beautiful monuments, a serene retreat for the peaceful dead. In point of situation and appearance, the Necropolis is superior to "Pere la Chaise," though certainly inferior to "Greenwood" and "Mount Auburn," in our opinion the most attractive burying-places in the world. Still, each of these has a beauty of its own, well fitted to soften and subdue those feelings of grief and horror naturally excited by death and the grave. Such sweet and attractive places of burial are in harmony with the genius of the Gospel. The ancient Greeks, from their very horror of death and their ignorance of futurity, endeavored to invest the tomb with festal a.s.sociations. Why, then, should not we, upon whom the light of immortality has descended, lay those we love in scenes of quiet beauty, where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest?" Does not Holy Writ declare, "_Blessed_ are the dead that die in the Lord?" It is therefore meet to place their bodies only in scenes which remind us of rest, of hope, and of Heaven.

"The Dead cannot grieve, Not a sob nor a sigh meets mine ear, Which compa.s.sion itself could relieve.

Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear; Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one here."

Let affection, then, bury her dead and build her tombs amid the trees and the flowers, which preach to us of the resurrection-morn and the paradise of G.o.d.

"The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose from the skies!"

This cemetery was founded in 1831, and the first sale was to the Jews, who require a burying-place for themselves. It lies in the north-west corner of the grounds. The enclosure contains the requisite accommodations for washing the bodies before interment as required by the Jewish law, which also forbids one body to be deposited above another. The place is ornamented with excellent taste. On the left is a beautiful pillar, in imitation of Absalom's pillar in the "King's dale."

On the front of this column, and immediately under its capital, is a piece of fret-work, formed of Hebrew letters, representing the words, "Who among the G.o.ds is like unto Jehovah?" On the shaft of the column are those touching stanzas from Byron's Hebrew Melodies, concluding thus:

"Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, Where shall ye flee away and be at rest; The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, Mankind their country--Israel but the grave."

On the lower part of the column is the following:

"Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive, and let thy widows trust in me."

On the other side of the gateway are engraved the following verses:

"A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping: Rachel weeping for her children, refused to be comforted for her children, because they were not."

"Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord, and they shall come again from the land of the enemy."

"And there is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall come again to their own border."

And on the opposite pillar is the following:

"How hath the Lord covered the daughter of Sion with a cloud in his anger, and cast down from heaven to the earth the beauty of Israel, and removed not his footstool in the day of his anger."

"But though he caused grief, yet will he have compa.s.sion according to the mult.i.tude of his mercies. For he doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men."

On the summit of the hill, and towering above the rest, is the commanding monument of John Knox, intended to be commemorative of the Reformation. On a lofty square pedestal, stands the statue of the stern old Reformer, with the Bible in one hand, and the other stretched out, as if in the act of addressing the mult.i.tude. On one side of the pedestal is the following inscription:

To testify grat.i.tude for inestimable services In the cause of Religion, Education, and Civil Liberty, To awaken admiration Of that Integrity, Disinterestedness and Courage, Which stood unshaken in the midst of trials, And in the maintenance of the highest objects-- Finally, To cherish unceasing reverence for the principles and blessings of that Great Reformation, by the influence of which our country, though in the midst of difficulties, has risen to honor, prosperity, and happiness, This Monument is erected by Voluntary Subscription, To the Memory of JOHN KNOX, The chief instrument, under G.o.d, of the Reformation in Scotland, On the 22d day of Sept. 1825.

He died rejoicing in the faith of the Gospel, at Edinburgh, on the 24th of Nov. 1532, in the 69th year of his age.

On the other sides are the following:

"The Reformation produced a revolution in the sentiments of mankind, the greatest as well as most beneficial that has happened since the publication of Christianity."

"In 1547, and in the city where his friend George Wishart had suffered, John Knox, surrounded with dangers, first preached the doctrines of the Reformation. In 1559, on the 24th of August, the parliament of Scotland adopted the confession of faith, presented by the reformed ministers, and declared popery no longer to be the religion of this kingdom.

"John Knox became then a minister of Edinburgh, where he continued to his death, the incorruptible guardian of our best interests.

"'I can take G.o.d to witness,' he declared, 'that I never preached in contempt of any man, and wise men will consider that a true friend cannot flatter; especially in a case that involves the salvation of the bodies and the souls, not of a few persons, but of the whole realm.' When laid in the grave, the Regent said: 'There lieth he who never feared the face of man, who was often threatened with pistol and dagger, yet hath ended his days in peace and honor.'

"Patrick Hamilton, a youth of high rank and distinguished attainments, was the first martyr in Scotland in the cause of the Reformation. He was condemned to the flames in St. Andrews, in 1528, and the 24th year of his age.

"From 1530 to 1540, persecution raged in every quarter, many suffered the most cruel deaths, and many fled to England and the continent. Among these early martyrs were Jerome Russel and Alexander Kennedy, two young men of great piety and talent, who suffered at Glasgow. William Wishart returned to Scotland, from which he had been banished, and preached the Gospel in various quarters. In 1546, this heavenly-minded man, the friend and instructor of Knox, was committed to the flames at St. Andrews."

Let the thoughtful ponder these interesting memorials, and say whether the Reformation in Scotland was not a glorious event!

At a little distance from Knox's monument, is one to the memory of Mr.

Macgavin, a banker in Glasgow, and author of "the Protestant;" and another of great elegance and beauty, to the memory of Dr. d.i.c.k, late professor of theology in the United Secession Church. "Say not that the good ever die," and "he sleeps a sacred sleep," are engraven, in Greek, upon the sides of the monument, beautiful and appropriate sentiments for the tomb of a Christian. Dr. d.i.c.k was pre-eminently a good man, and not only so but a man of the highest attainments. Well does the writer remember his dignified bearing, fine countenance, and silver hair. But a few years ago, he sat at the feet of this venerable man, as his instructor in theology, and received from his lips lessons of holy wisdom. While professor of theology, the reverend doctor was also pastor of one of the largest and most influential of the Secession churches in the city of Glasgow. He was greatly venerated, both by the people of his charge and by his theological pupils, for his dignity and purity of character, his clear, well balanced intellect, his calm and consistent piety. He wrote lucidly and elegantly on the "Inspiration of the Scriptures," a work which a distinguished English bishop so much admired that he carried it about with him in his pocket. His "Lectures on the Acts of the Apostles," though inferior to the production just named, is also a valuable work. Since his death, his "Theological Prelections"

have been published, and are much esteemed for their clear statement, and defence of evangelical truth. Always lucid, always logical and satisfactory, he is never profound or original. His style glides in pellucid beauty, like a rivulet through the meadow, mirroring in its calm depths the green foliage which adorns its banks, and the blue heavens bending above it, but never cutting itself a new channel, or sweeping onward, with majestic force, like a torrent to the sea. The labors of Dr. d.i.c.k were pre-eminently useful; and a host of young men, educated under his influence, now fill posts of the highest responsibility in Scotland, and in other parts of the world. Pollok was a student of the Doctor's at the same time with the writer, but was not known to be possessed of any extraordinary genius till after the publication of "The Course of Time." He was considered a man of talent, however, and had written two or three sermons, containing pa.s.sages of considerable power. But his heart was in his great poem during the whole of his student life. So intensely did he work upon it, that he had often to be a.s.sisted to bed, from sheer exhaustion. "The Course of Time" has many obvious faults, but abounds in strokes of genius and power. A great soul has poured itself into this rugged and sometimes gloomy channel, which, traversing the whole course of time, finally loses itself in the ocean of eternity. Pollok was tall, well proportioned, of a dark complexion, "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," with deep-set eyes, heavy eyebrows and black bushy hair. A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, which flashed, with a meteor brilliancy, whenever he spoke with enthusiasm and energy. He was born in 1798, at North Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,--

"'Mong hills and streams And melancholy deserts, where the sun Saw as he pa.s.s'd, a shepherd only here And there, watching his little flock; or heard The ploughman talking to his steers."

His father was an honest farmer, and his early home a scene of much domestic endearment. To the trees which overshadowed the paternal mansion he thus pays homage in his verse:

"Much of my native scenery appears, And presses forward, to be in my song; But must not now; for much behind awaits, Of higher note. Four trees I pa.s.s not by, Which o'er our house their evening shadow threw;-- Three ash, and one of elm. Tall trees they were, And old; and had been old a century Before my day. None living could say aught About their youth; but they were goodly trees; And oft I wondered, as I sat and thought Beneath their summer shade, or in the night Of winter heard the spirits of the wind Growling among their boughs--how they had grown So high, in such a rough, tempestuous place: And when a hapless branch, torn by the blast Fell down, I mourned as if a friend had fallen."

Pollok had just finished his studies, and was licensed as a preacher, by the United Secession Church, when he published his poem which thrilled all hearts in Scotland, and struck his fellow-students with perfect amazement, not unmingled, however, with delight. But he was then sick.

His over-wrought frame began to yield, and he sought health in a foreign country, which he did not live to reach. He died in England in the autumn of 1827, the same year in which he had published his poem, having lived just long enough to complete it, and receive the applause of his countrymen.

Before leaving the Necropolis, we must visit a grave at one corner of the grounds, in a quiet, shady spot, as if retired somewhat from the rest. There it is, the grave of William Motherwell, one of the sweetest of the Scottish poets, the author of "Bonnie Jeanie Morrison" and "My Heid is like to rend, Willie," and many other poems of exquisite grace and pathos.

William Motherwell was born in the city of Glasgow in the year 1797, and died there in 1835. In his eleventh year he was transferred to the care of his uncle in Paisley, who brought him up. Here he received a liberal education, and commenced the study of law. At the age of twenty-one he was appointed Deputy to the Sheriff-Clerk of Paisley, a highly respectable but not lucrative situation. He early evinced a love of poetry, and in 1819 became editor of a miscellany, called "The Harp of Renfrewshire," which he conducted with much taste and judgment. A relish for antiquarian research led him to investigate the subject of the ballad poetry of Scotland, the results of which he published in 1827, in two volumes, ent.i.tled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern." His introduction to this collection is admirably written, and must form the basis of all future investigations upon this subject. He seems to have been unusually successful in recovering many of the old ballads, which were never committed to writing, and known to very few persons. Some of these, though rude and grotesque in thought or style, are exquisitely beautiful. Allan Cunningham, another of Scotland's sweetest poets, had labored in this field, but not with the same success. But the genius of both of these poets was deeply imbued with the spirit of the old ballad rhymes. They had conned them in their minds so frequently that they naturally wrote their own effusions in the same simple and touching style. Soon after the publication of his "Ancient Minstrelsy,"

Motherwell became editor of a weekly journal in Paisley, and established a magazine there, to which he contributed some of his finest poems. The talent and spirit which he evinced in these literary labors, were the occasion of his being removed to the city of Glasgow, to the editorial care of the Glasgow Courier, in which situation he continued till his death. He conducted this paper with great ability.

Motherwell was of small stature, but thick set and muscular. His head was large and finely formed; his eyes were bright and penetrating. In mixed society he was rather reserved, "but appeared internally to enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul." Somewhat pensive in his mood, he lived much in the solitude of his own thoughts, and at times gave way to a profound melancholy. This spirit pervades his poetry. The wailings of a wounded heart mingle with his fine descriptions of nature, and his lofty aspirations after the beautiful and true.

In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He was also a.s.sociated with the Ettrick Shepherd in editing the works of Burns, and at the time of his death was collecting materials for the life of Tannahill, an humble weaver in Paisley, but one of the finest song-writers Scotland has ever produced. "Accompanied by a literary friend, on the first of November, 1835, he had been dining in the country, about a couple of miles from Glasgow, and on his return home, feeling indisposed, he went to bed. In a few hours thereafter he awakened, and complained of a pain in the head, which increased so much as to render him speechless. Medical a.s.sistance was speedily obtained; but alas! it was of no avail--the blow was struck, and the curtain had finally fallen over the life and fortunes of William Motherwell. One universal feeling of regret and sympathy seemed to extend over society, when the sudden and premature decease of this accomplished poet and elegant writer became known. His funeral was attended by a large body of the citizens, by the most eminent and learned of the literary professions, and by persons of all shades of political opinions. He was interred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far from the resting-place of his fast friend, Mr. William Henderson."

Though Motherwell's death was thus sudden and unexpected, he seems to have had something like a premonition of it. The following touching lines were given to a friend, a day or two before his decease:

When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, Life's fever o'er, Will there for me be any bright eye weeping, That I'm no more?

Will there be any heart still memory keeping, Of heretofore?

When the great winds through leafless forests rushing, Sad music make?

When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing, Like full hearts break, Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing, Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining, With purest ray, And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining, Burst through that clay, Will there be one still on that spot repining, Lost hopes all day?

When no star twinkles with its eye of glory, On that low mound, And wintry storms have with their ruins h.o.a.ry, Its loneness crowned; Will there be then one versed in misery's story, Pacing it round?

It may be so,--but this is selfish sorrow, To ask such meed-- A weakness and a wickedness to borrow From hearts that bleed, The waitings of to-day for what to-morrow Shall never need.

Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, Thou gentle heart; And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, Let no tear start; It were in vain--for Time hath long been knelling-- Sad one, depart!