University of Virginia Library

THE RUINS OF SETON CHAPEL.

Il y a des Comptes, des Roys, des Dues; ainsi
C'est assez pour moy d'etre Seigneur De Seton.
Marie D'Ecosse.

I.

The beautiful, the powerful, and the proud,
The many, and the mighty, yield to Time—
Time that, with noiseless pace and viewless wing,
Glides on and on—the despot of the world.

II.

With what a glory the refulgent sun,
Far, from the crimson portals of the west,
Sends back his parting radiance: round and round
Stupendous walls encompass me, and throw
The ebon outlines of their traceries down
Upon the dusty floor: the eastern piles
Receive the chequered shadows of the west,
In mimic lattice-work and sable hues.
Rich in its mellowness, the sunshine bathes

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The sculptured epitaphs of barons dead
Long ere this breathing generation moved,
Or wantoned in the garish eye of noon.
The sad and sombre trophies of decay—
The prone effigies, carved in marble mail;

Several fine monuments of the Lords of Seton and of their Ladies yet remain in tolerable preservation within the chapel of Seton, both inserted into the walls, and strewed along the dilapidated floor, and contain epitaphs in part legible. Grose in his Antiquities has given us that at length which commemorates the courage, the calamities, and the unflinching fidelity of George, the fifth baron, the friend of Queen Mary, in whose cause he suffered exile. He it was whose funeral procession, by a strange coincidence of circumstances, intercepted for a few minutes on the road the triumphant progress of her son, James the Sixth, and his court retinue, on their way south to take possession of the English throne; a touching episode, which Mr Tytler very appositely employs to conclude his History of Scotland. The stone on which the King sate, while his retinue joined in paying the last services to the dead, is still shown, and forms a projection in the circular turret, at the south-west corner of the ancient garden-wall.

The greater part of the floor of the area of the chapel is strewn with tombstones of elaborate workmanship, but cracked, broken, defaced, and nearly illegible. This arose from the building having, through a long series of years, been allowed to remain literally open in door and window. For some time past, more attention has been paid to it, the Earl of Wemyss, the proprietor, having secured the windows and doorway.


The fair Ladye with cross'd palms on her breast;
The tablet grey with mimic roses bound;
The angled bones, the sand-glass, and the scythe,—
These, and the stone-carv'd cherubs that impend
With hovering wings, and eyes of fixedness,
Gleam down the ranges of the solemn aisle,
Dull 'mid the crimson of the waning light.

III.

This is a season and a scene to hold
Discourse, and purifying monologue,
Before the silent spirit of the Past!
Power built this house to Prayer

At a remote period this chapel was endowed by the wealthy house of Seton as the parish church; and other establishments being subsequently added to it, it was rendered collegiate in the reign of James the Fourth. Many curious particulars of the additions to, and the alterations made on the ancient structure, may be found in the quaint and interesting little book, The Chronicle of the House of Seatoun, by Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington, (Glasgow Reprint, 1829.) An aisle was added by Dame Catherine Sinclair, wife of the first lord, and the choir roofed with stone by George, the third lord, whose widow, Jane, in turn demolished Dame Catherine's aisle, replacing it by one of better proportions, which gave to the whole structure the complete form of the cross. It is also recorded that she equipped the church and its officiating priests with a complete stand of purple velvet, embroidered with the same devices, and richly gifted the altar with plate and other decorations. These, however, only held out more cogent inducements to plunder to the army of the Earl of Hertford in 1544, who, after laying waste Holyrood, Loretto, and other adjacent establishments, ransacked and burned the chapel. The present edifice is not of great extent, and is surmounted by a spire, which does not seem to have ever been raised to the intended elevation.

—'twas earthly power,

And vanished—see its sad mementoes round!
The gilly-flowers upon each fractured arch,
And from the time-worn crevices, look down,
Blooming where all is desolate. With tufts
Clustering and dark, and light-green trails between,
The ivy hangs perennial; yellow-flower'd,
The dandelion shoots its juicy stalks
Over the thin transparent blades of grass,
Which bend and flicker, even amid the calm;
And, oh! sad emblems of entire neglect,
In rank luxuriance, the nettles spread
Behind the massy tablatures of death,

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Hanging their pointed leaves and seedy stalks
Above the graves, so lonesome and so low,
Of famous men, now utterly unknown,
Yet whose heroic deeds were, in their day,
The theme of loud acclaim—when Seton's arm
In power with Stuart and with Douglas vied.

Through several centuries the family of Seton occupied a first rank in Scotland, in wealth, retinue, and high connection. After the forfeiture of the vast estates of the De Quinceys, at the termination of the succession wars of the Bruce and Baliol, these were conferred by King Robert, in large part, on the Setons, who had remained faithful to his cause; and on Sir Chrystal, who had been instrumental in saving his life at the battle of Methven, he conferred the hand of his sister. From this circumstance, a sword supporting a royal crown was added to the Seton arms, which originally consisted of three crescents with a double tressure, flowered and counter-flowered with fleurs-de-lis. In the reign of James the Sixth, the Lords of Seton became Earls of Winton. In 1715, George, the fifth and last Earl, took up arms for the Stuarts. He escaped from the Tower of London by sawing through the bars of the windows, and ended his chequered life at Rome in 1749. His magnificent estates were forfeited, and with him closed his long and illustrious line. Seton is now the property of the Earl of Wemyss and March, and Winton of Lord Ruthven. Within the last two or three years the Earl of Eglinton has also assumed the title of Earl of Winton. Diu maneat.


Clad in their robes of state, or graith of war,
A proud procession, o'er the stage of time,
As century on century wheeled away,
They passed; and, with the escutcheons mouldering o'er
The little spot, where voicelessly they sleep,
Their memories have decayed;—nay, even their bones
Are crumbled down to undistinguished dust,
Mocking the Herald, who, with pompous tones,
Would set their proud array of quarterings forth,
Down to the days of Chrystal and De Bruce.

IV.

What art Thou now, O pile of olden time?—
A visible memento that the works
Of men do like their masters pass away!
The grey and time-worn pillars, lichened o'er,
Throw from their fretted pedestals a line
Of sombre darkness far, and chequer o'er
The floor with shade and sunshine. Hoary walls!
Since first ye rose in architectural pride—
Since first ye frowned in majesty of strength—
Since first ye caught the crimson of the dawn
On oriel panes, on glittering lattices
Of many-coloured brightness—Time hath wrought

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An awful revolution. Night and morn,
From the near road, the traveller heard arise
The hymn of gratulation and of praise,
Amid your ribbed arches: sandalled monks,
Whitened by eld, in alb and scapulaire,
With book and crosier, mass and solemn rite,
Frail, yet forgiving frailties, sojourn'd here,
When Rome was all-prevailing, and obtained—
Though Cæsars and though Ciceros were not
The rulers of her camps and cabinets—
A second empire o'er the minds of men.

The Seton family were strongly attached to the Roman Catholic faith, which they warmly fostered by their influence and by munificent ecclesiastical endowments. The Protestant Reformation was obstinately opposed by George, Lord Seton, and after its accomplishment the family, although devoted royalists, almost ceased to interfere in public matters. The ancient bias, however, again showed itself in the first Jacobite rebellion, which proved fatal to the house of Seton.


V.

What art Thou now, O pile of olden time?—
A symbol of antiquity—a shrine
By man deserted, and to silence left.
The sparrow chatters on thy buttresses
Throughout the livelong day, and sportively
The swallow twitters through thy vaulted roofs,
Fluttering the whiteness of its inner plumes
Through shade, and now emerging to the sun;
The night-owls are thy choristers, and whoop
Amid the silence of the dreary dark;
The twilight-loving bat, on leathern wing,
Finds out a crevice for her callow young
In some dilapidated nook, on high,
Beyond the unassisted reach of man;
And on the utmost pinnacles the rook
Finds airy dwelling-place and home secure.
When Winter with his tempests lowers around,

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The whirling snow-flakes, through the open holes
Descending, gather on the tombs beneath,
And make the sad scene desolater still:
When sweeps the night-gale past on forceful wing,
And sighs through portals grey a solemn dirge,
As if in melancholy symphony,
The huge planes wail aloud, the alders creak,
The ivy rustles, and the hemlock bends
With locks of darkness to its very roots,
Springing from out the grassy mounds of those
Whose tombs are long since tenantless. But now,
With calm and quiet eye, the setting sun,
Back from the Grampians that engird the Forth,
Beams mellowness upon the wrecks around,
Tinges the broken arch with crimson rust,
Flames down the Gothic aisle, and mantles o'er
The tablatures of marble. Beautiful—
So bathed in nature's glorious smiles intense—
The ruined altar, the baptismal font,
The wallflower-crested pillars, foliage-bound,
The shafted oriel, and the ribbed roofs,
Labour, in years long past, of cunning hands!

VI.

Thy lords have passed away: their palace home,
Where princes oft at wine and wassail sate,

The house, or rather palace of Seton, as it was commonly termed, was demolished towards the close of last century, and a large unmeaning castellated mass of building reared in the immediate vicinity of the site, which for many years, along with the sea-house of Port Seton, which was in 1844 destroyed by fire, was used as barracks for the militia. It was during this occupancy that the interior of the chapel, then open and exposed, suffered such dilapidation.

The ancient palace was a strong turreted edifice, evidently built at various times, although the general style of ornament was that of the sixteenth century. On various parts of it were inscribed the words Un Dieu, un Foy, and un Roy, un Loy, as expressing the sacred and civil tenets of George, Lord Seton, the friend of Mary. Some portions of the structure were evidently, however, of much greater antiquity, and the whole was surrounded by a loopholed wall with turrets, which also included the chapel. Some fragments of this wall yet remain to the north of the ancient garden, which, with its buttressed and crumbling enclosures, yet exists—a curious memento of past times.

From the time of Bruce downwards, the palace of Seton was occasionally the abode of the Scottish kings; and after the junction of the crowns, it was visited by James the Sixth and by Charles the Second. On the former occasion, we are informed in The Muses' Welcome to the High and Mighty Prince James, printed in the following year, (1618,) that on the 15th May “the King's Majestie come to Sea-toune,” where he was enlarged in a Latin poem by “Joannes Gellius a Gellistoun, Philosoph. et Med. Doc.”

From the connection of the house of Seton with the once powerful family of Buchan, “thre Cumming schevis” were also quartered with their arms, (Chron. of House of Seytoun, p. 37); and by intermarriage its male descendants have come to represent the illustrious families of Gordon, Aboyne, and Eglinton. The great houses of the Seton Gordons are descended from Margaret Seton, who married Alan de Wyntoun about the middle of the fourteenth century, her second son, Sir Alexander, having espoused the heiress of the house of Gordon.

Of the ancient palace of Seton, as stated in the text, scarcely one stone is left upon another, and it is difficult amid the grass to trace out the lines of its foundations.


Hath not a stone now on another left;
And scarcely can the curious eye trace out
Its strong foundations—though its giant arms,
Once, in their wide protecting amplitude,

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Even like a parent's circled thee about.
Now Twilight mantles nature: silence reigns,
Save that, beneath, amid the danky vaults,
Is heard, with fitful melancholy sound,
The clammy dew-drop plashing: silence reigns,
Save that amid the gnarly sycamores,
That spread their huge embowering shades around,
From clear, melodious throat, the blackbird trills
His song—his almost homily to man—
Dirge-like, and sinking in the moody heart,
With tones prophetic. Through the trellis green,
The purpling hills look dusky; and the clouds,
Shorn of their edge-work of refulgent gold,
Spread, whitening, o'er the bosom of the sky.
Monastic pile, farewell! to Solitude
I leave thy ruins; though, not more with thee,
Often than on the highways of the world,
Where throng the busy multitudes astir,
Dwells Solitude. On many a pensive eve,
My thoughts have brooded on the changeful scene,
Gazed at it through the microscope of Truth,
And found it, as the Royal Psalmist found,
In all its issues, and in all its hopes,
Mere vanity. With ken reverting far
Through the bright Eden of departed years,
Here Contemplation, from the stir of life
Estranged, might treasure many a lesson deep;
And view, with unsophisticated eye,
The lowly state, and lofty destiny,
The pride and insignificance of man!