Descriptive of Bruntisfield House, now in the possession
of Mr. Warrender, written in June 1790 at the desire
of a young lady to whom the author was much attached.
Near where Edina's smoky turrets rise,
And Arthur rears his bold and lofty head,
Where the green meadow broad expanded lies,
And yellow furze the sporting links bespread,--
By tallest Elms and spreading Beech concealed
From vulgar eyes--from busy care retired,
To tender Melancholy alone revealed,
Or Love, by Truth and Gentleness inspired,--
An ancient Pile of gothic structure stands,
Whose massy walls still brave the lapse of years,
Once the retreat of rude confederate Bands,
Or safe Asylum to a virgin's fears.
No longer now the seat of War's alarms,
Far gentler sounds are echoed here around,
Sacred to Genius--here th' Enthusiast warms,
Or pensive walks as o'er enchanted ground.
No longer on the jarring hinges sweeps
Th' unwieldy Portal as in times of yore.
Secure within the peaceful owner sleeps,
Nor dreams of wounds, or pants for human gore.
The arched Gateway open still invites,
The curious Traveller to pause awhile,
Instructs the grave--the gay but ill delights,
Nor asks the vacant for a single smile.
High o'er its top the branching Elms ascend,
And gild their summits in the Evening beam,
The creeping ivy, Ruin's constant friend,
Clasps its worn sides and enters every seam.
Musing, within these limits oft I rove,
A slave to Love's alternate hopes and fears,
With heedless footsteps pace the silent grove,
And vent the Sorrows of my heart in tears.
Here tune my Soul to Pity's softest strain,
Mark the swift progress of Life's fleeting hour,
Learn, from my own, to feel another's Pain,
Nor covet wealth, or court ambitious Power.
Here too, when from the West the sun's last ray
Shoots thro' the gloom, and brightens all the scene,
Here fair Eliza oft was wont to stray,
And add new lustre to the vernal green.
The newly-built houses which now closely surround Bruntisfield have
swept away two curious landmarks of the past. One was the mound of
earth on which James IV. stood to review his army, preparatory to
the expedition which ended so disastrously at Flodden.[3] The other
was a flat, moss-grown stone which lay in the park, almost hidden by
the grass and daisies growing round it. On it was carved a skull,
surmounted by a winged hour-glass and a mutilated scroll; and below
it a shield bearing a saltier, and the initials M. I. R. and the date
1645. "The M.," says Wilson in his _Reminiscences of Old Edinburgh_,
"surmounted the shield, indicative of the standing of the deceased
as a Master of Arts, and so telling of a scholar and a gentleman,
who slept there apart from his kin, a victim to that last and most
fatal visitation of the plague." When that part of the park was built
over, the stone was carefully removed from its ancient site, and
placed in safety against a wall in the garden of Bruntisfield, where,
though much obliterated by weather, its carvings can still be traced.
[3] When my aunt, Lady John Scott, was staying at Bruntisfield in
1863, she trenched the mound across, and made a thorough examination
of it, but discovered nothing, beyond that it was undoubtedly
artificial.
Once outside the gate of Bruntisfield, we find ourselves on the
Links, but there is little of their former country wildness left
about them now. Houses hem them closely in on every side. The
straight paths, formal rows of young trees, and stiff plots of
shrubbery, give them the look of a suburban common. The occasional
golf-player, a rare sight now, seems like a ghost of the past still
lingering in his old haunts. Let us call back the past as it was two
hundred and fifty years ago, and what a different scene is here!
Before us lies an open, undulating muirland, covered with whin and
broom, and in the more sheltered hollows grow thickets of thorn and
natural oak. This is the great Boroughmuir, which stretches far away
to the hills of Braid, and in more remote times formed part of the
ancient forest of Drumselch. A long winding loch lies between us and
the town, in the low ground which future generations were to call the
Meadows. Its placid waters and reed-fringed shores are the haunts of
innumerable wild-fowl. The moor is bare and desolate, but here and
there rises a stern, grey tower, half fortress, half dwelling-house,
with a few humble cottages clustering round it for protection and
defence. Such is the Wryteshouse, the ancient home of the Napiers,
its walls enriched with quaint carvings and inscriptions, which
crowns the gently rising ground at the south-west corner of the
loch. The evening breeze no longer brings us the sweet sound of
St. Catherine's vesper bell, for long before the day whose story
is unrolled before us the tide of the Reformation had swept wildly
through the land; but the shattered walls still remain to bear
witness to the piety of an elder generation. St. Roque's Chapel is in
ruins, but the victims of the plague still find a last resting-place
near the shrine of their patron saint.
Such, then, was the Boroughmuir two hundred and fifty years ago, the
great gathering ground on which so many troops had assembled before
marching against the Southron, and on which so many skirmishes had
taken place in the civil wars that rent the country in Queen Mary's
time; but it requires an effort of the imagination to realize it all
now!
The house opposite Bruntisfield was formerly the residence of Dr.
Gillis, the Roman Catholic Bishop of Edinburgh, whose remains rest
in the vaults of St. Margaret's Convent, a few yards farther south,
on the opposite side of the road. The late Mr. Hope Scott and his
first wife (Sir Walter Scott's grand-daughter) are buried there
also. This was the first religious house built in Scotland since the
Reformation. It was founded in 1835, and belongs to the Ursuline
order. Though much of the building is new, part remains of the old
mansion of Whitehouse, where Principal Robertson lived while writing
his history of Charles V. Before that even it had been the scene of
literary work, for John Home is said to have written part of the
tragedy of "Douglas" at Whitehouse.[4] Two other convents existed on
the Boroughmuir before the Reformation. They are now so completely
swept away, that the only memory left of them is a much-corrupted
form of their names. The Pleasance and the Sciennes, standing not
very far from each other, at the south-eastern end of the Meadows,
mark the spot where once stood the convents of St. Mary of Placentia
and St. Catherine of Sienna. The latter belonged to the Dominican
order. It was founded in the 15th century by Marjory, second wife of
William, third Earl of Orkney and first Earl of Caithness, but most
of the building was erected some years later at the expense of Lady
Janet Hepburn, eldest daughter of Patrick, first Earl of Bothwell,
and widow of George, fourth Lord Seton, who fell at Flodden. She
survived her husband forty-five years, and spent the greater part
of that time (after her son came of age) at the convent of St.
Catherine. The papal bull by which the foundation was confirmed is
dated 1517. In 1547 the convent was dispersed. Up to within the last
few years, a small portion of the original building still survived.[5]
[4] The opening lines of the tragedy are believed to have been
inspired by the woods of the Flass in Berwickshire, Home having been
for a short time on a visit to the neighbouring parish of Westruther.
[5] For a detailed account of the convent of St. Catherine and its
founders, see _The Convent of St. Catherine of Sienna_, by George
Seton, 1871. Privately printed.
Proceeding to the bottom of the Whitehouse Loan, we now turn to
the right, and then again sharp to the left, and find ourselves in
Canaan Lane; a name which recalls the Covenanting times, when the Old
Testament was the source of most names of either places or persons.
This is a very biblical neighbourhood. Canaan Lodge, Mount Hebron,
Eden Bank, the Land of Goshen, are among the names which surround
us. The only one of these houses to which any interest is attached
is Canaan Lodge, where once lived Dr. Gregory, whose name is widely
known in every nursery. To complete the biblical illusion, the little
stream--now pent between walls, and hardly more than a ditch--which
takes its rise in Craiglockhart Hill and flows eastwards, is the
Jordan Burn. On the other side lies Egypt, not many years ago a quiet
country farm, now built over.
On leaving Canaan Lane, we again turn to the left, and soon find
ourselves crossing the Suburban Railway. Two roads offer themselves,
both leading southwards, and uniting about a mile and a quarter
farther on. The eastmost of the two, though the oldest and steepest,
is the most picturesque, so we will follow it.
After crossing the brow of the hill, a shady glen opens to our
left, with a carriage drive leading into it, along the banks of the
little stream. This is the Hermitage of Braid, a curious old place,
and, till you explore its deep and narrow valley, it is impossible
to realize its extreme seclusion. The banks are so steep, and
descend so abruptly, that the beeches and sycamores, which appear
like scrubby bushes from the neighbouring fields, are in reality
forest trees rising from the sides of the burn. So closely are their
branching tops entwined, that few rays of sunlight can straggle down
to the dim green twilight beneath. The house is small and square,
with pepper-box turrets at the four corners, and was built about
the year 1780. The first owners of Braid of whom we hear, were the
Fairlies.[6] During the Reformation, the Laird of Braid was one of
the earliest who received its doctrines, and was a personal friend
and zealous defender of John Knox. In the 17th century Braid belonged
to the Dicks of Craighouse. From them it passed to the Browns of
Gorgie, and finally, at the end of the last century, it was bought,
together with the neighbouring property of Craighouse, by Charles
Gordon of Cluny. He married Miss Trotter of Morton Hall, and was
the father of Colonel John Gordon, and of three daughters,--Jacky,
afterwards Lady Stair,--Charlotte, Lady Johnstone of Westerhall,--and
Mary, who died unmarried. The two elder were very beautiful and very
wild. There are innumerable references to Miss Jacky in contemporary
letters and memoirs. The adventures of her stormy youth scandalized
even the free-spoken and easy-going people of her time, and will
hardly bear repetition now. She eventually married John, seventh
Earl of Stair, in 1804, but the marriage was an unhappy one, and
Lord Stair made use of a notorious Colonel Dalzell to rid himself
of his wife. The plot succeeded, and they were divorced; but when
she discovered the shameful artifice that had been practised, the
horror of it sent an already excitable mind off its balance, and for
years Lady Stair was kept under restraint at her brother's house
of the Hermitage. The tradition still lingers, that at nightfall
passers-by along this lonely road were often startled by her screams.
She recovered her senses some years before her death, and passed
the remainder of her life in Edinburgh, an altered woman in every
respect, and died there in 1847, and is buried on the north side of
St. Cuthbert's Churchyard.
[6] The arms of Fairlie of Brede were--or, a lion rampant, gules;
between his forepaws a star of the last bruised with a bendlet,
azure. It is said that the first of this family was a natural son
of Robert II.; hence they have the tincture and figure of the Royal
Arms (without the tressure), and bruised with a bendlet, a mark of
illegitimation. (See Nisbet's _Heraldry_.)
In his MS. notes, written in 1700, William Wauchope of Niddrie
mentions the Fairlies of Brede among the seven old families in the
county which were already extinct. The others were--the Logans of
Lochsterrick (Restalrig); the Prestons of Craigmillar, the Herrings
of Gilmerton, the Edmistons of Edmiston, the Giffords of Sheriffhall,
and the Lauders of the Bass.
Of late years the Hermitage has been usually let, and at present
is the residence of Mr. Skelton, to whom we owe so many valuable
historical works.
On the opposite side of the road is the pond belonging to the Morton
Hall Curling Club. A few hundred yards farther up the hill, and
passing on our left the road which leads to Liberton, we reach the
highest point, where the road is cut through the solid rock which
forms the westmost spur of the Braid Hills. From here, on a bright
spring day, when the distance is cleared by a north-west wind, the
view is most beautiful. Edinburgh and the sea lie at our feet; and
beyond, the eye travels westward, from the fertile shores of Fife, to
where the Ochils rise behind the wooded crest of Corstorphine, and
then melt away into the far-off Perthshire hills, that stand above
Loch Katrine, and guard the entrance to the Highlands. Far in the
west a distant blue peak fading into the sky is Ben Lomond; and, on a
very clear day, we may just see the shadow of the Cobbler behind it.
Nearer to us is the rocky outline of the Dalmahoy hills, and between
us and them stretches a fair expanse of woodland and pasture, which
gradually sweeps up to where the Pentlands shut out the view to the
south-west.
Just before reaching the lodge of Morton Hall, we pass the Buckstone
on our left,--a large rocky fragment, on which the proprietor of the
barony of Penicuik,
That fair dome, where suit is paid
By blast of bugle free,[7]
is bound by his tenure to sit and wind three blasts of a horn when
the king shall come to hunt on the Boroughmuir. Hence the crest of
the Clerks of Penicuik--a demi-forester proper, winding a horn, with
the motto, "_Free for a blast_."
[7] Scott--"The Gray Brother."
Morton Hall stands to our left, with its winding drives, its woods
and sheltered gardens, lying open to every gleam of the sun, and
protected from the cold north winds by the high ground of the park
behind. In the reign of James III. it belonged to the St. Clairs
of Roslin. It became the property of the Trotters, an ancient
Berwickshire family, about 1641, and now belongs to Colonel Trotter
of the Grenadier Guards. John Trotter, the second in possession
of Morton Hall, was a great loyalist, and was fined £500 in 1645
by Parliament, for assisting Montrose. The house, which was built
towards the end of the 17th century, is a comfortable square stone
building, and has in it some very fine tapestry representing the
story of Perseus and Andromeda. At different places in the park occur
those curious whinstone monoliths, of which a line once extended
across the country, from the Pentlands to the Esk. On the south
side of the Braid Hills, within the park, is a small natural sheet
of water, which lies in a hollow that was called of old _Elve's_ or
_Elf Kirk_, denoting a place where the fairies assembled. A little
distance below this, nearer Morton Hall (says the Rev. Mr. Whyte
in his account of Liberton Parish), is a piece of ground called
Kilmorton. The name tells us that here stood a Cella, or religious
house; but no tradition survives concerning it, nor are any remains
of it to be seen.
Returning to the high road, on the opposite side stands Comiston, a
small place which derives its name from the _Camus stone_, once the
marchstone of its eastern boundary. This was a huge monolith which
stood on the brow of the hill at Fairmilehead, and which, within the
memory of the last generation, was barbarously broken up to make
road-metal. Like other _Camus_ or _Cambus_ stones (from the celtic
_Cam_, crooked) in different parts of the country, it had probably
been set up as a landmark, or as a memorial of some contract between
great chiefs.[8]
[8] See Wilson's _Prehistoric Annals of Scotland_.
At Fairmilehead, where formerly stood a toll, four roads meet.
The one to the left leads past Morton House, and along the sunny
park-wall of Morton Hall, to the Burdiehouse road. Part of Morton
House is very old. Like Morton Hall, the property belonged in
James III.'s time to Sir Oliver Sinclair of Roslin. His successors
possessed both places for many years. From them Morton House passed
to the Riggs, cadets of the family of Rigg of Carberry. It now
belongs to Colonel Trotter, but it is generally let, and it was here
that Dr. Hill Burton, the historian, died in 1881.
Our way lies to the right, and yet, the road stretching straight in
front of us,--how sorely does it tempt the wanderer on! Past Hillend,
where the three ways part, and along the upper road under the
shoulder of Cairketton,--and so on to where the shadows play beneath
the high beech avenues of Woodhouselee,--till he turns at last to
reach the wooded opening of Glencorse, and sees before him that wild,
lonely loch, beneath whose silvery waters lies the ruined chapel of
St. Catherine of the Hopes. Let him wander up the solitary haunts of
Logan Water, till the path ends, the last tree is left behind, and he
finds himself in an amphitheatre of hills. They stand around him in
silent majesty, while the lengthening shadows creep up their steep,
grassy sides. The sky is blue and cloudless overhead,--the whispering
wind is all but hushed in this sheltered spot,--not a sound is heard
but the far-off bleat of a sheep, or the crow of a grouse on the
moors beyond,--and then, in the solemn peacefulness of this place,
let him realize if he can that a city, with its turmoil, its din, and
its busy crowd, lies little more than an hour's ride from him!
But to-day we must not stray so far; and, before leaving
Fairmilehead, let us turn for a moment to the recollections of a
prehistoric age, of which the land on which we stand is full. It
is certain that this was the site of a Roman town (the name Morton
meaning "the great city," from _Mhor_, the Celtic "great"), to which
a road led from Teviotdale, and proceeded to Cramond, an important
Roman station on the Forth. To preserve the memory of the ancient
Roman road, the present one was formed on its line for nearly a mile,
by direction of Sir John Clerk of Penicuik, one of the most learned
antiquarians of his day. Tradition says a great battle took place
here between the Romans and the Picts. The Roman army was encamped
on the Gallachlaw (the wooded rising ground to the east), and traces
of their entrenchments can still be seen along the west approach
to Morton Hall. The Pictish king was killed, and buried beneath a
huge tumulus, now, alas! destroyed, but in which remains of men and
weapons were found.
Countless years have rolled
Since their last shout of battle died away,[9]
and now all that remains to tell the tale of how this ancient
people fought and struggled, is the massive, unhewn Battle-stone,
lichen-covered and weather-stained, which stands a silent witness
to the past. Behind it still rise the mighty hills, whose name of
Pentland recalls the Pechts or Picts, who so long ago sought refuge
in their fastnesses from the foreign invader.
[9] Violet Fane--"Autumn Songs."
[Illustration: _Battle-stone Comiston_.]
The Battle-stone, Kelstane or Caiystone, as it is variously called,
stands on the right of the road, about a hundred yards west of
Fairmilehead. It is a monolith of red sandstone, standing seven feet
high, and reaching nearly as far below the ground. Near its base
are still distinctly visible the mark of seven cup excavations, of
the usual form, arranged in a row like those of the cromlech at
Bonnington.
Passing the steep narrow lane to the left, which leads to
Swanston,--a hill farm of Colonel Trotter's on the slope of
Cairketton,--whose low, thatched, white cottages make a charming
study for the artist, we reach the picturesque tiled roofs of the
Hunter's Tryst. This was long ago a comfortable little ale-house.
Persons still alive remember when it was kept by two respectable
old women, who cooked a capital dinner. In former days it was the
custom for citizens of Edinburgh to shut up their places of business
early on Saturdays, and go out into the country to dine about four
or five o'clock at one of these little inns. The Hunter's Tryst was
a favourite resort. The Six-Feet Club used to meet here from time
to time. It was an athletic society, to which Sir Walter Scott and
the Ettrick Shepherd belonged.[10] We now pass the entrance-gate of
Dreghorn, and, turning to the left, skirt the park. This is a pretty
place standing at the foot of the Howden Glen, and with the Redford
Burn running through it. Though the house is modern in appearance,
part of it was begun in the 17th century by Sir William Murray,
Master of the Works to Charles II. He married the daughter of Sir
James Foulis of Colinton, to whose family most of the surrounding
land then belonged. Since then Dreghorn has passed through many
hands, and now belongs to Mr. Macfie. In 1720, when the property of
Mr. George Home of Kelloe, a young man came as tutor to the family,
whose name--David Malloch or Mallet,--would mean as little to us now
as it did to those who only saw in him the struggling pedagogue, had
it not been for the one ballad, which, written as he wandered up the
banks of the Redford Burn, has from that day been enshrined in every
collection of ballad literature:--
'Twas at the silent, solemn hour
When night and morning meet,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shroud.
[10] I have been told by Mr. Stillie, who has good reasons for
knowing the truth of the matter, that Allan Ramsay laid the scenery
of "The Gentle Shepherd," round the Hunter's Tryst, and that
A flowrie howm between twa verdant braes,
Where lasses use to wash and spread their claes;
A trottin' burnie wimplin' thro' the ground,
Its channel pebbles shining smooth and round,
lies down in the hollow at the bottom of the hill by the Braid Burn.
Old Mr. Trotter of the Bush was very anxious to establish the fact
that Habbie's Howe was up the Logan Water in Glencorse; and Mr.
Brown of Newhall claimed the site for his property farther west
along the Pentlands, and wrote a book to prove that he was right. In
consequence, it is the generally received opinion that the spot now
called Habbie's Howe on Newhall was the one intended by Allan Ramsay;
but, according to the tradition received by my informant from Allan
Ramsay's friends and relations, both were wrong.
So run the first two verses of "William and Margaret." The opening
lines were put into Mallet's head by the fragment of an old ballad
spoken by "Merrythought" in Fletcher's play of "The Knight of the
Burning Pestle;" but the poem itself commemorates an unhappy affair
much talked of at the time.
The inscription on a tablet in honour of General Gordon, which we
see as we pass the keeper's house, was put up by Mr. Macfie. He also
raised the slender monument, supported by four clustered columns, a
few yards farther on. It bears an inscription on one side in memory
of the Covenanters (who, in 1666, were encamped here previous to the
battle of Rullion Green), and on the other side some lines which
refer to the ancient Roman camp which stood close by. The road
now makes a steep descent, and crosses the burn by a picturesque,
ivy-hung bridge, which, with the castellated gate-house beside it,
and the wooded banks overhanging the stream, form a charming picture.
Though so near the hills, this is a most sheltered spot, and the
first snowdrops and the earliest green buds on the hawthorn may
generally be found here.
To our right, close to the burn, lies Redford House; and those
colossal stone carvings which adorn the stable-wall were once part
of the pediment of the old Infirmary in Edinburgh, and were removed
here by Mr. Macfie when that was pulled down. A few yards farther
on, as we reach Colinton, the road branches to the right and left.
That to the left leads, by many winding turns, to Bonally and the
wild hill-country beyond. Originally a farmhouse, the late Lord
Cockburn transformed Bonally in 1845 into its present form, and
laid out the charming garden with its quaint laurel hedges and
smooth-shaven lawns sloping down to the burn. Passing through the
little wood behind it, we can reach a track which leads over the
shoulder of the hill into Glencorse, close to the remains of a
Roman camp; and which, though rather boggy in wet weather, is quite
rideable, and from which the views are lovely beyond words.
The other houses about Colinton are hardly more than villas, standing
in their own grounds, and with no particular interest attached to
them, so we will return to where we branched off, and take the
road to the right which passes the gate of Colinton House. This
was originally known as Hales (from the Celtic _Hales_, a mound or
hillock).[11] Ethelred, the son of Malcolm Canmore, granted it to
the monks of Dunfermline, but it seems to have been an uncertain
possession, as later it was taken away, and given to the canons of
Holyrood, and transferred from them in 1445 to the canons of St.
Anthony at Leith. After the Reformation, it was bought by James
Foulis, the Clerk-Register, a man of very ancient family--his
ancestor having come from France in the reign of Malcolm Canmore. The
old manor-house, of which the ruins still remain in the park, was the
home of the Foulis; but there is no authority for the supernatural
interest with which Mrs. Oliphant has chosen to invest it in her
story of _The Open Door_. The present house was built by Sir William
Forbes of Pitsligo, who bought Colinton in 1800 from Sir James
Foulis. After his death, it passed into the hands of the Speaker
Abercromby, first Viscount Dunfermline, to whose grand-daughter, the
Hon. Mrs. Trotter, it now belongs. The high, steep bank overhanging
the Water of Leith, with the little village nestling at its foot, is
very picturesque; but the pride of the place lies in its magnificent
cedars, and the tall old holly hedges in the garden.
[11] The name of Hales is still retained by a quarry on the farther
side of the Water of Leith.
Leaving Colinton behind us on the left, we proceed along the shady,
beech-bordered road that leads to Craiglockhart, and soon pass the
Hydropathic Establishment. To the north, sloping down to the Water
of Leith, is a very old place--Redhall. Edward I. of England is
said to have been here in 1298. It belonged to the ancient family
of Otterburn of Redhall, which became extinct in the 17th century.
The heiress, Anne Otterburn, married Sir James Hamilton (of the
Priestfield family), and it was he who defended Redhall against
Cromwell in 1650. The castle was besieged by ten companies of the
Coldstream Guards (then known as General Monk's Regiment), which
eventually carried it by storm. The only vestiges left of the
old castle are the red stones of which it was built (which have
been largely used in the modern walls of the park), and a large
memorial stone bearing the arms of the Otterburn family, very finely
sculptured.[12] The place now belongs to Mr. David Chalmers.
[Illustration: _Craiglockhart Tower._]
[12] The Otterburn arms were--argent, _guttee de sable_; a _cheveron_
between three _otters' heads couped_ of the last; and on a _chief_
azure, a _crescent_ or.
We now see the two hills of Craiglockhart on our right. The name is
probably derived from _Craig-lochard_ (the high craig by the loch),
an appropriate enough name in the old days, when its rocky sides were
reflected in the great Loch of Corstorphine, which then extended to
its foot. The steep face of the eastern hill is thickly wooded and
ivy-grown, and traces may still be seen of the winding paths and
shady bowers which made it once a beautiful pleasure-ground. These
were laid out about the beginning of the century by a Dr. Munro,[13]
but neglect and forgetfulness has turned them to a wilderness.
[13] The same Dr. Munro was dining once at Niddrie. One of the
children had not been well, and was still looking pale, and Mrs.
Wauchope (my great-great-grandmother) asked him what she had better
do. "You should take advice, madam," was his answer, thus intimating
that no opinion was to be got out of him gratis. His daughter married
Sir James Stuart, the last baronet of Allanbank, and was the "pert
wife" against whom Charles Sharpe inveighed with such bitterness for
persuading her husband to sell the portrait of "Pearlin' Jean."
No traditions remain to tell when or by whom the old tower was built,
of which we can still see the ruins nestling in the shelter of the
red-roofed farm buildings. The history of much of this neighbourhood
seems lost in the mists of forgetfulness. Half a mile farther on,
where the Union Canal comes close to the road on the left, we look
across it and see a solitary gate-pillar standing in a field. This,
and a curious old pillar sundial on the opposite side of the road,
are all that remain of the ancient mansion of Meggetland, which,
in the early part of the 18th century, belonged to a family named
Sievewright; but of what it was like, what was its history, and why
it was destroyed, there is no trace or record.
We are fast returning to our original starting-point; but, before
making our way back by Merchiston Castle, let us turn aside for
one moment at Myreside, and, taking the road to the right, in a
few minutes we reach the old mansion of Craighouse. This curious
old place stands on the eastern slope of Craiglockhart Hill, and
is approached by a venerable lime avenue. An air of mysterious
antiquity hangs over the house, which, with its massive walls, and
small, many-paned windows,[14] looks as if it had been the scene
of more than one romantic tale. Could its walls speak, we might
know the truth of that weird story (which so often has made me
shudder as I gazed at them) of the unhappy Lady of Craighouse, who,
overcome with grief and misery at the loss of an adored husband,
shut herself up here, and spent the remainder of her life in a
room all hung with black, into which the light of heaven was never
permitted to enter! The lapse of years has dimmed all recollection
of her name and previous history; and equally unknown is the
mysterious S. C. P., whose initials, with the date 1565, are carved
on the lintel of the entrance door. There is one story said to be
connected with Craighouse, which I have heard all my life, and have
read in collections of Scottish traditional tales, which I should
have liked to relate here,--that of the deadly quarrel between
Moubray of Barnbougle and the sons of the murdered Bruntfield of
Craighouse,--but on attempting to verify it from ancient histories
and MSS. in the Advocates' Library, I found, to my disappointment,
that it was a romance resting on the slenderest foundations, and in
no way connected with Craighouse.
[14] Alas! that is how it looked a few years ago, but lately the
place has been acquired by the Morningside Lunatic Asylum, and has
been sadly changed. Modern plate-glass replaces the old sixteen and
twenty paned windows that I remember, and other alterations seem in
progress.
During the reign of James VI., this place belonged to a younger
branch of the Kincaids of that ilk in Stirlingshire. John Kincaid,
the laird's eldest son, got into great trouble in 1600, by forcibly
carrying off a young and beautiful widow, named Isabel Hutcheon, who
was living at the time in the house of a peaceful citizen, by the
water of Leith. John Kincaid, helped by an armed party of friends
and relations, took her to Craighouse, but, fortunately for her, the
king happened at that very time to be riding across the neighbouring
fields. Hearing her screams, he sent Lord Mar and Sir John Ramsay
to see what was happening. They threatened to set Craighouse on
fire, unless Mistress Hutcheon was at once released, which was done.
Kincaid was tried for this outrage, and fined 2,500 marks, payable
to the Treasurer. He was also ordered to deliver up his brown
horse to the king.[15] Soon after this, Craighouse passed into the
possession of a historically well-known man, Sir William Dick of
Braid, Knight, who in his own person experienced greater alterations
of fortune than usually befall one single individual. Lord Provost of
Edinburgh in the time of Charles I., and so wealthy, that the value
of his money and landed estates has been computed at no less than
£226,000 sterling, which is nearly equal to two millions of money at
the present time,--he yet died in the debtors' prison. During the
civil war he was alternately plucked by either party, who took from
him, by forced loans, not less than £180,000 in hard cash. Going
to London with his family, in hopes of recovering this money from
Parliament, he was arrested for some small debts incurred there; and
the remainder of his property being locked up in lands and bonds,
and not readily to be got at, he was thrown into prison, where he
died December 19, 1655,--a strange and sad end for one who, not long
before, had been the richest commoner in the kingdom. Craighouse
and Braid, with other of his possessions, were swallowed up by the
mortgages upon them. Craighouse has passed through many hands since,
and eventually, like the Hermitage, was bought by the Gordons of
Cluny.
[15] Pitcairn's _Criminal Trials_.
Returning to Myreside, we continue our walk due east, along a road
bordered by villas, till we find ourselves passing on the left the
narrow postern door, guarded by the lions _couchant_ that surmount
the pillars on either side. Behind it stands Merchiston. This very
ancient castle, built no one knows when or by whom, has for centuries
belonged to the illustrious family of Napier, they having acquired
it in 1438. Their most famous son, John Napier, the inventor of
logarithms, was born here in 1550. His father, Sir Alexander, who was
only sixteen years old at the time of his birth, was later Master of
the Mint to James VI. His mother was Janet, only daughter of Sir
Francis Bothwell, and sister to Adam, Bishop of Orkney. John Napier
pursued his studies and researches at Merchiston. He was supposed by
the vulgar to be deeply versed in magic, and to possess a familiar
spirit in the shape of a jet-black cock. The story goes that once,
when some petty thefts had been committed in the castle, of which one
of the servants was suspected, Napier brought them all up the winding
stair into a darkened room, where the cock was placed. He commanded
them to stroke its back, declaring it would crow at the touch of the
guilty person. During the whole ceremony the cock remained silent,
but afterwards the hand of the culprit was found to be free from the
soot with which the bird's feathers had been liberally sprinkled.
Napier was also believed to possess the power of discovering
hidden treasure. Among the Merchiston papers still exists a
curious contract, dated July 1594, between him and Robert Logan of
Restalrig, which sets forth: "Forasmuch as there were old reports
and appearances that a sum of money was hid within Logan's house of
Fast Castle, John Napier should do his utmost diligence to work and
seek out the same." For his reward he was to have a third of the
discovered treasure. "This singular contract," says Wilson, "acquires
a peculiar interest when we remember the reported discovery of hidden
treasure, with which the preliminary steps of the Gowrie conspiracy
were effected;" Logan of Restalrig being deeply implicated in that
plot, though nothing of his share in it was known at the time.
The true fruit of Napier's years of toil and study appeared in 1614,
when he produced his book of logarithms, which he dedicated to Prince
Charles (afterwards Charles I.), and which rapidly made his name
famous over Europe. He died at Merchiston in 1617, and was succeeded
by his eldest son, Archibald. This was the first Lord Napier. He
married Montrose's sister, and for some years he acted as tutor to
his illustrious brother-in-law, who was left fatherless very young.
It was his son, the second Lord Napier, who was Montrose's faithful
companion and friend. He married Lady Elizabeth Erskine, and when he
passed into the exile from which he never returned, she remained for
some time at his castle of Merchiston, and was here when Montrose
was executed. From here she sent the faithful servant, who at the
dead of night stole to the unhallowed spot on the Boroughmuir where
the mutilated trunk of the dead hero had been hastily buried. He
carefully and reverently extracted the heart; and, wrapping it in the
piece of fine linen, which to this day is treasured in the Napier
charter-chest, he brought it to his mistress, who had it skilfully
embalmed. It was then enclosed in a steel box made of the blade of
Montrose's sword, and preserved as a precious relic. Montrose had
always felt a deep affection for his nephew and his wife, and had
promised at his death to leave his heart to Lady Napier, and so the
pledge was redeemed. The adventures through which the heart passed
afterwards, and the marvellous manner in which it was more than once
lost and recovered, would fill volumes. A most interesting account
is given of it in the appendix to Napier's _Life of Montrose_.
Thirlestane on the Ettrick, which came later by marriage into the
family, is now the home of the Napiers, and Merchiston has been
for many years let as a school. An old pear-tree in front is still
pointed out as having been planted by Queen Mary; and a quaint little
panelled closet is called her bedroom.
A few yards farther brings us to the main road, which runs by the
west side of Bruntisfield Links, and out by Morningside. A curious
relic is preserved on the crest of the hill to the south, between the
turnings to Church Hill and to Newbattle Terrace. This is the block
of red sandstone in which the flagstaff of the royal standard was
planted, when King James IV. mustered his army on the Boroughmuir in
1513.
Highest and midmost was descried
The royal banner, floating wide;
The staff, a pine tree strong and straight,
Pitched deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown.[16]
[16] Scott--"Marmion."
It is now called the _Bore-stone_, or _Hare-stane_, and is preserved
from injury by being securely fastened on the top of the wall, while
its history is inscribed on a bronze tablet beneath.
After this brief divergence, we turn to the left, and find ourselves
in a few minutes back on Bruntisfield Links, where our pilgrimage
to-day began. Before ending this chapter, it might be worth while to
give the true ghost-story of the Wryteshouses, as so many different
versions have been told of it.
Towards the middle of the last century, the Wryteshouses was rented
for a year by General Robertson of Lawers, while his own house in
Perthshire was undergoing some alterations. He had at the time a
black servant, who was given a room near his master's. The first
morning, the man came scared and trembling to General Robertson, and
said he could not stay another night in the house, for that, after he
had fallen asleep, he had been roused by a noise, and saw a headless
lady, with a child in her arms, walking up and down the room. General
Robertson treated the story with ridicule, and the man was persuaded
to sleep in the same room the following night. Next morning he again
came, entreating to be allowed to go away altogether, rather than
to suffer such terrors. The General would not listen to him, and
would neither let him go away, nor even change his room. The man got
thinner and more miserable-looking every day, and was quite out of
health when, by the end of the year, they returned to Lawers.
Many years passed. General Robertson died, and was succeeded by his
niece, Mrs. Williamson (whose husband, Lord Balgray, was a Lord of
Session). She was one day visited at Lawers by a friend, to whose
family the Wryteshouses belonged. This lady asked her if, during the
twelvemonth they had spent there, any of the family had heard or seen
anything extraordinary. Mrs. Williamson, in answer, told her the
story of the black servant. The lady was much interested, and asked
whether he was still alive, and if it would be possible to hear him
tell the story himself. Mrs. Williamson replied, that was quite easy,
as, though now an old man, he was living close by, in a cottage that
had been given him. She sent for him, and he repeated his story,
and said the year he had spent at the Wryteshouses had been one of
terror and misery, as, to the very last night of his stay, the lady
had walked backwards and forwards in his room, with the child in her
arms. Mrs. Williamson's visitor made him describe exactly the room he
had inhabited, and then told him that, in making some alterations in
that very room, they had lately discovered a large closet, which they
had broken open. Inside they found a box containing the skeletons of
a woman and a little child. The box was too short, so the woman's
head had been cut off, and placed beside her. In the same closet was
also found a chest full of MS. papers. One of these papers appeared
to be a sort of confession, written by an ancestor of the family;
who said that his elder brother (the owner of the property) had been
ordered abroad to the wars, leaving his wife and child to the care
and guardianship of the younger brother. He never returned, and the
writer owned to having murdered both mother and child, setting about
a report that they had died, and by these means possessed himself of
the inheritance.[17]
The Wryteshouses,--Wrychtishousis,--or Wrightshouses, as it is
variously spelt, was pulled down in 1800 to make room for Gillespie's
Hospital, a very ugly edifice built in accordance with the will of
James Gillespie, who had amassed a large fortune as a tobacconist.
The ancient family of Napier of the Wryteshouses has long been
extinct. They were in no way related to the Napiers of Merchiston,
but probably were a branch of Kilmahew, whose estates lay in the
Lennox. The arms of the two families indicate this connection, both
having a _bend_ azure; on which Kilmahew bore three _crescents_,
and Wryteshouses a _crescent between two mullets_. The Napiers of
Merchiston bear arms quite distinct from either, a saltier engrailed,
cantonned with four roses.[18]
[17] This story was told by Mrs. Williamson herself to the old Miss
Robertsons (who lived in George Square), and they repeated it to Lady
John Scott.
[18] The Napiers of Merchiston bear the arms of the Earls of Lennox
of old, instead of their own,--their ancestor having married an
heiress of that family in the 15th century.