SCOTTISH PICTURES
Stronachlacher, Loch Katrine, September 1, 1890.--No one needs to be
told that the Forth bridge is a wonder. All the world knows it, and
knows that the art of the engineer has here achieved a masterpiece. The
bridge is not beautiful, whether viewed from afar or close at hand. The
gazer can see it, or some part of it, from every height in Edinburgh.
It is visible from the Calton Hill, from the Nelson column, from the
Scott monument, from the ramparts of the Castle, from Salisbury Crags,
from the Braid Hills, and of course from the eminence of Arthur's
Seat. Other objects of interest there are which seek the blissful
shade, but the Forth bridge is an object of interest that insists upon
being seen. The visitor to the shores of the Forth need not mount
any height in order to perceive it, for all along those shores, from
Dirleton to Leith and from Elie to Burntisland, it frequently comes
into the picture. While, however, it is not beautiful, it impresses the
observer with a sense of colossal magnificence. It is a more triumphant
structure even than the Eiffel tower, and it predominates over the
vision and the imagination by the same audacity of purpose and the
same consummate fulfilment which mark that other marvel and establish
it in universal admiration. Crossing the bridge early this morning,
I deeply felt its superb potentiality, and was charmed likewise with
its pictorial effect. That effect is no doubt due in part to its
accessories. Both ways the broad expanse of the Forth was visible for
many miles. It was a still morning, overcast and mournful. There was
a light breeze from the southeast, the air at that elevation being as
sweet as new milk. Beneath, far down, the surface of the steel-gray
water was wrinkled like the scaly back of a fish. Midway a little
island rears its spine of rock out of the stream. Westward at some
distance rises a crag, on which is a tiny lighthouse-tower, painted
red. The long, graceful stone piers that stretch into the Forth at this
point,--breakwaters to form a harbour,--and all the little gray houses
of Queensferry, Inverkeithing, and the adjacent villages looked like
the toy buildings which are the playthings of children. A steamboat
was making her way up the river, while near the shores were many small
boats swinging at their moorings, for the business of the day was not
yet begun. Over this scene the scarce risen sun, much obscured by dull
clouds, cast a faint rosy light, and even while the picture was at its
best we glided away from it into the pleasant land of Fife.
[Illustration: _The Forth Bridge._]
[Illustration: _Dunfermline Abbey._]
In former days the traveller to Stirling commonly went by the way of
Linlithgow, which is the place where Mary Stuart was born, and he was
all the more prompted to think of that enchanting woman because he
usually caught a glimpse of the ruins of Niddry Castle, one of the
houses of her faithful Lord Seton, at which she rested, on the romantic
and memorable occasion of her flight from Loch Leven. Now, since the
Forth bridge has been opened, the most direct route to Stirling is by
Dunfermline. And this is a gain, for Dunfermline is one of the most
interesting places in Scotland. That Malcolm of whom we catch a glimpse
when we see a representation of Shakespeare's tragedy of _Macbeth_
had a royal castle there nine hundred years ago, of which a fragment
still remains; and on a slope of the coast, a few miles west from
Dunfermline, the vigilant antiquarian has fixed the sight of Macduff's
castle, where Lady Macduff and her children were slaughtered by the
tyrant. Behind the ancient church at Dunfermline, the church of the
Holy Trinity,--devastated at the Reformation, but since restored,--you
may see the tomb of Malcolm and of Margaret, his queen,--an angel
among women when she lived, and worthy to be remembered now as the
saint that her church has made her. The body of Margaret, who died at
Edinburgh Castle, November 16, 1093, was secretly and hastily conveyed
to Dunfermline, and there buried,--Edinburgh Castle, The Maiden Castle
it was then called, being assailed by her husband's brother, Donald
Bane. The remains of that noble and devoted woman, however, do not rest
in that tomb, for long afterward, at the Reformation, they were taken
away, and after various wanderings were enshrined at the church of
St. Lawrence in the Escurial. I had often stood in the little chapel
that this good queen founded in Edinburgh Castle,--a place which they
desecrate now, by using it as a shop for the sale of pictures and
memorial trinkets,--and I was soon to stand in the ruins of St. Oran's
chapel, in far Iona, which also was built by her; and so it was with
many reverent thoughts of an exalted soul and a beneficent life that I
saw the great dark tower of Dunfermline church vanish in the distance.
At Stirling, the rain, which had long been lowering, came down in
floods, and after that for many hours there was genuine Scotch weather
and a copious abundance of it. This also is an experience, and,
although that superb drive over the mountain from Aberfoyle to Loch
Katrine was marred by the wet, I was well pleased to see the Trosach
country in storm, which I had before seen in sunshine. It is a land of
infinite variety, and lovely even in tempest. The majesty of the rocky
heights; the bleak and barren loneliness of the treeless hills; the
many thread-like waterfalls which, seen afar off, are like rivulets
of silver frozen into stillness on the mountain-sides; the occasional
apparition of precipitous peaks, over which presently are driven the
white streamers of the mist,--all these are striking elements of a
scene which blends into the perfection of grace the qualities of gentle
beauty and wild romance. Ben Lomond in the west and Ben Venue and Ben
Ledi in the north were indistinct, and so was Ben A'an in its nearer
cloud; but a brisk wind had swept the mists from Loch Drunkie, and
under a bleak sky the smooth surface of "lovely Loch Achray" shone like
a liquid diamond. An occasional grouse rose from the ferns and swiftly
winged its way to cover. A few cows, wet but indifferent, composed and
contented, were now and then visible, grazing in that desert; while
high upon the crags appeared many sure-footed sheep, the inevitable
inhabitants of those solitudes. So onward, breathing the sweet air that
here was perfumed by miles and miles of purple heather, I descended
through the dense coppice of birch and pine that fringes Loch Katrine,
and all in a moment came out upon the levels of the lake. It was a
long sail down Loch Katrine, for a pilgrim drenched and chilled by the
steady fall of a penetrating rain; but Ellen's isle and Fitz-James's
silver strand brought pleasant memories of one of the sweetest of
stories, and all the lonesome waters seemed haunted with a ghostly
pageant of the radiant standards of Roderick Dhu. To-night the mists
are on the mountains, and upon this little pine-clad promontory of
Stronachlacher the darkness comes down early and seems to close it in
from all the world. The waters of Loch Katrine are black and gloomy,
and no sound is heard but the rush of the rain and the sigh of the
pines. It is a night for memory and for thought, and to them let it be
devoted.
The night-wind that sobs in the trees--
Ah, would that my spirit could tell
What an infinite meaning it breathes,
What a sorrow and longing it wakes!
[Illustration: _Northwest Corner of Dunfermline Abbey._]
[Illustration: _The Nave--Looking West--Dunfermline Abbey._]