From underneath an aged oak,
That slanted from the islet rock,
shot her little skiff to the silver strand on the opposite side. When
William asked him if the king's dead horse had been found, he smiled,
and said he only knew that bones had been found near where the king's
horse died, but he could not be sure that they were the bones of King
James's good steed. However, he seemed quite as clear of the existence
of the Lady of the Lake, and of all her adventures, as of the existence
of Benledi and Benvenue, and the Trossachs. He showed us the place on
the mountain of Benvenue, where formerly there was no means of ascent
but by the ladders of broom and hazel twigs, where the king climbed,
with footing nice,
A far-projecting precipice.
At the inn the mistress of the house lent me a copy of the _Lady of the
Lake_, which I took out with me and read while we were going to the
lake, and while Sophy was drawing. We saw an eagle hovering, and,
moreover, Sophy spied some tiny sea-larks flitting close to the shore,
and making their little, faint cry. Returning, we marked the place where
the armed Highlanders started up from the furzebrake before King James,
when Roderic Dhu sounded his horn, and we settled which was the spot at
Clan Alpine's outmost guard,
where Roderic Dhu's safe conduct ceased, and where the king and he had
their combat. I forgot to mention a little incident, which, though very
trifling, struck me at the moment. As I was walking on by myself on the
road by the river-side leading to the lake, I came up to a Highlander
who was stretched on the grass under a bush, while two little boys in
tartan caps were playing beside him. I stopped to talk to the children,
showed them my watch, and, holding it to their ears, asked if they had
ever seen the inside of a watch. They did not answer, but they did not
seem surprised, nor were they in the least shy. I asked the man if they
were his children.
"Mine! oh no! they are the sons of Glengyle--the Laird of Glengyle, he
who lives at the upper end of the lake yonder--McGreggor, that is, _the_
McGreggor, the chief of the McGreggor clan."
Rob Roy and his wife and children rose up before my imagination. Times
have finely changed. It may be a satisfaction to you, and all who admire
Rob Roy, to know that his burial-place is in a pretty, peaceful green
valley, where none will disturb him; and all will remember him for ages,
thanks to Walter Scott, a man he never kenned of, nor any of his
second-sighted seers. By the bye, Harriet on our journey read _Rob Roy_
to me, and I liked it ten times better than at the first reading. My
eagerness for the story being satisfied, I could stop to admire the
beauty of the writing: this happens to many, I believe, on a second
perusal of Scott's works.