THE LADY OF THE LAKE
The most popular of all Scott's poems, as 'The Lady of the Lake' has
proved to be, is in reality a romantic story set to music and staged in
an environment of wondrous natural beauty. It is like an open-air
play, but with this advantage, that the audience seems to move
continually from one scene of beauty to another, each more entrancing
than the one before. You may travel from Stirling to Loch Katrine and
from the Trossachs to the Braes of Balquhidder and all the time feel
the thrill of the poem, which seems fairly to permeate the atmosphere.
It is full of incident, and there is never a dull moment from the
beginning of the stag hunt in the solitudes of Glenartney to the final
scenes of generosity and gratitude, of love and joyous reunion, in the
King's Palace of Stirling Castle. The characters are types, each
presenting a poetic interest of his own, of a race of men famous in
history and in song for deeds of personal prowess, for skill in the use
of claymore and battle-axe, for loyalty to friends, for bitter
resentment of wrongs, for courage, for endurance, for hospitality, for
love of music and poetry, for strength of physique and for picturesque
personal appearance and attire.
The spell of the Wizard of the North came upon us as we entered the
enchanted land and his whole company of players appeared as if by
magic. In the centre of the group there seemed to be the figure of a
young woman, {67} pure, beautiful, and good--yet not too good to be
human, for she was at least sensitive to the admiring glances of a
certain handsome, well-built, and courteous stranger. But Ellen
Douglas was nevertheless true to her accepted lover, faithful to her
father, and loyal to her own ideals of truth and right.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace
Of finer form or lovelier face.
* * * * *
A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid:
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild, luxuriant ringlets hid
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing:
And seldom o'er a breast so fair
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Grouped about the maiden were the figures of a Lowland king, a Highland
chieftain, a stalwart father, and a sturdy lover. The first two
presented a striking contrast. The King, disguised as a hunter in
Lincoln green, with a bold visage upon which middle age had not yet
quenched the fiery vehemence of youth; with sturdy limbs fitted for any
kind of active sport or contest; with stately mien and ready speech,
'in phrase of gentlest courtesy'; jovial, kindly, even gleeful and
frolicsome at times, with the will to do and the soul to dare, made a
splendid picture as he stood upon the Silver Strand, face to face with
Ellen Douglas. Far different was the sullen visage of Roderick Dhu, as
{68}
Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode:
The waving of his tartan broad,
And darkened brow, where wounded pride
With ire and disappointment vied,
Seemed, by the torch's gloomy light,
Like the ill Demon of the night.
Yet in spite of the fierce aspect of this terrible chief, one cannot
withhold his admiration, and we feel like echoing the shout of
enthusiasm of the cheering boatmen as they approach the island,
singing,--
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from her deepmost glen,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
When Roderick scorns to take advantage of Fitz-James, though the latter
is in his power, and shares with him his camp-fire, his supper, and his
bed, finally conducting him in safety through hundreds of hostile
Highlanders to the very limits of Clan-Alpine's territory, there to
battle single-handed and on equal terms, we begin to feel what real
Highland hospitality and chivalry mean and to realize the true nobility
of character beneath the rough exterior of this stern soldier.
Ellen's father, the exiled Douglas, was a giant in stature who could
wield as lightly as a hazel wand a sword which other men could scarcely
lift.
The women praised his stately form,
Though wrecked by many a winter's storm;
The youth with awe and wonder saw
His strength surpassing Nature's law.
Contrasting with this fine old man was Malcolm Graeme, Ellen's lover:--
Of stature fair, and slender frame
But firmly knit was Malcolm Graeme.
{69}
The belted plaid and tartan hose
Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose;
His flaxen hair, of sunny hue,
Curled closely round the bonnet blue.
His mind was 'lively and ardent, frank and kind,' and he had a scorn of
wrong and a zeal for truth that promised to make his name one of the
greatest in the mountains. But poor Malcolm was to the poet's mind not
an artistic success. The latter confessed that he compelled him to
swim from Ellen's Isle to the shore merely to give him something to do,
but 'wet or dry,' he said, 'I could do nothing with him.'
[Illustration: LOCH ACHRAY]
Behind these five figures we could fancy a white-haired minstrel, harp
in hand; a hermit monk, in frock and hood, barefooted, with grizzled
hair and matted beard, naked arms and legs seamed with scars, and a
wild and savage face that spoke of nothing but despair; three young men
in kilt skirts and Highland plaids, every movement showing the agile
strength of their youthful limbs, passing from one to another a cross
of fire,--Malise, Angus, and Norman, the messengers who summoned the
clans to battle; and back of all, filling up the picture, Highlanders
of high and low degree, men, women, and children, all fired with
intense loyalty to the Clan-Alpine. The whole picture seemed to
project itself upon a background of mountains and valleys, lakes,
rivers and waterfalls, fantastic rocks and weather-beaten crags, grey
birches and warrior oaks, ferns and wild flowers, all
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem
The scenery of a fairy dream.
Scott was always fond of brilliant hues, but here he fairly revels in
colour:--
{70}
The western waves of ebbing day
Rolled o'er the glen their level way:
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire.
* * * * *
All twinkling with the dew-drop sheen,
The brier rose fell in streamers green
And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes
Waved in the west wind's summer sighs.
* * * * *
Boon nature scattered, free and wild,
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child,
Here eglantine embalmed the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there:
The primrose pale and violet flower
Found in each clift a narrow bower.
The best way to read 'The Lady of the Lake' is to see the Trossachs;
the best way to see the Trossachs is to read 'The Lady of the Lake.'
There is a peculiar affinity between the poem and the country that
makes each indispensable to the other. Those who read the poem without
some knowledge of the scenery are likely to have an inadequate
conception of its real significance, or possibly to feel that the poet
has painted in colours too vivid and that his enthusiasm is not perhaps
fully justified by the facts. Those who see the Trossachs without
reading the poem are apt to say, as one man did say to me, 'Yes, this
is beautiful, but after all I have seen just such roads in New
Hampshire.' He might have added, 'The Rocky Mountains are much higher
and more sublime, and the Italian lakes reflect a sky of more brilliant
blue and are bordered by foliage infinitely more gorgeous in its
colourings,'--all of which is true. But when you come to read the poem
with a mental vision of the Trossachs {71} before you and to see the
Trossachs with the exquisite descriptions of the poem fully in mind,
each acquires a new charm which alone it did not possess.
Before the poem was written the Trossachs were scarcely known and Loch
Katrine was no more than any other Highland lake. Now these regions
are visited yearly by thousands of tourists and to those who know the
poem, every turn in the road seems to suggest some favourite stanza.
To us the tour was one of unfailing delight and productive of mental
visions that will never fade. The Brig o' Turk is to me not merely an
old stone bridge over a placid rivulet; but, rushing over it at full
speed, eagerly spurring his fine grey horse to further effort, I see
the figure of a gallant hunter clad in a close-fitting suit of green,
his eyes intently fixed on the road ahead, where a splendid stag, now
nearly exhausted, is straining his last ounce of energy in a final
effort to distance the pursuing hounds. To me the low ground on the
edge of Loch Vennachar, known as Lanrick Mead, appears like a military
camp, with great crowds of giant clansmen, in Highland kilts and plaids
of many colours, their spears and battle-axes glistening in the sun.
The aged oak, bending over the water's edge on Ellen's Isle, is not
merely an old dead tree, but it brings the vision of Ellen Douglas
putting forth in her frail shallop to answer (as she supposes) the
bugle call of her noble father from the Silver Strand.
This is the secret charm of the Trossachs. The tourist who goes
through, as many do, with whole-hearted devotion to the time-table and
guide-book, and whose mind is fixed upon the absolute necessity of
'making' all the points in his itinerary, does not see these scenes any
{72} more than do the horses who draw the lumbering coaches. The more
leisurely traveller who can follow the course of the poem, viewing each
scene as Scott has so charmingly described it, finds exhilaration and
delight in every step of the way.
Scott was only fifteen when he began to make those merry expeditions to
the Highlands in the company of congenial companions which gave him so
much material of the right kind as to make a poem inevitable. He
learned to know the strange but romantic Highland clansmen; he heard
many tales and bits of history which his memory stored up for the
future, and the rare beauty of the scenery fascinated him as it does
every one else. 'This poem,' he said, 'the action of which lay among
scenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on my recollections, was a
labour of love and it was no less so to recall the memories and
incidents introduced.'
In one of these excursions (in 1793), he visited the home of the young
Laird of Cambusmore, John Buchanan, one of his associates, and
subsequently revisited the place many times. Cambusmore is a charming
estate about two miles southeast of Callander. Entering by the
porter's gate, we drove through a beautiful winding road, lined with
rhododendrons. The shrubs, or rather trees (for their extraordinary
height and wide-spreading branches entitle them to the more dignified
name), were in full bloom, thousands of great, splendid clusters vying
with each other to see which could catch and reflect the most sunlight.
Here we were hospitably received by the present owner, Mrs. Hamilton, a
great-granddaughter of Scott's friend, John Buchanan. The house has
been considerably enlarged, but the older portion, {73} thickly covered
with ivy, is very much as it was when Scott was a guest and sat on the
porch, listening to the story of Buchanan's ancestors. While he was
writing 'The Lady of the Lake,' Scott revisited Cambusmore and recited
parts of the poem to Mrs. Hamilton's grandfather. He also
demonstrated, by actually performing the feat himself, that it would be
possible for a horseman to ride from the foot of Loch Vennachar to
Stirling Castle in the time allotted to Fitz-James.
[Illustration: CAMBUSMORE]
From the road in front of this mansion, far away to the north, but
faintly visible through the trees, we could see the 'wild heaths of Uam
Var,' where the stag first sought refuge when, driven by the deep
baying of the hounds, he left the cool shades of Glenartney's hazel
woods. From another side we caught a fine glimpse of what the huntsmen
saw
When rose Ben Ledi's ridge in air.
These hills of Scotland have witnessed many a hunt where scores of men
dashed wildly after the frightened game. But no stag, ever before or
since, has been pursued by so many eager hunters as the creature of
Scott's fancy. We joined in the hunt, as all tourists are supposed to
do, provided they have the time, which many, especially Americans, have
not, for as one Scotchman put it, 'they go through so fast, sir, that
you could set a tea-table on their coat-tails, sir.'
We saw 'the varied realms of fair Menteith,' a lovely little lake with
irregular shores and studded with bright green islands. I remember I
had to walk a long way over a lonely heath to get my picture of the
lake, and that I was closely followed by a large flock of angry plovers
{74} who feared that I might harm their nests. They flew so close that
I had to keep one arm above my head for defence, and all the time they
were screaming vociferously.
We visited 'far Loch Ard' and Aberfoyle, both associated more closely
with Rob Roy. We found
the copsewood grey
That waved and wept on Loch Achray;
and climbed up among
the pine trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Ben Venue.
We passed along 'Bocastle's heath' and reached the shores of Loch
Vennachar, more fortunate than the huntsmen of the poem, most of whom
gave up from sheer exhaustion before they reached that place. For,
when the Brig o' Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone.
This picturesque old stone bridge, spanning the little stream that
waters the valley of Glen Finglas, is the entrance to the Trossachs, a
region, as the name implies, of wild and rugged beauty.
Alone, but with unbated zeal,
That horseman plied the scourge and steel;
For jaded now, and spent with toil,
Embossed with foam, and dark with soil,
While every gasp with sobs he drew,
The labouring stag strained full in view.
Thus the race went along the shore of Loch Achray until they reached
the dense woods that lie between this little lake and Loch Katrine.
Then just as the hunter,--
Already glorying in the prize,
Measured his antlers with his eyes,
{75} the wily stag dashed suddenly down a darksome glen and disappeared
In the deep Trossach's wildest nook.
The place thus indicated may be reached by leaving the fine wagon road
and walking up the hill on the right by a path that leads along a
little rill to a dense thicket, over which hang some rugged cliffs. We
spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon exploring the dark ravines,--
Where twined the path in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splintered pinnacle.
This is one of the most delightful spots in the Trossachs, though never
seen by the thousands who whirl through all this enchanted land in a
single day, packed five or six in a seat on a jolting coach, breathing
the dust of the road and frittering away their golden opportunity in
idle chatter. You cannot catch the spirit of this wild and rugged
region unless you walk into the unfrequented parts and see the 'native
bulwarks of the pass,' where
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seemed fantastically set
With cupola or minaret.
Here Fitz-James found himself alone and on foot, for his good grey
horse had fallen, exhausted, never to rise again. Marvelling at the
beauty of the scene, he wandered on, until, seeing no pathway by which
to issue from the glen, he climbed a 'far-projecting precipice'; when
suddenly there burst upon his sight the grandest view of all, Loch
Katrine,--
{76}
gleaming with the setting sun
One burnished sheet of living gold.
As sentinels guarding an enchanted land, two mountains stood like
giants: on the south rose Ben Venue, its sides strewn with rough
volcanic rocks and its summit 'a wildering forest feathered o'er': on
the north 'Ben An heaved high his forehead bare.'
The stranger stood enraptured and amazed. Then, thinking to call some
straggler of his train, he blew a loud blast upon his horn. To his
great surprise the sound was answered by a little skiff which glided
forth
From underneath an aged oak
That slanted from the islet's rock.
The old oak was the supposed landing place of Ellen Douglas on what has
since been known as 'Ellen's Isle.' The oak, old in Scott's day, is
dead now, but singularly enough it died not of old age but by drowning.
Loch Katrine is now the reservoir that supplies the city of Glasgow.
In preparing it for this service the engineers raised the level of the
lake about twenty-five feet, creating many new islands to keep the
'lone islet' company, and completely submerging the 'Silver Strand' so
often mentioned in the poem. But the beauty of the lake has not been
marred, and the scenes, though changed, are still as lovely as when
they aroused the poetic fervour of Sir Walter Scott.
[Illustration: GLENFINGLAS]
The visitor who takes the trouble, as we did, to row out to Ellen's
Isle, will find nothing to suggest the imagined home of Roderick Dhu
and the temporary shelter of the Douglas and his daughter. But he will
have an excellent opportunity to indulge his fancy and call back {77}
to memory the stirring incidents which served to bring together all the
leading people of the tale. He may stand on the shore of the island
and see the barges, filled with the warriors of Roderick Dhu, bearing
down upon him, their spears, pikes, and axes flashing and their
banners, plaids, and plumage dancing in the air. He may hear the sound
of the war-pipes and the chorus of the clansmen as they shout their
chieftain's praise. Then, as the storm of war rises higher and higher,
he may fancy Brian the Hermit with wild incantations calling the clans
to battle and uttering a terrible curse upon any who failed to heed the
summons. He may see the fiery Cross placed in the hands of the young
Malise, and watch the fleet messenger as he crosses the lake to the
Silver Strand where he lightly bounds ashore. Then, if he be a real
enthusiast, he may follow the course of the fiery cross. Malise
carried it through the Trossachs, and along the shore of Loch Achray to
the hamlet of Duncraggan, just beyond the Brig o' Turk, and in sight of
Lanrick Mead, the gathering-place of the clans. Then young Angus, the
stripling son of Duncan, seized the fatal symbol, and hurried over the
mountains, crossing the southern slopes of Ben Ledi, until, reaching
the river Leny at the outlet of Loch Lubnaig, he swam the stream, and
after a desperate struggle with the swollen torrent, reached the
opposite bank at the chapel of St. Bride. No chapel now exists, but a
stone wall marks the site where the little church once stood, and
within the enclosure is a single grave. As Angus arrived, a little
wedding party was issuing from the churchyard gate. The dreadful sign
of fire and sword was thrust into the hands of Norman, the bridegroom,
and the command given to 'speed {78} forth the signal.' Not daring to
look a second time upon the tearful face of his lovely bride, Norman
manfully seized the torch and hurried to the north. He followed the
shores of Loch Lubnaig and the swampy course of the river Balvaig,
then, turning sharply to the left, entered the Braes of Balquhidder and
passed along the northern shores of Loch Voil and Loch Doine, two
lovely little Highland lakes that lie hidden away in the solitude of
the hills. Thence, turning to the south, he crossed the intervening
mountains until he came to the valley of Strathgartney on the northern
shore of Loch Katrine.
The scene now changes to the slopes of Ben Venue, a rugged mountain
peak, towering high above the south-eastern end of Loch Katrine and
dominating the entire region of the Trossachs. On the side nearest the
lake is a confused mass of huge volcanic rocks overhung here and there
by scraggly oaks or birches. Ancient Celtic tradition assigned this
wild spot to the Urisk or shaggy men whose form was part man, part
goat, like the satyrs of Greek mythology. In later times the Celtic
name of Coir-nan-Uriskin gave way to the more euphonious title of the
Goblin Cave. To this 'wild and strange retreat,' fit only for wolves
and wild-cats, Douglas brought his daughter for safety. Roderick Dhu,
hovering about the place like a restless ghost, heard the soft voice of
Ellen, singing her 'Hymn to the Virgin.' Then, goaded by the thought
that he should never hear that angel voice again, the chieftain strode
sullenly down the mountain-side, and crossing the lake soon rejoined
his men at Lanrick Mead.
In the night Douglas silently departed, resolved to go to Stirling
Castle and give his life as a ransom for his {79} daughter and his
friends. In the morning Fitz-James found the retreat of Ellen and
offered to carry her away in safety. But Ellen in simple confidence
told of her love for Malcolm Graeme, and warned the knight that his
life was in danger from his treacherous guide. Fitz-James then gave a
signet ring to Ellen, telling her to present it to the King, who would
redeem it by granting whatever she might ask. The wanderer then went
on his way, passing through the Trossachs again, where he met the
half-crazed maid, Blanche of Devon. The poet actually saw the original
of this strange character in the Pass of Glencoe. 'This poor woman,'
he says, 'had placed herself in the wildest attitude imaginable upon
the very top of a huge fragment of rock: she had scarce any covering
but a tattered plaid, which left her arms, legs, and neck bare to the
weather. Her long shaggy black hair was streaming backwards in the
wind and exposed a face rather wild and wasted than ugly, and bearing a
very peculiar expression of frenzy. She had a handful of eagle
feathers in her hand.'
Following the dramatic death of Blanche and the swift justice to her
murderer, the treacherous guide Murdoch, comes the well-remembered
meeting of Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu. Clan-Alpine's chief extended
to his enemy the hospitality of 'a soldier's couch, a soldier's fare,'
and conducted him safely through countless hordes of his own men
concealed behind every bush and stone until they reached the ford of
Coilantogle, at the extreme limit of the Highland chief's territory.
The place is at the outlet of Loch Vennachar, about two miles west of
Callander, and is readily seen from the main road to the Trossachs.
Here occurred the terrific {80} combat, so vividly painted by the poet,
and Roderick was left upon the field, severely wounded, a prisoner in
the hands of Fitz-James's men, who had responded to the bugle call of
their leader. The latter, accompanied by two of his knights, rode
rapidly along the shores of the Forth. They passed 'the bannered
towers of Doune,' now a ruin, which makes a pretty picture seen in the
distance from the bridge over the river. Pressing on, they were soon
in sight of Stirling Castle, when Fitz-James saw a woodsman 'of stature
tall and poor array,' and at once recognized 'the stately form and
step' of Douglas.
Cambus Kenneth, from which Douglas had just come, is a tall square
tower on the banks of the Forth, west of Stirling. It was once a large
abbey, founded in the twelfth century and built on the site of the
battle-field, where the Scots under Kenneth MacAlpine defeated the
Picts. The tower is all that now remains, but the foundations of some
of the walls show the great extent of the structure. Amid the ruins is
the grave of King James III, over which is a monument erected by Queen
Victoria. It is supposed to be in exactly the place where King James
was buried, under the high altar, but is so far away from the tower as
to indicate that the original abbey must have been unusually large.
Next to Edinburgh Castle, Stirling is the most imposing fortress in
Scotland. It stands on a rock four hundred and twenty feet above the
sea, commanding a fine view in every direction. On the esplanade is a
statue of King Robert the Bruce. The figure is clad in chain armour
and the king is sheathing his sword, satisfied with his great victory
as he gazes toward the field of {81} Bannockburn. Across the valley on
the Abbey Craig, two miles away, is a tall tower in memory of that
other great national hero, the mention of whose name still brings a
tingle into the blood of the loyal Scotsman, William Wallace. The
castle is entered by a gateway between two round towers, beneath one of
which is the dungeon where Roderick Dhu may be supposed to have been
carried after the fatal duel. Here one may fancy the aged minstrel
Allan-bane, singing to the dying chief the story of the Battle of Beal'
an Duine. A poem that can hold the attention of a company of soldiers
when actually under fire themselves must be thrilling, indeed; yet this
test was successfully applied to the tale as Scott told it through the
minstrel. Sir Adam Ferguson received the poem on the day when he was
posted with his company on a point of ground exposed to the enemy's
artillery. The men were ordered to lie prostrate on the ground, while
the captain, kneeling at their head, read the description of the
battle. The soldiers listened attentively, only interrupting
occasionally with a loud huzza, when a shot struck the bank just above
their heads.
On the left of the castle gate is the Royal Palace, built by James III
and a favourite residence of James IV and James V. All the windows
have heavy iron bars, making the palace look more like a prison than a
king's mansion. They were placed there for the protection of the
infant James VI, son of Mary, Queen of Scots. He was born in Edinburgh
Castle; but considered unsafe there, he was lowered over the walls in a
basket and carried to Stirling Castle. Queen Mary had lived here for
four years in her childhood and it was here that she was secretly
married to Darnley. Two years later, on a {82} visit to the castle to
see her son, she was intercepted by Bothwell and carried away to
Dunbar, probably with her own connivance, where a month later the two
were married. James VI, afterward James I of England, spent most of
his boyhood here, and when he left to assume the English crown,
Stirling ceased to be a royal residence.
Among the many strange and much mutilated statues on the exterior of
the palace is one representing King James V as the 'Gudeman of
Ballengeich.' It was the custom of this king, as it had been of his
father, to disguise himself and mingle with the people, thereby finding
relief from the strain of more serious affairs and doubtless learning
at first hand what the people thought of him. Their opinions must have
been favourable, for the King enjoyed the experiences and the
intercourse was always friendly and often amusing. Once on a hunting
expedition, the King became separated from the others of his party and
was obliged to spend the night at a cottage in the moorlands. The
'gudeman,' like all true Highlanders, was extremely hospitable to the
stranger, and ordered the 'gude wife,' to kill for supper the plumpest
of the hens. The stranger, departing the next morning, invited the
farmer to call on the 'Gudeman of Ballengeich' when he next visited
Stirling. The farmer soon accepted the invitation and was much
astonished to find himself received by the King, who enjoyed his
confusion most heartily and gave him the facetious title, 'King of the
Moors.' This story and others like it gave the idea to Scott which he
so skilfully made the basis of 'The Lady of the Lake.'
[Illustration: STIRLING CASTLE]
Another gateway leads into the upper court, on the right of which is
the old Parliament House, where {83} the last Scottish Parliament met.
At the north end of the court is the Chapel Royal. A third gateway
leads to the Douglas Garden, at the left of which is the Douglas Room,
where James II treacherously stabbed the Earl of Douglas. The latter
had visited the castle under a safe-conduct granted by the King
himself. The body was dragged into an adjoining room and thrown out of
the window. Later it was buried just where it fell. Scott makes James
Douglas refer to the incident as he sadly returns to Stirling to
surrender himself and die for his family.
Ye towers, within those circuit dread
A Douglas by his sovereign bled.
From the parapet along the walls of this garden, built on a rock three
hundred feet high, a splendid landscape may be seen. Down below appear
the windings of the river Forth and the old Stirling Bridge, known as
the 'Key to the Highlands,' the only bridge across the Forth during all
the stirring times of Scottish history. There too is the 'Heading
Hill' to which Douglas also refers:--
And thou, O sad and fatal mound!
Thou oft hast heard the death-axe sound,
As on the noblest of the land
Fell the stern headsman's bloody hand.
From another place on the wall, far down on the plain below, we could
see the King's Knot, a curiously shaped, octagonal mound of great
antiquity, near the base of the precipitous rock upon which the castle
stands. This plain, so easily seen from the castle, was the place
where many a knightly tournament was held, and it was to this castle
park that Douglas went to take part in the games, so that
{84}
King James shall mark
If age has tamed these sinews stark,
Whose force so oft in happier days
His boyish wonder loved to praise.
Here was held the archery contest where Douglas won the silver dart;
here was the wrestling match where he won the golden ring; here his
brave dog Lufra pulled down the royal stag, and Douglas knocked
senseless with a single blow the groom who struck his noble hound; and
from here Douglas was led a captive into the fortress.
Meanwhile Ellen had found her way to the castle determined to see the
King and with his signet ring beg the boon of her father's life. She
learned to her astonishment that the King and Fitz-James were one, and
that her suit was granted before it was asked, for the genial monarch
announced Lord James of Douglas as 'a friend and bulwark of our throne.'
The monarch drank, that happy hour,
The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,--
When it can say with godlike voice,
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Then Ellen blushingly craved, through her father, the pardon of her
lover, and the King in jovial mood commanded Malcolm to stand forth,
exclaiming,--
'Fetters and warder for the Graeme!'
His chain of gold the King unstrung,
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.
Looking out from Stirling Castle over the delightful scenery of the
Scottish Highlands, made a hundred times more lovely by the romantic
poem, whose magic has {85} seemed to touch every lake and river, hill
and valley, with its influence, we felt a strange reluctance to leave
the scene, akin to that of the poet himself as he bids farewell to the
Harp of the North:--
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!
'T is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,
'T is now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell;
And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch-note of the distant spell,
And now, 't is silent all!--Enchantress, fare thee well!
{86}