Dunfermline--Ruins of the Abbey--Grave of Robert Bruce--Malcolm
Canmore's Palace--William Henryson, the poet--William
Dunbar--Stirling Castle--Views from its Summit--City of
Stirling--George Buchanan and Dr. Arthur
Johnston--Falkirk--Linlithgow--Story of the Capture of Linlithgow
Castle--Spirit of War--Arrival in Edinburgh.
Bidding adieu to Lochleven, we journey slowly through a pleasant and
highly cultivated region, till we reach the ancient town of Dunfermline,
in which some of the old Scottish kings formerly held court, and which
is yet adorned with the remains of a magnificent abbey. Robert Bruce was
interred here, in complete armor, and much interest was excited, a few
years ago, by the discovery of his skeleton. In the vicinity are the
ruins of Malcolm Canmore's palace and stronghold, standing on the edge
of a deep romantic glen, in which, more than three hundred years ago,
the poet Henryson, a schoolmaster in Dunfermline, was wont to wander,
singing his beautiful lays, in the quaint and difficult dialect of
former times.
"In myddis of June, that jolly sweet sessoun,
Quhen that fair Phoebus, with his beamis brycht,
Had dryit up the clew fra daill and doun,
And all the land made with his lemys lycht;
In a morning betwene mid-day and nycht,
I raiss and put all sluith and sleep on syde;
Ontill a wod I went allone, but gyd. (glad?)
Sueit was the smell of flowris quhyt and reid,
The noyis of birdis rycht delitious;
The bewis brod blumyt abune my heid;
The grund gowand with grassis gratious
Of all pleasans that place was plenteous,
With sueit odours and birdis armonie;
The mornyng mild my mirth was mair forthy.
Henryson was contemporary with William Dunbar, a poet, says Sir Walter
Scott, unrivalled by any that Scotland has ever produced. He flourished
at the court of James IV. His poems are of all sorts, allegorical, moral
and comic. The following lines on the brevity of human existence are a
fair specimen of his style.
This wavering warld's wretchedness,
The failing and fruitless business,
The misspent time, the service vain,
For to consider is ane pain.
The sliding joy, the gladness short,
The perjured love, the false comfort,
The seveir abade (delay), the slightful train (snare),
For to consider is ane pain.
The sugared mouths, with minds therefra,
The figured speech, with faces tway;
The pleasing tongues, with hearts unplain,
For to consider is ane pain.
In another poem he takes a more cheerful view of life.
Be merry, man, and tak' not sair in mind
The wavering of this wretched world of sorrow;
To God be humble, to thy friend be kind,
And with thy neighbors gladly lend and borrow,
His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow, &c.
From Dunfermline, we cross the country in the direction of Stirling,
and of course linger to view the famous battle-ground of Bannockburn,
immortalized by the prowess of Scotland, and the poetry of Burns.
But we approach Stirling Castle, one of the oldest and most imposing
strongholds in the country. How often have these old rocks rung again,
"with blast of bugle free;" and how frequently has the ground at its
base been soaked with human blood! The castle stands on a huge ledge of
basaltic rock, rising rapidly from the plain, and overlooking the
country far and near, and backed by the rising ground on which the city
is built. Ascending to the summit we pass round it, by a narrow pathway
cut in the sides of the mountain, and thence enjoy the most extensive
and delightful views. How charmingly the Links of the Forth, as the
serpentine windings of the river are called, adorn the rich vale, in
which they love to linger, as if loth to depart. To the north and east
are the Ochil hills, "vestured" in blue, and looking down upon fertile
fields, umbrageous woods, and stately mansions. On the west lies the
vale of Menteith, and far off the Highland mountains, lost in the mist.
On another side are the pastoral hills of Campsie, and underneath our
eye the town of Stirling, the Abbey Craig, and the ruins of
Cambuskenneth Abbey. The Forth, with "isles of emerald," and white sails
skimming its glassy surface, expands into the German Ocean; and
Edinburgh Castle, just descried amid the haze, crowns the distant
landscape. Stirling was a favorite residence of the Stuarts; but the
castle is now employed only as a barracks for soldiery.
Leaving the castle we pass into the city, by High Street, adorned with
several palaces of the old nobility, antique-looking edifices, of a
solid structure. Here was the palace of the Regent, Earl of Mar, whose
descendants were the keepers of Stirling Castle. Here too was the palace
of Sir William Alexander, "the philosophical poet" of the court of James
the Sixth, and tutor to Charles the First, who created him Earl of
Stirling. But an object of still greater interest is the tower where
George Buchanan, the historian of Scotland, and one of the first
scholars of his age, lived and wrote. He was tutor to James the Sixth of
Scotland, and First of England. He wrote a paraphrase of the Psalms in
elegant Latin verse, of which he was a perfect master. Most of this work
was composed in a monastery in Portugal, to which he had been confined
by the Inquisition about the year 1550. It was continued in France, and
finished in Scotland. His prose works, particularly his history of
Scotland, are characterized by clearness and research. His celebrated
contemporary, Dr. Arthur Johnston, was equally distinguished for the
variety of his attainments, and his perfect command of the Latin tongue;
so that the one has been called the Scottish Virgil, and the other the
Scottish Ovid. The Latin version of the Psalms by Buchanan is still used
in some of the Scottish schools. It is elegant and faithful, but
somewhat formal and paraphrastic.
There are many objects of interest in Stirling, and the scenery around
is rich and beautiful, and, moreover, associated in every part, with
recollections of the olden time; but we cannot linger here. The
stage-coach is waiting to take us to Falkirk, a town of great antiquity,
having been the site of one of those military stations on the wall made
by the Romans at their invasion of the country, known by the name of the
Forts of Agricola. It was also the scene of one or two famous battles in
the days of Wallace and Bruce. Being the principal town in the midst of
a rich agricultural country, it is now the scene of immense fairs or
_trysts_, as they are called, to which large droves of Highland cattle
are brought annually for sale, and where an immense amount of business
is transacted. But there is nothing here of sufficient interest to
detain us; so we proceed in the rail-cars to Edinburgh. In passing, we
get a glimpse of the castle and palace of Linlithgow; in the twefth
century one of the most important burghs in Scotland, the residence of
several of the kings of Scotland, and the birth-place of Queen Mary.
"Of all the palaces so fair
Built for the royal dwelling
In Scotland, far beyond compare
Linlithgow is excelling.
And in its park, in genial June,
How sweet the merry linnet's tune,
How blythe the blackbird's lay,
The wild buck bells from thorny brake
The coot dives merry on the lake,
The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see a scene so gay."--_Marmion._
When Robert Bruce was lying in Torwood Castle, not far from Falkirk, a
man by the name of Binnoch, a farmer in the neighborhood, who supplied
the garrison at Linlithgow, then in possession of the English king,
proposed to Bruce to take possession of the garrison by a stratagem,
which he accomplished. This incident has been wrought into a lively form
by Wilson, not Professor Wilson, but John Mackie Wilson, author of the
Border Tales, of whom I shall have something to say by and by. The
following is his account of the matter, somewhat condensed.
Having been introduced to Bruce at Torwood, Binnoch intimated that he
had something of great importance to communicate, and inquired whether
he might speak with confidence. Being assured that he might, he
proceeded thus:
"Aweel sir, the business I cam' upon is just this. I supply the
garrison, ye see sir, o' Lithgow wi' hay; now I've observed that they're
a' wheen idle, careless fellows, mair ta'en up wi' their play than their
duty."
Bruce's eye here kindled with a sudden fire, and his whole countenance
became animated with an expression of fierce eagerness that strongly
contrasted with its former placidity. He was now all attention to the
communication of his humble visitor.
"What! the castle of Linlithgow, friend!" exclaimed Bruce, with a slight
smile of mingled surprise and incredulity. "_You_ take the castle of
Linlithgow! Pray, my good fellow, how would you propose to do that?"
"Why sir, by a very simple process," replied Binnoch, undauntedly, "I
wad put a dizen or fifteen stout weel armed, resolute fellows, in my
cart, cover them owre wi' hay, and introduce them into the garrison as a
load o' provender. If they were ance in, an' the cheils were themselves
of the richt stuff, I'll wad my head to a pease bannock that the
castle's ours in fifteen minutes."
"And would you undertake to do this, my good friend?" said Bruce,
gravely, struck with the idea, and impressed with its practicability.
"Readily, and wi' a richt guid will, sir," replied Binnoch, "provided ye
fin' me the men; but they maun be the very wale o' your flock; its no a
job for faint hearts or nerveless arms."
"The men ye shall have, my brave fellow; and if ye succeed your country
will be indebted to you. But it is a perilous undertaking; there will be
hard fighting, and ye may lose your head by it. Have you thought of
that?"
"I have, sir," replied Binnoch, firmly. "As to the fechtin', we are like
to gie them as guid as we get. And for the hangin', the Scotsman is no
deservin' o' the name that's no ready to brave death, in any form, for
his country."
Bruce caught the enthusiasm of the speaker; a tear started into his eye,
and seizing the hand of the humble patriot--
"My noble fellow," he said, "would to God all Scotsmen were like thee.
Beneath that homely plaid of thine there beats a heart of which any
knight in Christendom might be proud. Lose or win, this shall not be
forgotten."
Having made the necessary arrangements, and agreed upon a sign, for
communicating with each other, Binnoch took his departure from the
castle of Torwood.
The next day the men selected by Bruce were at Binnoch's house, having
been admitted through the preconcerted signal. They repaired to the
barn, and were snugly packed away in the hay cart, armed with steel caps
and short swords. Everything being in readiness, Binnoch hid a sword
amongst the hay, for his own use, and in such a situation that he could
easily seize it when wanted. He also provided himself with a poniard,
which he concealed beneath his waistcoat. Thus prepared at all points,
the intrepid peasant set forward with his load of daring hearts, and
having arrived at the castle, he and his cart were immediately admitted.
They proceeded onwards till they came to the centre of the court-yard,
when Binnoch gave the preconcerted signal to his associates, which was
conveyed in the words, spoken in a loud voice--"Forward, Greystail,
forward!" as if addressing his horse, which he at the same time struck
with his whip to complete the deception.
These words were no sooner uttered than the hay, with which the daring
adventurers were covered, was seen to move, and the next instant it was
thrown over upon the pavement, to the inexpressible amazement of the
idlers who were looking on; and, to their still greater surprise,
fifteen armed men leapt, with fearful shouts, into the court-yard, when,
being instantly headed by Binnoch, the work of death began. Every man
within their reach at the moment was cut down. The guard-room was
assailed, and all in it put to death, and passing from apartment to
apartment, they swept the garrison, and took possession of it. The
attack had been so sudden, so unexpected, and so vigorous, that its
unfortunate occupants, six times their number, had no time to rally or
defend themselves, and thus fell an easy prey to the bold adventurers.
We have only to add that Binnoch was rewarded by Bruce, for this
important service, with some valuable lands in the parish of Linlithgow;
and that his descendants had for their arms a _hay-wain_, with the
motto, _virtute doloque_.[160]
[Footnote 160: The following is a different, and probably a more correct
version of Binnoch's adventure, from Sir W. Scott's Tales of a
Grandfather. "Binnoch had been ordered by the English governor to
furnish some cart-loads of hay, of which they were in want. He promised
to bring it accordingly; but the night before he drove the hay to the
castle, he stationed a party of his friends, as well armed as possible,
near the entrance, where they could not be seen by the garrison, and
gave them directions that they should come to his assistance as soon as
they should hear him cry a signal, which was to be, 'Call all, call
all!' Then he loaded a great waggon with hay. But in the waggon he
placed eight strong men, well armed, lying flat on their breasts, and
covered over with hay, so that they could not be seen. He himself walked
carelessly beside the waggon; and he chose the stoutest and bravest of
his servants to be the driver, who carried at his belt a strong axe or
hatchet. In this way Binnoch approached the castle, early in the
morning; and the watchmen, who only saw two men, Binnoch being one of
them, with a cart of hay, which they expected, opened the gates, and
raised up the portcullis, to permit them to enter the castle. But as
soon as the cart had gotten under the gateway, Binnoch made a sign to
his servant, who, with his axe, suddenly cut asunder the _soam_, that
is, the yoke which fastens the horses to the cart, and the horses
finding themselves free, naturally started forward, the cart remaining
behind under the arch of the gate. At the same time Binnoch cried, as
loud as he could, 'Call all, call all!' and drawing his sword, which he
had under his country habit, he killed the porter. The armed men then
jumped up from under the hay where they lay concealed, and rushed on the
English guard. The Englishmen tried to shut the gates, but they could
not, because the cart of hay remained in the gateway, and prevented the
folding doors from being closed. The portcullis was also let fall, but
the grating was caught in the cart, and so could not drop to the ground.
The men who were in ambush near the gate hearing the cry, 'Call all,
call all!' ran to assist those who had leaped out from among the hay;
the castle was taken, and all the Englishmen killed or made prisoners.
King Robert rewarded Binnoch by bestowing on him an estate, which his
posterity long afterward enjoyed. The Binnings of Wallyford, descended
from that person, still bear in their coat armorial a wain loaded with
hay, with the motto, 'virtute doloque.'"]
By the way, these two words, _courage_ and _stratagem_, express the very
spirit and essence of ancient war, and indeed of all war, a relic of
barbarism, the most foul and horrible the world has ever seen.
Defensible, perhaps, in cases of extremity, when it is the last and only
means of protecting our homes and altars, but in all other cases a
fearful atrocity, fit only for cannibals and demons!
But yonder are the peaceful towers of Edinburgh, bathed in the sombre
light of evening. The very castle looks like an image of repose, as it
silently looms up amid the smoke and hum of the busy city. Signs of
peace and prosperity are every where around us, indicating, if we have
not yet reached, that at least we are approaching that happy time when
"men shall beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into
pruning hooks."
"O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,
Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,
Though but in distant prospect, and not feel
His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?"