the sea. When the making of alum was begun at various points and bays
along the coast, vessels were needed for carrying it to London,
'whither,' as an old chronicler tells us, 'nobody belonging to Hild's
Haven had ever gone without making their wills.' This was the beginning
of the shipbuilding trade, which grew and flourished so vigorously,
lending such an interest to the sights and sounds of the place, and
finally becoming its very life. What would the old haven have been
without the clatter of its carpenters' hammers, the whir of its ropery
wheels, the smell of its boiling tar-kettles, the busy stir and hum of
its docks and wharves and mast-yards? And where, in the midst of so much
labour, could there have been found any time to laugh or to dance, but
for the frequent day of pride and rejoicing when the finished ship with
her flying flags came slipping slowly from the stocks to the waiting
waters, bending and gliding with a grace that gave you as much emotion
as if you had watched some conscious thing?... It is a little sad to
know that one has watched the launching of the last wooden ship that
shall go out with stately masts and rounding sails from the Haven Under
the Hill.
"Those of the men of the place who were not actually sailors were yet,
for the most part, in some way dependent upon the great, changeful,
bounteous sea.
"It was a beautiful place to have been born in, beautiful with history
and poetry and legend--with all manner of memorable and soul-stirring
things."
The house where Mary Linskill was born, a plain stone structure in the
old town, still stands and is the goal of occasional pilgrims who
delight in the humbler shrines of letters.
It seems indeed appropriate that the old sea town, famous two centuries
ago for its shipbuilding trade and hardy mariners, should have given to
the world one of its great sea-captains and explorers. A mere lad, James
Cook came to Whitby as the apprentice of a shipbuilder. His master's
house, where he lived during his apprenticeship, still stands in Grape
Lane and bears an antique tablet with the date 1688. Cook's career as an
explorer began when he entered the Royal Navy in 1768. He was then forty
years of age and had already established a reputation as a daring and
efficient captain in the merchant service. He made three famous voyages
to the south seas, and as a result of these, Australia and New Zealand
are now a part of the British Empire, an achievement which will forever
keep his name foremost among the world's great explorers. He lost his
life in a fight with the natives of the Sandwich Islands in 1777, a year
after the American Declaration of Independence. His mangled remains were
buried in the sea whose mysteries he had done so much to subdue.
I am sensible that in these random notes I have signally failed to set
forth the varied charms of the ancient fisher-town on the Northern Sea,
but I have the consolation that all the descriptions and encomiums I
have read have the same failing to a greater or less degree. I know that
we feel, as we speed across the moorland on the wild windy morning of
our departure, that two sojourns in Whitby are not enough; and are
already solacing ourselves with the hope that we shall some time make a
third visit to the "Haven Under the Hill."
X
SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS
So rough and broken is the Northumberland country that we are scarcely
aware when we enter the Cheviot Hills, which mark the dividing line
between England and Scotland. The road is now much improved; having been
recently resurfaced with reddish stone, it presents a peculiar aspect as
it winds through the green hills ahead of us, often visible for a
considerable distance. It is comparatively unfrequented; there are no
villages for many miles and even solitary cottages are rare; one need
not worry about speed limits here. Jedburgh is the first town after
crossing the border and there are few more majestic ruins in all
Scotland than the ancient abbey which looms high over the town. It
recalls the pleasantest recollections of our former visit and the wonder
is that it does not attract a greater number of pilgrims.
We are again in an enchanted land, where every name reminds us of the
domain of the Wizard of the North! Here all roads lead to Melrose and
Abbotsford, and we remember the George as a comfortable, well-ordered
inn, a fit haven for the end of a strenuous day. There are several good
hotels in Melrose, made possible by the ceaseless stream of tourists
bound to Abbotsford in summertime. We reach the George after the dinner
hour, but an excellent supper is prepared for us, served by a canny
Scotch waiter clad in a cleaner dress-suit than many of his brethren in
British country inns are wont to wear. We have no fault to find with the
George except that its beds were not so restful as one might wish after
a day on rough roads and its stable-yard garage lacked conveniences.
These shortcomings may now be remedied, for the spirit of improvement is
strong among the inns of tourist centers in Scotland.
The abbey is but a stone's throw from the hotel and one will never weary
of it though he come to Melrose for the hundredth time. In delicate
artistic touches, in beauty of design and state of preservation as a
whole, it is quite unrivalled in Scotland. But for all that Melrose
would be as unfrequented as Dundrennan or Arbroath were it not for the
mystic spell which the Wizard cast over it in his immortal "Lay," and
were it not under the shadow of Abbotsford.
Abbotsford! What a lure there is in the very name! In the early morning
we are coursing down the shady lane that leads to the stately mansion
and reach it just after the opening hour. We are indeed fortunate in
avoiding a crowd like that which thronged it on our former visit; we are
quite alone and the purchase of a few souvenirs puts us on a friendly
footing with the gray-haired custodian. His daily task has become to him
a labor of love and he speaks the words, "Sir Walter," with a fervor and
reverence such as a religious devotee might utter the name of his patron
saint. He shows us many odd corners and relics which we missed before
and tells us the story of the house, with every detail of which he is
familiar. And, indeed, it is interesting to learn how Scott as a youth
admired the situation and as he gained wealth bought the land and began
the house. Its construction extended over several years and he had
scarcely pronounced it complete and prepared to spend his old age in the
home which he almost adored, when the blow fell. Everything was swept
away and Scott, the well-to-do country laird, was a pauper. He did not
see much of Abbotsford in the few years he had yet to live, though
through the consideration of his creditors he remained nominally in
possession. His days were devoted to the task of paying a gigantic debt
which he conceived himself honor-bound to assume, though he might easily
have evaded it by taking advantage of the law. Reflecting--after the
lapse of nearly a century--who shall say that the world is not vastly
the richer for its heritage of the sublime self-sacrifice, the heroism
and flawless integrity of Walter Scott?
The Abbotsford we see to-day has been considerably altered and added to
since Scott's time, though the rooms shown to visitors remain precisely
as he left them. The estate, considerably diminished, is still in
possession of the family, the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell-Scott, the
great-granddaughter of the author, being the present owner. She is
herself of a literary turn and has written "The Making of Abbotsford,"
an interesting history of the place. The family is not wealthy and it
was announced a few years ago that the sale of the estate had become
necessary, though, happily, this was avoided.
Our guide tells us that the home is usually leased during the "season"
each year for three hundred pounds and Americans are oftenest the
takers. Both the house and grounds are well-cared-for and we have many
glimpses of smooth green lawns and flower gardens from the windows and
open doors. The river, too, is near at hand and lends much to the air of
enchantment that envelops Abbotsford, for we know how Scott himself
loved the "silver stream" so often referred to in his writings. Indeed,
as we leave we cannot but feel that our second visit has been even more
delightful than our first--despite the novelty of first impressions.
On our return, the picturesque old Peel tower at Darnick village catches
our eye. It stands in well-kept grounds, the smooth lawn studded with
trees and shrubs, and the gray stone walls and towers are shrouded by
masses of ivy. It is the most perfect of the few remaining Peel towers
in Scotland--little fortress-homes of the less important gentry four or
five hundred years ago. These towers were usually built in groups of
three, arranged in triangular form, to afford better opportunity for
mutual defense against an enemy. Scott in his "Border Antiquities" tells
something of these miniature castles:
"The smaller gentlemen, whether heads of branches or clans, or of
distinct families, inhabited dwellings upon a smaller scale, called
Peels or Bastile-houses. They were surrounded by an enclosure, or
barmkin, the walls whereof, according to statute, were a yard thick,
surrounding a space of at least sixty feet square. Within this outer
work the laird built his tower, with its projecting battlements, and
usually secured the entrance by two doors, the outer of grated iron, the
innermost of oak clenched with nails. The apartments were placed
directly over each other, accessible only by a narrow turn-pike stair,
easily blocked up or defended."
Darnick, as I have intimated, is the best preserved of the towers now in
existence, being almost in its original state, and it has very
appropriately been adapted as a museum of relics, chiefly of Scottish
history, though there is some antique furniture and many curious weapons
from abroad.
As we follow our guide about the cramped little rooms and up the narrow,
twisting stairways, we cannot but think that the place is much more like
a jail or prison than a gentleman's home--showing how the disturbed
conditions of the country affected domestic life. The caretaker is an
unusually communicative Scotchman, well-posted on everything connected
with Darnick Tower and its contents, and proves to be not without a
touch of sentiment. Taking from the glass case a rare old silver-mounted
pistol, he places it in the hands of the small boy of our party. "Now,
my lad, ye can always say that ye have held in your ain hands a pistol
that was ance carried by bonnie Prince Charlie himsel'." And we all
agree that it is no small thing for a boy to be able to say that; it
will furnish him with material for many flights of fancy--even if Prince
Charlie never saw the pistol. There are also some of Mary Stuart's
endless embroideries--we have seen enough of them to stock a good-sized
shop, but they may have all been genuine, since the poor queen had
nothing else to do for years and years. These are typical of Darnick's
treasures, which, with the rare old tower itself, may well claim an hour
of the Abbotsford tourist's time. And he may recall that Sir Walter
himself was greatly enamored of the old Peel and sought many times to
annex it to his estate, but the owner would never sell.
[Illustration: OLD PEEL TOWER AT DARNICK, NEAR ABBOTSFORD]
"Auld Reekie" has seldom been hospitable to us in the way of weather. Of
our many visits--I forget how many--only one or two were favored with
sunny skies. The first I well recall, since we came to the old city on
our national holiday, only to find the temperature a little above
freezing and to encounter a bitter wind that seemed to pierce to the
very bone. And again we are watching the rain-drenched city from our
hotel window and wondering how we shall best pass such a dull day. We
are familiar with the show-places of the town--we have seen the castle,
Holyrood, John Knox's house, St. Giles, the galleries, the University,
Scott's monument and his town house on Castle Street where "Waverley"
was written--all these and many other places of renown have no longer
the charm of novelty. We don our rain-proofs and call at the studio of
an artist friend, who conducts us to the Academy exhibit, where we
discover the beautiful "Harvest Time, Strathtay," which adorns this
book. We confess a weakness for antique-shops, especially those where a
slender purse stands some show, and our friend leads us to the oddest
curio-shop we have seen in our wanderings. It is entered from an
out-of-the-way inner court by a dark, narrow flight of stairs and once
inside you must pause a moment to get your bearings. For piled
everywhere in promiscuous heaps, some of them reaching to the ceiling,
is every conceivable article that one might expect to find in such a
place, as well as a thousand and one that he would never expect to see.
From a dark corner issues the proprietor, an alert, gray-bearded old
gentleman who we soon find is an authority in his line and, strange to
say, all this endless confusion is order to him, for he has no
difficulty in laying his hands on anything he seeks. He shows us about
the dimly lighted place, descanting upon his wares, but making little
effort to sell them. We are free to select the few articles that strike
our fancy--there is no urging and few suggestions on his part; he names
the modest price and the deal is completed. When we come to leave we are
surprised to find that we have lingered in the queer old shop a couple
of hours.
[Illustration: HARVEST TIME, STRATHTAY
From original painting by Henderson Tarbet. R. S. A. Exhibit, Edinburgh,
1910.]
Edinburgh shops, especially on Princes Street, are handsome, large and
well-stocked and are only second to the historic shrines with the
average tourist. The town is a great publishing center and there are
bookstores where the bibliophile might wish to linger indefinitely.
Scotch plaids and tartans are much in evidence wherever textiles are
sold and jewelers will show you the cairngorm first of all--a yellow
quartz-crystal found in the Highland hills. Such things are peculiarly
Scotch and of course are in great favor with the souvenir-seeking
tourist.
The rain ceases towards evening and from our hotel window we have a fine
prospect of the city. It is clean and fresh after the heavy drenching
and glistens in the declining sun, which shines fitfully through the
breaking clouds. There have been many poetical eulogies and descriptions
since Burns addressed his lines to "Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat," but
W. E. Henley's "From a Window in Princes Street" seems to us most
faithfully to give the impression of the city as we see it now:
"Above the crags that fade and gloom
Starts the bare knee of Arthur's seat:
Ridged high against the evening bloom,
The Old Town rises, street on street;
With lamps bejewelled; straight ahead
Like rampired walls the houses lean,
All spired and domed and turreted,
Sheer to the valley's darkling green;
While heaped against the western grey,
The Castle, menacing and severe,
Juts gaunt into the dying day;
And in the silver dusk you hear,
Reverberated from crag and scar,
Bold bugles blowing points of war."
We watch the changing view until the twilight gathers and the lamps
begin to appear here and there.
We are bound for the heart of the Highlands. Our route is to lead
through the "Kingdom of Fife" to Perth and from thence to Braemar, the
most famous Scotch inland resort. Having already crossed the Forth at
Queensferry, we decide to take the Granton-Burntisland boat, which
crosses the estuary some six miles farther east. We find excellent
provision for the transport of motor cars and our boat carries three
besides our own. Landing at Burntisland, we follow the coast through
Kirkcaldy to Largo.
The attraction at the latter place is a little antique-shop close by the
roadside in the village where two years before we found what we thought
astonishing bargains in old silver, and our judgment was confirmed by an
Edinburgh silversmith to whom we afterwards showed our purchases. The
shopman had little of his wares in sight when we entered, but he kept
bringing out article after article from some hidden recess until he had
an amazing array before us. There was old silver galore, much of it
engraved with armorial devices which the dealer said he had purchased at
public auctions where the effects of old families were being turned into
cash--not an uncommon occurrence in Britain these days. His prices were
much less than those of city shops, and we were so well pleased with our
few selections on our first visit that we think it worth while to visit
Largo again. The shopman has not forgotten us and our finds are quite as
satisfactory as before. And I must say that of all the odds and ends
which we have acquired in our twenty-thousand miles of motoring in
Europe, our old silver gives us the greatest satisfaction. It is about
the safest purchase one can make, since the hall-mark guarantees its
genuineness and it has a standard value anywhere. It cannot be bought to
advantage in cities or tourist centers, where high prices are always
demanded. The same conditions will doubtless prevail in the more remote
country villages as the motor car brings an increased number of buyers.
From Largo we traverse narrow byroads to Cupar, the county town of Fife.
It is substantially built of gray stone and slate, but is not of much
historic importance. The surrounding country is well-tilled and
prosperous and there are many fine country houses which may occasionally
be seen from the highroad. We hasten on to Newburgh and from thence to
Perth, where we stop for luncheon at the splendid Station Hotel. The day
has so far been clear and cool, but during our stop there comes a sudden
dash of summer rain and a sharp drop in temperature--not a very
favorable augury of fine weather in the Highlands, whither we are bound.
Perth does not detain us, for despite its old-time importance and
antiquity, scarce a vestige remains of its once numerous monastery
chapels, castles and noblemen's houses. Perhaps the iconoclastic spirit
inspired by old John Knox, who preached in Perth, may be partly
responsible for this, or it may be as a Scotch writer puts it: "The
theory which seems to prevail in the Fair City is that the Acropolis of
Athens would be better out of the way if grazing for a few goats could
be got on the spot; and the room of the historic buildings was always
preferred to their company when any pretext could be found for
demolishing them." The home ascribed to Scott's "Fair Maid," restored
out of all knowledge, serves the plebian purpose of a bric-a-brac shop
and there is nothing but common consent to connect it with the heroine
of the novel. The fair maid indeed may have been but a figment of the
great writer's imagination, but the sturdy armorer certainly lived in
Perth and became famous for the marvelous shirts of mail which he
wrought.
Our route lies due north from Perth, a broad and smooth highway as far
as Blairgowrie, near which is another original of the "Tullyveolan" of
"Waverley"--the second or third we have seen. Here we plunge into the
Highland hills, following a narrow stone-strewn road which takes us
through barren moors and over steep rough hills, on many of which
patches of snow still linger, seemingly not very far away. Its presence
is felt, too, for the air is uncomfortably chilly. The low-hung clouds
seem to threaten more snow and we learn later that snow actually fell
during the previous week. For thirty miles there is scarcely a human
habitation save one or two little inns which have rather a forlorn look.
The road grows steadily worse and the long "hairpin curves" of the road
on the famous "Devil's Elbow" will test the climbing abilities of any
motor.
While we are struggling with the steep, stony slopes and sharp turns of
the Devil's Elbow, a driving rain begins and pursues us relentlessly for
the rest of the day. The country would be dreary enough in the broad
sunshine, but under present conditions it is positively depressing. The
huge Invercauld Arms at Braemar is a welcome sight, though it proves
none too comfortable; so cold and cheerless is the evening that every
part of the hotel except the big assembly room, where a cheerful fire
blazes in the ample grate, seems like a refrigerator. The guests
complain bitterly of the unseasonable weather and one lady inquires of
another, evidently a native:
"What in the world do you do here in winter if it is like this in July?"
"Do in winter? We sit and hug the fireplace and by springtime we are all
just like kippered herring!"
Braemar has lost much of the popularity it enjoyed in Victoria's day,
when as many as ten thousand people came to the town and vicinity during
the Queen's residence at Balmoral, some ten miles away. She was fond of
the Highlands and remained several weeks, but King Edward did not share
her liking for Balmoral and was an infrequent visitor. The British have
the summer-resort habit to a greater extent than any other people and
Braemar still has considerable patronage during the season--from June to
September. The surroundings are quite picturesque; wooded hills,
towering cliffs and dashing streams abound, but one who has seen America
would hardly count the scenery remarkable. There is nothing to detain us
in Braemar and the next morning finds us early on the road. The day
promises fine, though of almost frosty coolness, and the roads in places
are muddy enough to remind us of home.
Braemar Castle, a quaint, towerlike structure near the town, attracts
our attention and we find no difficulty in gaining entrance, for the
family is away and the housekeeper is only too anxious to show visitors
around in hopes of adding to her income. It proves of little interest,
having recently been rebuilt into a summer lodge, the interior being
that of an ordinary modern residence. The exterior, however, is very
striking and the castle was of some consequence in the endless wars of
the Highland clans.
A few miles over a road overhung by trees and closely following the
brawling Dee brings us in sight of Balmoral. Our first impression is of
disappointment, since the castle seems but small compared with our
preconceived ideas, formed, of course, from the many pictures we have
seen. It has no traditions to attract us and as considerable formality
is necessary to gain admission on stated days only, we do not make the
attempt. The situation, directly on the river bank, is charming, and the
park surrounding the castle is well-groomed. We hie us on to Ballater, a
pretty, well-built village occupying a small plateau surrounded by
towering hills. But a mile or two from the town is the house where Byron
as a boy spent his vacations with his mother, and there are many
references in his poems to the mountains and lakes of the vicinity.
Lochnagar, which inspired his well-known verses, is said to be the
wildest and most imposing, though not the loftiest, of Scotch mountains.
It is the predominating peak between Braemar and Ballater. For some
miles on each side of Ballater the road runs through pine forests, which
evidently yield much of the lumber supply in Britain, for sawmills are
quite frequent. The trees are not large and they are not slaughtered
after the wholesale manner of American lumbering.
[Illustration: A HIGHLAND LOCH
From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.]
The Palace Hotel in Aberdeen is well-vouched-for officially--by the
Royal Automobile Club, the Automobile Association and an "American
Touring Club" which is new to us--and we reckon, from the first mention
in Baedeker, that it takes precedence of all others. It is conducted by
the Great North of Scotland Railway and is quite excellent in its way,
though not cheap or even moderate in rates. At dinner our inquisitive
waiter soon learns that we are not new to Aberdeen; we have seen most of
the sights, but we have to admit that we have missed the fish-market.
"Then ye haven't seen the biggest sight in the old town," said he.
"Seven hunder tons of fish are landed every day at the wharves and sold
at auction. Get down early in the morning and ye'll aye have a fish
story to tell, I'll warrant."