the weight of the men ere one had reached a landing-place. When tied
and eked as well as possible it was still two fathoms short of the
point they wished to reach. The leader and one of his men, therefore,
boldly clambered up the face of the rock to an overhanging tree which
grew in a cleft above, and, swinging the ladder by ropes tied thereto,
thus enabled the band to attain another eminence. But here an unlooked
for difficulty arose. One of the men was subject to epilepsy, and the
excitement of the attack had brought on a fit whilst he was in the
act of ascending the ladder. Humanity and prudence alike forbade that
he should be thrown to the ground, and yet their own safety must be
secured by their ascending over him. Fertile in expedients, the Captain
directed that he should be tied to the ladder with ropes, and then,
by turning it the whole of the men were enabled to pass over his body
without injuring him. When they reached the summit two of the band
leaped over the wall and slew the nearest sentinel, so that the entire
troop entered the Castle ere an alarm had been given, and possessed
themselves of it with comparative ease. No one who has examined the
appearance of the rock at the point of assault will doubt the bravery
of Captain Crawford and his gallant followers.
With one other story of bloodless capture this record of Dumbarton
Castle may be concluded. In the troublous times when the dominant
party sought to force Episcopacy upon the Scottish nation, the burgh
of Dumbarton was governed by Provost Sempill, a tried and trusty
Covenanter, whilst the Castellane was Sir William Stewart, as faithful
an Episcopalian. Shortly after the Assembly of Glasgow had abolished
the new form of religion and denounced the Bishops, the Provost and
Council of Dumbarton concluded that it was their duty to take their
venerable fortress out of the keeping of a recusant who differed from
them in religious matters. They therefore met one Sunday in the house
of the Provost, and sent an invitation to Sir William Stewart to dine
there after service in the Chapel. Suspecting no treachery, he came
unattended amongst them, and was at once met with a demand for the
keys of the Castle. In vain he protested that he had them not, and he
was ultimately compelled to send a messenger to procure them. Then,
under threat of instant death in case of betraying them, he was forced
to give the password for the night, and to exchange clothes with one
of his captors. In the twilight the sham Governor easily gained an
entrance to the Castle, and soon placed his party in possession of it,
without the shedding of blood.
The romance of Dumbarton Castle has to a large extent departed since
the transference of the Scottish Court to London. No longer a kingly
residence, it has only been visited once by royalty since Queen Mary
abode there, when in 1847 the late Queen Victoria inspected the
ancient fortress. But its importance as a bulwark against invasion is
greater now than in the time of Hako the Dane, since a foreign foe,
if unopposed there, may enter by the Clyde to the richest portion of
Scotland, and over-run and devastate the very heart of the kingdom.
And any system of shore fortification which does not include Dumbarton
invites invasion by negligence. The wisdom of our fathers in this
respect was greater than ours, and they would not have left so
important a post to be defended by cannons with oxidized touch-holes,
loaded with balls which may have stood exposed to the storm since the
19th century was young. If these are to form our defensive artillery,
let us discard our latest machine-guns, and return to more primitive
weapons, and then
“At the sight of Dumbarton once again,
We’ll cock up our bannets and march amain;
Wi’ braid claymores hangin’ doun to our heel,
To whang at the bannocks o’ barley-meal.”
IV
NEIDPATH CASTLE
The watershed of the southern part of Scotland presents some curious
phenomena to the observer of Nature. The country south of the Forth,
though elevated somewhat above the sea-level, is so uniform in its
altitude that no towering peaks or colossal mountain ranges may be
found sufficiently pronounced to account for the courses which the
mightier rivers of the locality take. It is easy for the geographer to
explain why the Amazon river flows right across the continent of South
America, for the flat pampas to the east of the great western range
could offer no impediment to the foaming torrent which owed its birth
to the cloud-daring Andes. Nor is there much difficulty in framing
theories as to the more notable rivers of Europe in this way, which
have at least probability to recommend them. But the Border Country
is a greater enigma to the physical-geographer than its inhabitants
will readily believe; and the discovery of the minute causes at work
to determine the direction of some of the greater streams demands the
labours of the geologist as well as the topographer. Examine on the map
the wayward careers of the three great southern rivers--Clyde, Tweed
and Annan--and the difficulty will be at once apparent. The Lowther
Hills, situated about midway between the North Sea and the Atlantic
Ocean, and forming almost a central point between the Firths of the
Forth and the Solway, contain the springs from which these rivers
originate, although the one takes its course due south, whilst the
other two debouch upon the east and west coasts respectively. And the
traditional rhyme is not without foundation when it declares that
“Annan, Tweed and Clyde
A’ rise oot o’ ae hillside.”
An impeding rock, a protuberance in the mountain, a gentle slope in the
valley, has determined the final destination of each of these majestic
rivers; and the impetuous waters, dashing with resistless force through
the fertile plains which they have encountered, have now, by their own
augmented energy, scooped out the three great districts of Tweeddale,
Clydesdale and Annandale, each presenting characteristics of scenery
diverse from the others. The Annan, flowing rapidly
“Without stop or stay down the rocky way”
which leads to the Solway, has a briefer career than either of the
other streams, whilst the Clyde wanders undecidedly first northward,
then westerly, and finally due south, to lose itself in the raging
Atlantic Ocean. But the Tweed enjoys a more equable existence than
its compeers, and, gathering to itself the waters of many tributary
streams, it meanders placidly, with many a winding link and crook,
through the rich pastoral country which intervenes betwixt its
well-spring and the sea.
“Bosom’d in woods where mighty rivers run,
Kelso’s fair vale expands before the sun;
Its rising downs in vernal beauty swell,
And, fringed with hazel, winds its flowery dell;
Green spangled plains to dimpled lawns succeed,
And Tempé rises on the banks of Tweed.
Blue o’er the river Kelso’s shadow lies,
And copse-clad isles amid the waters rise.”
Nor is the country upon the banks of Tweed memorable only for its
picturesque scenery. The whole of the valley through which it flows
is haunted by literary memories, and the Yarrow, the Ettrick, and the
Tweed recall irresistibly the hallowed names of Leyden, of Hogg, and of
Scott, whose powers of description in prose and poetry have alike been
expended upon this locality. As the chosen home of Border minstrelsy,
and the abode of the heroes who figure in these ballads, Tweedside
occupies a prominent position in this department of literature; for the
many towers and keeps which overlook its waters, and are reflected in
its crystal stream, have each their tale of other days to him who cares
to listen.
[Illustration: NEIDPATH CASTLE _Valentine & Sons, Ltd._]
The human heart, like the Æolian lyre, may be roused to martial ardour
by the fierce blast of the stormy nor’-east wind, and resound
in boldest tones the triumph of war; but it can also be thrilled
responsively by the magic touch of the zephyr, which gently plays upon
its sensitive strings some Lydian measure, until they murmur forth the
praise of love. The noise of the fatal fray may be hushed for a time
to allow of a tale of love, of faith, and of sorrow--the story of the
hapless “Maid of Neidpath.”
The Tweed for a large part of its course is studded with Castle-Towers
or _Peels_, which were used in former times as beacon-lights to warn
the Border clans of invasion, or to call them to rendezvous for a
raid or foray. Every here and there in the line of the Peels might be
found a commodious Castle, the property of the feudal superior and the
rallying point for his vassals, to which they would repair, clad in
their huge jack-boots, buff jerkins, and morions, ready to die at their
lord’s bidding.
There are several noticeable Castles of this description on Tweedside,
and Neidpath was one of these. A few miles west of the town of Peebles
the Tweed takes a south-eastward bend, and here, upon a gentle eminence
whose grassy slope runs down to the river’s brink, stands Neidpath
Castle. Its massive walls and turrets, some of which are over ten
feet in thickness, show that it has been a keep of great strength,
the oldest part apparently dating from the 14th century, and probably
erected by Edmund de Mortimer, who was third Earl of March, and died in
1381, as this would be the western boundary of the March country over
which he ruled. After the death, in 1425, of the fifth Mortimer, Earl
of March, Neidpath came into the possession of the Hays of Yester, and
remained with that family for centuries.
The Hays of Yester were originally Norman Barons, who came to England
in 1066 with William the Conqueror. Some of them seem to have been
intimate with David I. of Scotland when he was at the English Court,
and returned with him when he came back to his own kingdom, and
received many grants of land. The Hay family is now represented by the
present eleventh Marquess of Tweeddale, descended from the Hays of
Yester and the first Marquess of Tweeddale. The Hays, while Earls of
March, had their principal seat at Dunbar Castle, and sometimes retired
to the seclusion of Neidpath.
The most sequestered spot on earth is not secure from the insidious
advances of sorrow and suffering, and the Castle of Neidpath, however
powerful to resist an armed foe, could not withstand the silent canker
of despair, as the story which is linked inseparably with these ruined
walls sufficiently testifies. The Earl of March, who was once Lord of
the Castle, was, like “Jephthah, Judge of Israel,” in this at least,
that
“He had one only daughter, and no mo,
The whitch he loved passing well.”
Born amid wealth and reared in luxury as that time afforded, the lovely
heiress of Dunbar and Neidpath attained to budding womanhood without
having experienced one cloud upon her fortunes, or cherished a desire
that was not speedily gratified. As the only successor of an ancient
lineage, it may be supposed that the Earl looked to her to uphold
the dignity which her birthright thrust upon her, and hoped that his
honoured name would still descend through her offspring to distant
time. Doubtless many ambitious schemes of matrimonial alliance passed
through his mind in her early days.
The scheming father who dotes upon his child, and conjures up airy
castles to delight his imagination, is ever the chosen sport of Cupid.
“O love will venture in
Whaur it daurna weel be seen;
O love will venture in
Whaur wisdom aince had been;”
and the fair Maid of Neidpath fell a victim to his wiles. The young
Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick Forest, had met her when upon one of her
visits to her Tweedside retreat, and ere long they had confessed to
each other their mutual flame.
Though the Scotts of Tushielaw were of an ancient and honourable
strain, and had made their name known in Border warfare, the youthful
lover was no match, so far as rank was concerned, for the heiress of
Dunbar and Neidpath. And perhaps the knowledge of this fact made
them endeavour to conceal their passion from the parent whose cooler
judgment was likely to dispel their day-dream of happiness. Their
clandestine meetings, their whispered farewells by the banks of Tweed,
or in the shade of Ettrick Forest, served to knit their hearts closer
together in the bonds of true affection. Heedless of the danger
they dared, and under the glamour of resistless love, they suffered
themselves to drift ecstatically with the stream until the current
carried them far beyond the hope of rescue, and they found themselves
ensnared votaries of Cupid.
The great gift of true and lasting affection was theirs, since they had
discovered of what it consists, so admirably described by the poet in
these lines:--
“It is not Phantasy’s hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;
It liveth not with fierce Desire,
With dead Desire it doth not die.
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart and mind to mind
In body and in soul can bind.”
But their dreams, however rapturous, could not last, and they were
destined to endure a rude awakening. Their secret vows and stolen
interviews, though long hidden from profane eyes, at length were
revealed, and the Earl learned with rage and indignation that the son
of a Border Chief had won the heart of his daughter, from whom he had
anticipated accumulated honours for his house. To forbid their meeting
was his first step, and to enforce their separation by threats of dire
and summary vengeance was the method he adopted. The timid and retiring
maiden, unused to violence directed against herself, shrank in terror
from her infuriated parent, and at once informed her lover, not without
tears, that their time of love was over. The fear for his personal
danger prompted her to counsel his withdrawal from his native country
for a time, till changing scenes or altered circumstances should
obliterate her from his memory, or prepare the way for a glad reunion.
And the young Borderer, powerless against fate, bade farewell to the
scenes of his infancy which love had hallowed, and took his mournful
departure, like the hero of the old ballad:--
“For I will into some far countrye,
Where noe man shall me knowe.”
Perhaps the hardest lot is hers who must bide at home, with every
well-known spot before her to recall forgotten pleasures, and unable
to escape by the most frantic effort from inevitable despair. Yet,
unwilling to show the depth of her misery, she assumed a placid
demeanour which belied the tumult within:--
“I’ll bid my heart be still,
And check each rising sigh;
And none e’er shall know
My heart’s long-cherished woe
When the first tears of sorrow are dry.”
The inward grief which finds no outlet is the most wearing and
dangerous of all, and so it proved with the daughter of the Earl of
March. “The course of true love” thus rudely interrupted had wrought a
change in her which could not long be concealed. The pale, ivory-like
brow, the hectic cheek, the attenuated frame all told that the reversal
of the current of her being was wearing out the frail body which her
lofty spirit had once animated. At last her father, no longer blind
to the change which had taken place in her, and terrified lest his
precipitancy might have destroyed his hopes of her, consented that the
exiled lover should be recalled and accepted as her affianced husband.
What was the pride of birth compared with the life of his daughter?
The heiress of so ancient a name as hers might ennoble the man of her
choice by marriage.
The message was soon conveyed to young Scott, and he returned on the
speedy wings of love to his native land and his loving bride. Hastening
from the east coast, on which he had landed, he rode “with loose rein
and bloody spur” on the way to Neidpath Castle. Meanwhile the maid had
thought to plan a glad surprise for him, and removed to the Earl’s
house in Peebles, which lay upon the road which he must take. Worn
and emaciated as she had been, the vigour seemed to have returned to
her frame and the fire to her eyes once more as she sat by the balcony
waiting, waiting to hear the beat of the horse’s hoofs which should
prelude their meeting, with a thousand conflicting emotions surging
through her bosom.
“And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng.
And cherished wishes, long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long.”
With feelings strung to a pitch of intense excitement, she sat
listening eagerly for every sound which might tell of his proximity.
At length she heard the hasty hoof of a horse impelled by some urgent
rider, which drew nearer and nearer to the spot where she waited.
Straining her eyes to catch the first glance of her lover, she
recognised him a long way off, and felt her heart’s blood pulse more
quickly through her veins. Now had come the long-expected period of his
return, and love and joy should thenceforth be their portion. But the
sound of that rapid hoof ceased not even at her threshold, and the eyes
of the rider, intent upon the way to Neidpath, never once glanced upon
her. Could it be that the dream of her life had been visionary indeed?
Was there no faith in mankind? Were the vows, plighted in Ettrick and
sworn by Tweed, after all but a hollow mockery? The revulsion of her
feelings was too much for her overstrung system, reduced by disease
as it had been, and ere the hollow beat of the foaming steed’s frantic
gallop had been wholly lost upon the air, while bearing her love
onward, as he thought, to meet her, the desire of his heart, the hope
of his life, was no more!
“Oh, lover’s eyes are sharp to see,
And lover’s ears in hearing;
And love in life’s extremity
Can lend an hour in cheering.
Disease had been in Mary’s bower,
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower
To watch her love’s returning.
· · · · · · · · · ·
He came--he passed--a heedless gaze,
As o’er some stranger glancing;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser’s prancing--
The Castle arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.”
V
DUNNOTTAR CASTLE
In ancient times, when lance and spear, claymore and dirk were the
favourite weapons of war, few Castles could lay claim to greater
strength than Dunnottar, in Kincardineshire, not far from Stonehaven.
The peninsula on which it stands rises to a considerable height above
the sea-level, and the stormy waves of the North Sea break into foam
upon three sides of its base. The deep chasm which intervenes betwixt
the Castle and the mainland, like some Californian _canon_, plainly
exhibits its volcanic origin. And a very tyro in military affairs may
perceive that the only approach to the Castle which is possible from
the land might be defended at close quarters, as Thermopylæ was of
old, by a mere handful of resolute patriots. But against the heavy
ordinance of modern times the most elaborate fortifications which
are on a lower level than the surrounding country are practically
powerless. The long-range guns and rifles of these latter days have
done more to demolish chivalrous bravery and hardihood than may be at
first supposed. And the magnificent game of war, which once gave scope
to the most daring and courageous of heroes, is now reduced to a mere
mathematical problem, founded upon distances, paraboles, expansive
forces, and impenetrability. All these achievements in mechanical
warfare put to flight the great deeds of our ancestors, and thus
earthly glory passeth away. As students of humanity, then, it is to
older times that we must turn if we wish to see the truest examples of
personal prowess and endurance, and Dunnottar Castle has preserved for
us not a few of these.
The Keiths, Earls Marischal of Scotland, the feudal proprietors of
this fortress, have afforded some renowned names to grace the annals
of Scottish history. From a very early date they were entrusted
with the hereditary office of Marischal at the Court, and were thus
the custodians of the regal honours of the kingdom--the Crown, the
Sceptre, and the Sword of State, which once bore sway in Scotland. The
first name among the Keiths which is brought prominently into notice
is immediately connected with Dunnottar. Despite its inaccessible
position, it appears that the site of the Castle was at one time
occupied by the Parish Church of the district. But about 1292 Sir
William Keith, then Earl Marischal, knowing the disturbed state of the
country, and appreciating the importance of the ground on which the
church stood for the purposes of defence, built an edifice more easy
of access near Stonehaven, and persuaded many of the parishioners to
perform their devotions there.
Taking possession of the cliff, he transformed the church into a
private chapel, and surrounded it by those buildings necessary to
render it at once habitable and defensible. Judging from the ruins
which now exist, the erections must have been considerable, for the
appearance of the Castle and outworks, even in their present demolished
condition, is rather that of a ruined hamlet than a single fortress.
The necessity for extensive buildings, even for stores, may be
understood when we remember that the only communication by land could
be easily cut off, and the Castle placed in a state of close siege by a
very small opposing force.
An unlooked for adversary arose to this scheme in the person of the
Bishop of the diocese. This ecclesiastic, jealous of any encroachment
by the temporal on the spiritual power, took action against Sir
William, and solemnly excommunicated him by bell, book and candle for
trespassing upon consecrated ground. The Earl, usually brave enough
in secular matters, was timorous with those who wielded the power
over the soul. Fearful of the doom fulminated against him, he sought
the protection and absolution of Pope Benedict XIII., explaining that
ere he touched the ancient church he had provided for the spiritual
wants of the parish, and insisting that the times demanded that there
should be some such fortress as he had erected in that quarter for
the preservation of the lives of the parishioners. Benedict XIII.,
in the spirit of a wily Italian Pope, made capital out of both the
blunders of Bishop and warrior Earl, for he decreed that the sentence
of excommunication should be taken off the latter, and that upon the
payment of a fine to the Church the Earl should be allowed to enjoy the
Castle unmolested. And thus Sir William’s yearly ransom enabled him to
preserve his body from his foes in this world, and his soul from the
Enemy in the next.
This chapel was the scene of a very tragic occurrence a few years
later. In 1297 the English had gained possession of Dunnottar, and
placed a strong garrison there. But the dauntless Wallace had made
his way even into this strong fortress, and spread dismay among the
southern soldiers. The greater portion of them sought refuge near the
altar, trusting that the superstition of the time would prevent the
Scottish hero from violating the sanctity of that holy place. This
intrepid leader, however, had advanced too far thus to retire, and he
braved the terrors of the spiritual powers by enclosing these fugitives
within the church, and setting fire to it. From their dreadful fate no
escape was possible. The sacred structure overhung the raging waves of
the North Sea, and the only exit by land was guarded by the relentless
Wallace and his followers, and thus, by fire, by water, and by the
sword, perished four thousand of the English invaders. Ere blaming
Wallace too severely for this deed, we should remember the critical
period in which he lived, and the great stake of home and fatherland
for which he played.
Nor should we forget the long arrears of crime and oppression which
the English had incurred, and which only the most stringent measures
could repress. Harshness was not habitual with him, and there are times
when leniency is the worst form of mercy. And we may believe that he
had to steel his heart against compassion and discard all thoughts of
tenderness when he remembered his murdered wife, his slain father and
brethren, and his desolate and bleeding country.
“Not few nor slight his burdens are
Who gives himself to stand
Steadfast and sleepless as a star
Watching his fatherland.
Strong must his will be, and serene,
His spirit pure and bright;
His conscience vigilant and keen,
His arm an arm of might.”