is not only confined to the places to which he can travel in his
caravan. The Wanderer is quite a Pullman car, and cannot be turned on
narrow roads, while its great height causes overhanging trees to form
very serious obstacles indeed.
But I have my tricycle. I can go anywhere on her. Well, but if I want
to take a companion with me on some short tour where the Wanderer cannot
go, it is always easy to borrow a dogcart, pop Pea-blossom into the
shafts, and scud away like the wind. This is what I did when I made up
my mind to spend--
A Day at Pressmannan.
I would have preferred going alone on my cycle with a book and my
fishing-rod, but Hurricane Bob unfortunately--unlike the infant Jumbo--
is no cyclist, and a twenty-miles' run on a warm summer's day would have
been too much for the noble fellow. Nor could he be left, in the
caravan to be frightened out of his poor wits with thundering cannon and
bursting shells. Hence Pea-blossom and a light elegant phaeton, with
Bob at my feet on his rugs.
We left about ten am, just before the guns began to roar.
The day was warm and somewhat hazy, a kind of heat-mist.
Soon after rattling out of Dunbar we passed through a rural village. We
bore away to the right, and now the scenery opened up and became very
interesting indeed.
Away beneath us on our right--we were journeying north-west--was a broad
sandy bay, on which the waves were breaking lazily in long rolling lines
of foam. Far off and ahead of us the lofty and solid-looking Berwick
Law could be seen, rising high over the wooded hills on the horizon with
a beautiful forest land all between.
Down now through an avenue of lofty beeches and maples that makes this
part of the road a sylvan tunnel. We pass the lodge-gates of Pitcox,
and in there is a park of lordly deer.
On our left now are immensely large rolling fields of potatoes. These
supply the southern markets, and the _pomme de terre_ is even shipped, I
believe, from this country to America. There is not a weed to be seen
anywhere among the rows, all are clean and tidy and well earthed up.
No poetry about a potato field? Is that the remark you make, dear
reader? You should see these even furrows of darkest green, going high
up and low down among the hills; and is there any flower, I ask, much
prettier than that of the potato? But there we come to the cosy
many-gabled farmhouse itself. How different it is from anything one
sees in Yorks or Berkshire, for instance! A modern house of no mean
pretensions, built high up on a knoll, built of solid stone, with bay
windows, with gardens, lawns, and terraces, and nicely-wooded winding
avenues. About a mile farther on, and near to the rural hamlet of
Stenton, we stop to gaze at and make conjectures about a strange-looking
monument about ten feet high, that stands within a rude enclosure, where
dank green nettles grow.
What is it, I wonder? I peep inside the door, but can make nothing of
it. Is it the tomb of a saint? a battlefield memorial? the old village
well? or the top of the steeple blown down in a gale of wind?
We strike off the main road here and drive away up a narrow lane with a
charming hedgerow at each side, in which the crimson sweetbriar-roses
mingle prettily with the dark-green of privet, and the lighter green of
the holly.
At the top of the hill the tourist may well pause, as we did, to look at
the view beneath. It is a fertile country, only you cannot help
admiring the woods that adorn that wide valley--woods in patches of
every size and shape, woods in rows around the cornfields, woods in
squares and ovals, woods upon hills and knolls, and single trees
everywhere.
On again, and ere long we catch sight of a great braeland of trees--a
perfect mountain of foliage--worth the journey to come and see. That
hill rises up from the other side of the loch. We now open a gate, and
find ourselves in a very large green square, with farm buildings at one
side and a great stone well in the centre. Far beneath, and peeping
through the trees, is the beautiful mansion-like model farmhouse. It is
surrounded by gardens, in which flowers of every colour expand their
petals to the sunshine. No one is at home about the farmyard. The
servants are all away haymaking, so we quietly unlimber, stable, and
feed Pea-blossom. Hurricane Bob, my Jehu, and myself then pass down the
hill through a wood of noble trees, and at once find ourselves on the
margin of a splendid sheet of water that winds for miles and miles among
the woodlands and hills.
I seat myself in an easy-chair near the boathouse, a chair that surely
some good fairy or the genii of this beautiful wildery has placed here
for me. Then I become lapt in Elysium. Ten minutes ago I could not
have believed that such scenery existed so near me.
What a lonesome delightful place to spend a long summer's day in! What
a place for a picnic or for a lover's walk! Oh! to fancy it with a
broad moon shining down from the sky and reflected in the water!
The road goes through among the trees, not far from the water's edge,
winding as the lake winds. The water to-day is like a sheet of glass,
only every now and then and every here and there a leaping fish makes
rings in it; swallows are skimming about everywhere, and seagulls go
wheeling round or settle and float on the surface. We see many a covey
of wild ducks too, but no creature--not even the hares and rabbits among
the brackens--appear afraid of us.
Nowhere are the trees of great height, but there is hardly one you can
give a name to which you will not find here by the banks of this lovely
lonesome lake, to say nothing of the gorgeous and glowing undergrowth of
wild shrubs and wild flowers.
Weary at last, because hungry, we returned to the green square where we
had left our carriage, and, first giving Pea-blossom water, proceeded to
have our own luncheon.
We had enough for the three of us, with plenty to spare for the
feathered army of fowls that surrounded us. They were daring; they were
greedy; they were insolent; and stole the food from our very fingers.
Ambition in this world, however, sometimes over-reaches itself. One
half-bred chick at last stole a whole polonie, which was to have formed
part of Bob's dinner. Bob knew it, and looked woefully after the
thieving chick; the brave little bird was hurrying off to find a quiet
place in which to make its dinner.
It had reckoned rather rashly, though.
A cochin hen met the chick. "What daring audacity!" cried the hen.
"Set _you_ up with a whole polonie, indeed!"
A dig on the back sent the chick screaming away without the sausage, and
the big hen secured it.
"I'll go quietly away and eat it," she said to herself, "behind the
water-butt."
But the other fowls spied her.
"Why, she's got a whole polonie!" cried one.
"The impudence of the brazen thing!" cried another.
"A whole polonie! a whole polonie!" was now the chorus, and the chase
became general. Round and round the great stone wall flew the cochin,
but she was finally caught and thrashed and deprived of that polonie.
But which hen was to have it? Oh! every hen, and all the four cocks
wanted it.
A more amusing scene I never witnessed at a farmyard. It was like an
exciting game of football on the old Rugby system, and at one time,
while the game was still going on, I counted three pairs of hens and one
pair of Dorking cocks engaged in deadly combat, and all about that
polonie. But sly old Bob watched his chance. _He_ was not going to
lose his dinner if he could help it. He went round and lay flat down
behind the well, and waited. Presently the battle raged in that
direction, when suddenly, with one glorious spring, Bob flung himself
into the midst of the conflict. The fowls scattered and fluttered and
fled, and flew in all directions, and next minute the great
Newfoundland, wagging his saucy tail and laughing with his eyes, was
enjoying his polonie as he lay at my feet.
Returning homewards, instead of passing the Pitcox lodge-gate, we boldly
enter it; I cannot help feeling that I am guilty of trespass. However,
we immediately find ourselves in a great rolling park, with delightful
sylvan scenery on every side, with a river--the winding Papana--
meandering through the midst of the glen far down beneath and to the
right.
After a drive of about a mile we descend by a winding road into this
glen, and cross the river by a fine bridge. Then going on and on, we
enter the archway, and presently are in front of the mansion house of
Biel itself. It is a grand old place, a house of solid masonry, a house
of square and octangular towers, long and low and strong.
It is the seat of a branch of the Hamilton ilk. Miss Hamilton was not
then at home.
"No, the lady is not at home at present, sir," a baker who was driving a
cart informed me, "but it would have been all one, sir. Every one is
welcome to look at the place and grounds, and she would have been glad
to see you."
We really had stopped at the back of the house, which is built facing
the glen, but I soon found my way to the front.
I cannot describe the beauty of those terraced gardens, that one after
another led down to the green glen beneath, where the river was winding
as if loth to leave so sweet a place. They were ablaze with flowers,
the grass in the dingle below was very green, the waters sparkled in the
sunlight, and beyond the river the braeland was a rolling cloudland of
green trees.
We drove out by an avenue--two miles long--bordered by young firs and
cypresses.
Altogether, the estate is a kind of earthly paradise.
And think of it being constantly open to tourist or visitor!
"What a kind lady that Miss Hamilton must be, sir!" said my coachman.
"Yes, John," I replied. "This is somewhat different from our treatment
at Newstead Abbey."
I referred to the fact that on my arrival at the gates of the park
around that historical mansion where the great Byron lived, I could find
no admission. In vain I pleaded with the lodge-keeper for liberty only
to walk up the avenue and see the outside of the house.
No, she was immovable, and finally shut the gates with an awful clang in
my face.
I have since learned that many Americans have been treated in the same
way.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The heat of July the 23rd was very great and oppressive, and a haze
almost hid the beautiful scenery 'twixt Dunbar and Haddington from our
view.
Arrived at the latter quaint old town, however, we were soon at home,
for, through the kindness of the editor of the _Courier_, the Wanderer
found a resting-place in the beautiful haugh close by the riverside, and
under the very shadow of the romantic old cathedral and church
adjoining.
The cathedral was rendered a ruin by the soldiery of Cromwell, and very
charming it looks as I saw it to-night under the rays of the moon.
The people of Haddington are genuinely and genially hospitable, and had
I stayed here a month I believe I would still have been a welcome guest.
It is said that the coach-builders here are the best in Scotland. At
all events I must do them the credit of saying they repaired a bent axle
of my caravan, and enabled me on the afternoon of the 24th to proceed on
my way in comfort and safety.
Not, however, before I had made a pilgrimage to the grave of poor Mrs
Carlyle. The graveyard all around the church and cathedral is spacious
and well-kept, but her grave is inside the ruin.
It was very silent among these tall red gloomy columns; the very river
itself glides silently by, and nothing is to be heard except the cooing
of the pigeons high over head. The floor is the green sward, and here
are many graves.
It was beside Mrs Carlyle's, however, that I sat down, and the reader
may imagine what my thoughts were better than I can describe them.
An old flat stone or slab covers the grave, into which has been let a
piece of marble bearing the following inscription beneath other names:
"Here likewise now rests
Jane Welsh Carlyle,
Spouse of Thomas Carlyle, Chelsea, London.
She was born at Haddington, 14th July, 1800,
The only child of the above John Welsh,
And of Grace Welsh, Caplegill,
Dumfriesshire, his wife.
In her bright existence she
Had more sorrows than are common, but also a soft
Invincibility and clearness of discernment, and a noble
Loyalty of heart which are rare. For 40 years she was
The true and ever-loving helpmate of her husband,
And by act and word unwearily forwarded him as none
Else could, in all of worthy, that he did or attempted.
She died at London on the 21st April, 1866,
Suddenly snatched away from him, and
The light of his life, as if gone out."
I believe the above to be a pretty correct version of this strange
inscription, though the last line seems to read hard.
There is a quaint old three-arched bridge spanning the river near the
cathedral, and in it, if the tourist looks up on the side next the ruin,
he will notice a large hook. On this hook culprits used to be hanged.
They got no six-foot drop in those days, but were simply run up as
sailors run up the jib-sail, the slack of the rope was belayed to
something, and they were left to kick until still and quiet in death.
A visit to a celebrated pigeonry was a pleasant change from the
churchyard damp and the gloom of that ruined cathedral. Mr Coalston is
a famous breeder of pigeons of many different breeds. The houses are
very large, and are built to lean against a tall brick wall. The
proprietor seemed pleased to show me his lovely favourites, and put them
up in great flocks in their aviaries or flights.
So successful has this gentleman been in his breeding that the walls are
entirely covered with prize cards.
He loves his pigeons; and here in the garden near them he has built
himself an arbour and smoking-room, from the windows of which he has
them all in view.
We started about two pm. I would willingly have gone sooner, but the
Wanderer was surrounded on the square by a crowd of the most pleasant
and kindly people I ever met in my life. Of course many of these wanted
to come in, so for nearly an hour I held a kind of _levee_. Nor did my
visitors come empty-handed; they brought bouquets of flowers and baskets
of strawberries and gooseberries, to say nothing of vegetables and eggs.
Even my gentle Jehu John was not forgotten, and when at length we
rolled away on our road to Musselburgh, John had a bouquet in his bosom
as large as the crown of his hat.
God bless old Haddington, and all the kindly people in it!
CHAPTER TWENTY.
EDINBURGH--THE FISHER FOLKS O' MUSSELBORO'--THROUGH LINLITHGOW TO
FALKIRK--GIPSY-FOLKS.
"Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and towers,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat legislation's sov'reign powers.
From marking wildly-scattered flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I strayed,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours
I shelter in thy honour'd shade."
Burns.
So sang our immortal Burns. And here lies the Wanderer snugly at anchor
within the grounds of that great seminary, the High School of Edinburgh.
This by the courtesy of the mathematical teacher and kindness of the
old janitor, Mr Rollo. She is safe for the midday halt, and I can go
shopping and visiting with an easy mind. Sight-seeing? No. Because I
have learnt Edinburgh, "my own romantic town," by heart long ago.
Besides, it is raining to-day, an uncomfortable drizzle, a soaking
insinuating Scotch mist. But the cathedral of Saint Giles I must visit,
and am conducted there by W. Chambers, Esq, of _Chambers's Journal_. I
think he takes a pride in showing me the restorations his father
effected before death called him away. And I marvel not at it.
The day before yesterday, being then lying in Musselburgh, in the
tan-yard of that most genial of gentlemen, Mr Millar, I took my
servants to the capital of Scotland by way of giving them a treat. They
were delighted beyond measure, and I did not neglect them in the matter
of food and fluid. Remember, though, that they are English, and
therefore not much used to climbing heights. I took them first, by way
of preparation, to the top of Scott's monument. What a sight, by the
way, were the Princes Street gardens as seen from here! A long walk in
the broiling sunshine followed, and then we "did" (what a hateful verb!)
the castle.
"The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repelled th' invader's shock."
Another long walk followed, and thus early I fancied I could detect
symptoms of fag and lag in my gentle Jehu.
But I took them down to ancient Holyrood, and we saw everything there,
from the picture gallery to Rizzio's blood-stain on the floor.
Another long walk. I showed them old Edinburgh, some of the scenes in
which shocked their nerves considerably. Then on and up the Calton
Hill, signs of fag and lag now painfully apparent. And when I proposed
a run up to the top of Nelson's monument, my Jehu fairly struck, and
laughingly reminded me that there could be even too much of a good
thing. So we went and dined instead.
I was subjected to a piece of red-tapeism at the post-office here which
I cannot refrain from chronicling as a warning to future Wanderers.
I had hitherto been travelling incog. Letters from home had been sent
in registered packets, addressed to "The Saloon Caravan Wanderer," to be
left at the post-offices till I called for them; but those sent to
Edinburgh were promptly sent back to Twyford, because, according to
these clever officials, the name was fictitious. It was really no more
so than the name of a yacht is, the Wanderer being my land-yacht.
When a clerk showed me a letter from some bigwig anent the matter, I
indignantly dashed my pen through the word "fictitious." You should
have seen that clerk's face then. I believe his hair stood on end, and
his eyes stuck out on stalks.
"Man!" he cried, "you've done a bonnie thing noo. I'll say no more to
you. You must go round and speak to that gentleman."
As _that_ gentleman was at one end of the counter and _this_ gentleman
at the other, _this_ gentleman refused to budge, albeit he _had_ done "a
bonnie thing." For, I reasoned, _this_ gentleman represents the British
public, _that_ gentleman is but a servant of the said British public.
So it ended. But was it not hard to be refused my letters--not to be
able to learn for another week whether my aged father was alive, whether
my little Inie's cough was better, or Kenneth had cut that other tooth?
If further proof were needed that Midlothian is a smart country, it was
forthcoming at Corstorphine, a pretty village some miles from Edina. I
had unlimbered on the side of the road, not in any one's way. Soon
after there was a rat-tat-tat-tat at my back door--no modest single
knock, mind you.
A policeman--tall, wiry, solemn, determined.
"Ye maun moove on. Ye canna be allooed to obstruct the thoro'fare."
I told the fellow, as civilly as I could, to go about his business, that
my horses should feed and my own dinner be cooked and eaten ere I
"mooved on."
He departed, saying, "Ye maun stand the consekences."
I did stand the "consekences," and dined very comfortably indeed, then
jogged leisurely on. This was the first and last time ever a policeman
put an uninvited foot on my steps, and I do but mention it to show
intending caravanists that a gipsy's life has its drawbacks in the
county of Midlothian.
It is about six miles from Musselburgh to Edinburgh, through Portobello,
and one might say with truth that the whole road is little else than one
long street. We had stayed over the Sunday in that spacious old
tan-yard. We were not only very comfortable, but quiet in the extreme.
Close to the beach where we lay, great waves tumbled in from the eastern
ocean on sands which I dare not call golden. We were in the very centre
of the fisher population, and a strange, strange race of beings they
are. Of course I cultivated their acquaintance, and by doing so in a
kindly, friendly way, learned much of their "tricks and their manners"
that was highly interesting.
The street adjoining my tan-yard was quaint in the extreme. Clean? Not
very outside, but indoors the houses are tidy and wholesome. They are
not tall houses, and all are of much the same appearance outdoors or in.
But washing and all scullery work is done in the street. Looking up
Fishergate, you perceive two long rows of tubs, buckets, and baskets,
with boxes, and creels, and cats and dogs _galore_. Being naturally
fond of fish, cats here must have a high old time of it.
The older dames are--now for a few adjectives to qualify these ladies;
they are short, squat, square, apparently as broad as they are long;
they are droll, fresh, fat, and funny, and have right good hearts of
their own. The most marvellous thing is their great partiality for
skirts. As a rule I believe they wear most of their wardrobes on their
bodies; but ten to fifteen skirts in summer and twenty in winter are not
uncommonly worn.
The children on week days look healthy and happy; a dead puppy or a
cod's head makes a delightful doll to nurse in the gutter, and any
amount of fun can be got out of "partans' taes and tangles." [Crabs'
toes and seaweed canes.]
But these children are always clean and tidy on the Sabbath day.
At the village of Kirkliston, some miles from Corstorphine, with its
intelligent policemen, I stopped for the night in a little meadow. It
was a pleasant surprise to find in the clergyman here a man from my own
University.
Kirkliston was all _en gala_ next day; flags and bands, and games and
shows, and the greatest of doings. But after an early morning ride to
those wonderful works where the Forth is being bridged, we went on our
way, after receiving gifts of fruit and peas from the kindly people
about.
By the way, Kirkliston boasts of one of the biggest distilleries in
Scotland.
But it quite knocks all the romance out of Highland whisky to be told it
is made from American maize instead of from malt. Ugh!
Splendid road through a delightful country all the way to Linlithgow.
Pretty peeps everywhere, and blue and beautiful the far-off Pentlands
looked.
At Linlithgow even my coachman and valet were made to feel that they
really were in Scotland now, among a race of people whose very religion
causes them to be kindly to the stranger.
Through Polmont and on through a charming country to Falkirk, celebrated
for its great cattle tryst.
_July 29th_.--At Linlithgow I visited every place of note--its palace
and its palace prison, and its quaint and ancient church. Those gloomy
prison vaults made my frame shiver, and filled my mind with awe. "Who
enters here leaves hope behind" might well have been written on the
lintels of those gruesome cells.
There are the remains of a curious old well in the palace courtyard. A
facsimile of it, when at its best, is built in a square in the town.
Standing near it to-day was a white-haired, most kindly visaged
clergyman [The Rev Dr Duncan Ogilvie], with whom I entered into
conversation. I found he came originally from my own shire of Banff,
and that he was now minister of a church in Falkirk.
He gave me much information, and it is greatly owing to his kindness
that I am now, as I write, so comfortably situated at Falkirk.
A pleasant old stone-built town it is, with homely, hearty, hospitable
people. Many a toil-worn denizen of cities might do worse than make it
his home in the summer months. There is plenty to see in a quiet way,
health in every breeze that blows, and a mine of historical wealth to be
had for merely the digging. The town is celebrated for its great cattle
fair, or tryst.
Away from Falkirk, after holding a _levee_ as usual, during which a
great many pleasant and pretty people stepped into the Wanderer.
The country altogether from Edinburgh to Glasgow is so delightful that I
wonder so few tourists pass along the road.
As soon as we leave the last long straggling village near Falkirk, with
its lovely villas surrounded by gardens and trees, and get into the open
country, the scenery becomes very pretty and interesting, but on this
bright hot day there is a hazy mist lying like a veil all over the
landscape, which may or may not be smoke from the great foundries; but
despite this, the hills and vales and fertile tree-clad plains are very
beautiful to behold.