singular and improbable circumstance; but we can tell of a far more
romantic bridal, and one well attested by historical evidence, which
happened little more than a hundred years afterwards--viz., in
1272--with which important consequences were connected:--A Scottish
knight of high birth, Robert de Bruce, younger of Annandale and
Cleveland, was passing on horseback through the domains of Turnberry,
which belonged to Marjory, Countess of Carrick. The lady happened at the
moment to be pursuing the diversion of the chase, surrounded by her
squires and damsels. They encountered the Bruce. The young countess was
struck by his noble figure, and courteously entreated him to remain and
take the recreation of hunting. Bruce, who, in those feudal days, knew
the danger of paying too much attention to a ward of the king, declined
the invitation, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by the
attendants; and the lady, riding up, seized his bridle, and led off the
knight with gentle violence to her Castle of Turnberry. Here, after
fifteen days' residence, the adventure concluded as might have been
anticipated: Bruce married the countess, without the knowledge of her
relations, or obtaining the king's consent; upon which King Alexander
seized her Castle of Turnberry. The intercession of friends, however,
and a heavy fine, conciliated the mind of the monarch. Bruce became, in
right of his wife, Lord of Carrick, and the son of this marriage of
romantic love was the great Robert Bruce, the restorer of Scottish
liberty.
Soon after the royal marriage, preparations were made for the queen's
coronation (King David having been crowned when he ascended the throne),
and the royal pair, with the court, proceeded to Scone Palace for that
purpose.
It was a fine morning in the month of July when the party set out, and
the dawn was beautiful. Before them lay the great Frith of Forth,
rolling down in the bright sunshine from the mountains of the west, its
shores teeming with fertility and natural loveliness. Along the banks
the mists were rising from the verdant cones and waving woods of
Innergellie, Lochton, and Balcomie. It was a spacious prospect of
flowering meadow and ripening corn-field--of foliaged coppice and
flowing ocean--of rising eminence and busy burgh town--of ships and
fishing-boats at anchor or under sail, with the glorious sunshine
beaming over all, and everything was full of life, of light, and of
happiness around them. The road from Crail passed through Airdrie Woods,
by the back of Kellie-law, and thence through the muirs to Falkland.[12]
Here the royal party stopped and partook of refreshments, and thereafter
proceeded on their journey to the Palace of Scone.
[Footnote 12: It is still open, and of great breadth in various parts of
the line, and retains the name of the King's Cadgers' Road, because the
fish carriers from Crail travelled along it with fish from that royal
burgh to supply the king's table when resident at Falkland Palace].
The mode in which the ceremony of Queen Matilda's coronation was
performed is strikingly illustrative of the manners of the age. The
Bishops of St Andrews and Dunkeld, with the Abbot of Scone, attended to
officiate. The Bishop of St Andrews explained to her majesty the
respective oaths, which were to be taken first in Latin, and afterwards
in Norman French. They then conducted her to the regal chair or sacred
stone of Scone, which stood before the cross in the eastern division of
the chapel. Upon this she sat; the crown was placed on her head; she was
invested with the royal mantle, and the nobility kneeling in homage
threw their robes beneath her feet. A Highland bard or sennachy, clothed
in a scarlet mantle, with hair venerably white, then advanced from the
crowd, and bending before the throne, repeated in his native tongue the
genealogy of the youthful queen.
Many years pass. Maude is dead; and our fancy, under a spell, leads us
to Crail Church. The usual service has not yet commenced, and
consequently neither the king, his family, nor attendants, have entered
the church; but it is whispered that they may be looked for every
moment, as his majesty was scrupulously punctual at prayers.
There was soon a large congregation assembled, certainly not less than a
thousand persons, drawn hither by loyalty and curiosity, and in
compliment to the royal birth-day. A soft and solemn strain of music now
rose from the organ, and time is given, during the voluntary, to collect
the distracted thoughts, and to compose them into calmness and order
suitable to the occasion. There now ran a muffled whisper of "The King!
the King!" and a vista being opened in front, his majesty is seen quite
distinctly. He is a venerable old man, hoary and furrowed--no grandeur,
no majesty, no assumption of princely dignity. Shading his dim eyes with
one hand, he reverently knelt down, and inwardly breathed his composing
aspiration to the Throne of Grace. The other hand rested on the
shoulder of the fair-haired child who stood by his side, his little
grand-daughter, whom he had led in his hand to the place of worship.
All this had passed in a few seconds: and there was now a deep hush, for
the priests were in their places. The staring and whispering were
suspended; the service commenced, and the aged monarch, bareheaded, his
thin, trembling hands fervently clasped, his eyes uplifted as it were to
the place to which all his earnest thoughts were now directed, in the
attitude of intense, absorbing devotion--presented a picture of devotion
of a character so solemn and impressive, that anything more striking
could rarely be witnessed or imagined.
Here, then, is an end to all our previous dreams of royal splendour, for
there stands the pious monarch, David, King of Scotland,
"His staff his sceptre, his grey hairs his crown,"
trembling in presence of his God, breathing the general confession of
his sins with the beings of the same kindred and frail nature as himself
that stood around him.
THE LEGEND OF THE CHURCH OF ABERCROMBIE.
From authentic documents referred to by Sir John Connel in his "History
of Tithes," Abercrombie, or Abercromlin, appears to have been a parish
as far back as 1174. How long that character pertained to this portion
of Fife we cannot say, but the church is obviously of very great
antiquity. Having become so ruinous as to be unfit for a place of
worship, it was abandoned in 1646, and since that time the parishes of
Abercrombie and St Monans have been united, and the old church of St
Monans, situated on the sea-shore, has served for the use of both.
In a romantic and beautiful situation within the grounds now forming
part of the domain of Sir Ralph Abercrombie Anstruther of Balcaskie,
Baronet, and in the old burying-place, still used as a cemetery by the
Balcaskie family, stands the remains of the old grey parish church of
Abercrombie, with its encircling lime-trees and its green ivy garment
duskily investing its aged walls.
Dedicated to St Mary and St Margaret, tradition has deduced the origin
of Abercrombie Church from the piety and wealth of two sisters similarly
named.
About the middle of the twelfth century, the broad lands and swelling
coffers of Sir Humphrey Abercrombie (failing male issue) devolved upon
two maiden sisters, Mary and Margaret, only children of the baronet; and
as both were young, and of unimpeachable descent--the true Norman blood
mantling in every vein--the heiresses early became objects of absorbing
interest in the eyes of such of the surrounding knights and thanes as
could advance pretensions to as clear a shield and pure a lineage as
their own.
Educated within the walls of the convent at Haddington, the sisters'
limited experience and unripe notions of the world would have
inadequately fitted them for the duties entailed upon them by their new
position, were it not that nature had beneficently gifted the elder with
a certain strength and self-reliance of character, imperfectly developed
in the cloister, but daily expanding and maturing in a broader sphere,
in proportion as circumstances seemed to call it into action, and demand
its vigorous exercise.
The younger was a graceful, gentle girl, gifted with rare beauty, and
with a disposition as femininely soft and placid as the mild and
dove-like eyes through which her soul looked out upon a world but newly
revealed to her enfranchised gaze.
How was it, then, that thus differing--thus unlike in mind and
feature--the high-souled Mary and the shrinking, soft-eyed Margaret
should, almost simultaneously, have set their hearts on one object? Was
it that, under the handsome exterior of her soldier-cousin, Philip de
Candela, the elder sister recognised a spirit similar to her own? And
was it that the pliant mind of Margaret, putting forth a host of
tendrils--impulses, affections, sympathies--craved some object for
support, something to cling to and weave themselves around, encircling
what they garlanded? Was it in the harder nature of the soldier these
budding tendrils found, as it were, a massive trunk wooing their embrace
and strengthening their growth? Was it that the elder loved him for the
perils he had undergone in Palestine and in France, the exciting scenes
in which he had conspicuously borne a brave man's part, and for the
spirit of daring and adventure by which he had been influenced in his
busy brief career? We may know that it was so; that continued
intercourse confirmed and ripened love; that Mary's ears were seldom
regaled with tales of war and chivalry, while the songs of Provence were
carolled with a frequency and fervour most gratifying, it would seem, to
the happy, hopeful Margaret; and that, in short, the soldier and his
soft-eyed cousin plighted their troth, and then irrevocably sealed it
with a sacred union. The ceremonial was performed by St Monan, a hermit
or religious recluse belonging to the Monastery of Pittenweem, which was
sheltered in a recess amongst the banks, walls, and crevices at the west
end of the village of the same name, with a dusky-coloured mass of hard
whinstone overhanging it behind, and a stair or gully winding past it in
front. Haste and secresy could be purchased then as now, and Philip and
his bride were ferried across the frith, and landed at North Berwick,
hours ere their lengthened absence had been noted by the elder sister as
an unusual circumstance.
How fierce and violent a storm of passion then swelled within the
disappointed sister's breast--how from her heart she cursed them
bitterly, bridegroom and bride--how vowed an unmitigable hatred to them
both--how every soft and womanly feeling seemed utterly extinct--how in
their stead arose an intense, consuming thirst to be avenged--how, in
fact, her whole nature seemed changed, and how she moodily immured
herself within her Castle of Abercrombie, day after day, week after
week, brooding upon the scornful slight which had been put upon her
love, and upon the cunning, as she deemed it, of the sister who had
supplanted her--it were a charity to the infirmities of our common
nature to touch upon but lightly, and so pass on to after incidents.
Six months had scarcely run their course after the marriage, when the
war broke out between Stephen, the unpopular usurper of the English
throne, and his fair relative and competitor, Maude. Margaret's husband
was among the first to join the standard of King David, and to fling
himself within the ranks of those who opposed Stephen. Alas! he was
among the first also to fall a victim to that sanguinary strife, being
slain in a mere chance skirmish, into which his zeal and well-known
bravery had unhappily led him.
Poor Margaret might well be overwhelmed by such a fearful and
unlooked-for bereavement. Reason almost gave way; and during the time
that partial delirium deprived her of consciousness, her husband's
kinsmen mercifully consigned the gashed and ghastly corpse to its last
home, that the widow's eye might never look with agony upon the loved
and distorted features of her slaughtered soldier.
When the elder sister heard of this sudden sharp calamity, her heart
melted within her. In the presence of death, anger and hate, and
jealousy, and wounded love, and baffled hope, stood solemnly rebuked.
The cause of their disunion no longer found a place within their
memory; but a more unclouded past, childhood and girlhood, the
recollections of an era teeming with thoughts and images of love and
tenderness--of a time when they two nestled their soft cheeks upon the
same pillow, wove the same woof, shared the same rambles to Kellie-law
and Kilconquhar Loch, to Macduff's Cave and Balcarras Craig--cherished
the same dear rose-tree, wept and laughed, grew pale or crimson, sad or
merry, as the same feelings swayed the hearts of both--came thronging to
her mind; and as the past brought with it such gentle harmonising
influences, why should they not renew it in the future? They had been
too long widely and unwisely severed. Henceforth they would have, as
they had had of yore, but one home and one heart.
Borne down, indeed, still almost distraught with grief, the younger yet
could find a solace and a mitigation of her sorrow in her reunion with
her elder sister; and when the latter fell upon the widow's bosom, and
brokenly sobbed out her sorrow for the past, her grief for this last
heavy stroke, and spoke of hope for better days, when suffering should
be softened down by time, and submission soothe regret, her dark eyes
kindled through her tears, and a faint smile, like a ray of fleeting
sunshine gilding the blackness of the storm, played momentarily upon her
compressed and pallid lips.
So the old Castle of Abercrombie received them once again, linked
together by a closer tie--wiser and sadder both--the joyousness of youth
displaced by thoughts of a graver, if not gloomier, texture, as though a
few short months had done the work of years, and prematurely stamped the
feelings of a later epoch upon their youthful minds. Perhaps the
solitude in which they lived, disposing them to ponder on the after
destination of the soul, or perhaps the converse of a priestly adviser,
anxious to aggrandise the church (for there was only _one_ church then,
and for three hundred years after there was no other, namely, the Church
of Rome) of which he was a member; or perhaps that natural revulsion of
the mind from matters of momentary to matters of imperishable
importance, which results from worldly disappointment and domestic
calamities, influenced them in coming to the determination to which they
came; but whatever may have been the influences which operated on them,
this alone is certain--that the sisters mutually resolved to _found a
church_, and dedicate it to the service of the Almighty, in token of
their reconciliation; purposing likewise to endow it at their decease
with the personal wealth of which they were possessed.
At that time the whole surrounding country, or at least the muirland
portion of it, was little better than a leafy wilderness, intersected by
numerous bridle-ways, with here and there a broader track, offering a
passage for the slow and cumbrous carts and sledges of those rude days.
At scattered intervals large clearances had been made; and out of the
old primeval trees, and with the aid of turf taken from the soil, and
rushes gathered from the margin of the burns, rivulets, and lochs,
groups of cottages were framed, windowless and chimneyless--a miserable
shelter for the hardy cottars who tenanted them. A frank tenementer's
more commodious abode, a smithy, or perhaps a huckster's store, were the
only tenements that varied that otherwise uniform aspect of these
primitive clachans. Wherever the ground swelled into anything like a
reasonable eminence, the stronghold of a baron might be observed perched
on the summit, while the circumjacent hollow would exhibit its
irregularly-clustered hovels, overlooked by the more massive and
enduring residence of the rural magnate. Such churches, too, as then
existed, were mostly built upon a rising ground, and seemed to serve as
landmarks in that wild untravelled breadth of muir-moss and forest-land.
It may be readily conceived, therefore, that at such a time, and in such
a district, the rumour of the meditated erection in the first instance,
and afterwards the commencement, continued progress, and completion of
the sacred structure, were regarded as the gradual evolution of an event
peculiarly important.
It was an event, moreover, that was regarded with the utmost
satisfaction by the Romish Church, upon whose dignitaries, in due time,
devolved the task of formally consecrating the edifice to the sacred
object for which it was intended, and who purposed to lavish in the
ceremonial all those adventitious aids by which the Church of Rome
imparted a character of such imposing grandeur to every rite and
ceremonial to which she lent her countenance, or in which she bore a
part: and hence the consecration of this edifice, followed, or rather
accompanied, by a solemn presentation of the sisters at the altar, in
token of compunction for dissensions past, and thankfulness for love
restored, was marked by features of such rare magnificence, by such
impressive pomp, and such professional display, and witnessed by such a
multitude of wondering spectators, gathered from far and near, that both
the solemnity itself, and its strange issue, lived in the memories of
succeeding generations for centuries afterwards.
On that solemnity we need not tarry to comment; our legend has reference
to _its issue_ only. As the sisters knelt before the altar, thus by a
formal act to ratify their reconciliation in the sight of God and man,
and the venerable diocesan, Bishop Arnold of St Andrews, bent down to
give his benediction on them both, a flash of vivid lightning on a
sudden filled the sacred edifice with a ruddy light, and a rattling peal
of thunder rolled, as it were, along the very roof of the building.
There was a hush--a silence that was almost audible--a deep, dead calm
reigning for a space in every portion of the holy pile. Most of the
congregation lay prostrate on the pavement; the sisters knelt upon the
altar steps, with buried heads and clasped hands; the old prelate stood
alone erect, and folding his hands upon his breast, with eyes uplifted
and serene, at length emphatically said, "Thy will be done!" A thousand
voices as by one impulse, blending into chaos, made response, "Amen,
amen!"
And then the good old bishop, gently touching the kneeling sisters, bade
them rise; but neither speech nor motion answered him, for still they
knelt, with heads bowed low and fingers intertwined--with mute lips and
eyelids drooping heavily. Again and yet again he would have them raised
from their kneeling posture; but there was neither word nor sign; and
then awe fell upon the hearts of all present, for they knew that _death_
was there! The spirits of the sisters, forgiving and forgiven, had
passed away, and doubtless angels and redeemed spirits had heralded them
to the mansions of the blessed.
THE ROMANCE OF THE MAY.
The Isle of May, which lies at the mouth of the Forth, is about six
miles from Crail, and is about a mile in length, and three-quarters in
breadth. It has a well of excellent water, a small loch, and affords the
finest pasturage for sheep.[13] The island contained a religious house
and chapel dedicated to St Adrian, who was murdered by the Danes in 872,
and buried at Anstruther-Wester, where his stone coffin is yet to be
seen. The island belonged to the crown; King David afterwards presented
it to the abbot and convent of Reading in Berkshire; and from this and
many other valuable benefactions to the church, King James I., when he
visited his tomb, three hundred years after, called him "a sair saint to
the crown." From Prynne's records it appears that the abbot afterwards
unwarrantably sold the island to William Lamberton, Bishop of St
Andrews. It afterwards came into the possession of General Scott of
Balcombie, whose daughter, the Duchess of Portland, sold it to the
Commissioners of Northern Lights.
[Footnote 13: Two-year-old May wether mutton is said to be a feast
worthy of the gods, if they would admit anything more substantial than
ambrosia.]
Some remarkable events are connected with this island. The first we
shall advert to is the "Battle of the May."
Our readers have all doubtless heard or read of Sir Andrew Wood of
Largo, a famous Scottish admiral in the reign of James III. In the year
1490, King Henry, the English monarch, mortified at the defeat of some
of his ships by Admiral Wood the previous year, assembled his officers,
and offered rewards to any of them who should take the sea against Sir
Andrew, and bring him to him dead or alive. One Stephen Bull, a London
merchantman, who, like Sir Andrew Wood, combined the pursuits of warfare
and commerce, accepted the offer, and with three large ships set sail
for the Frith of Forth, in order to get between Admiral Wood and the
land on his return from Flanders, to which he had escorted a fleet of
merchantmen.
The English ships anchored under shelter of the Isle of May; and Bull,
having captured some sailors, compelled them to give him intelligence
about Sir Andrew's movements.
Early by daybreak, on a fine summer morning, the 10th of August, Sir
Andrew's two vessels, the one named "The Flower," and the other "The
Yellow Carvel," were observed to come in sight, on which the English
commander made preparations for engaging them, and distributed wine
amongst his men to raise their courage. With regard to the Scottish
admiral, Pitscottie the historian says, "On the other hand, Sir Andrew
Wood came pertly forward, knowing no impediment of enemies to be in his
gate, till at last he perceived their three ships under sail, and coming
fast to them in fier of war. Then Sir Andrew Wood, seeing this, exhorted
his men to battle, beseeching them to take courage against their enemies
of England, who had sworn and made their vows that they should make us
prisoners to the King of England, but, God willing, they shall fail of
their purpose. Therefore set yourselves in order, every man in his own
place. Let the gunners charge their artillery and the cors-bows make
them ready; with the lyme-pots and fire-balls in our tops, and
twe-handed swords in your fore-arms; and let every man be stout and
diligent for his own part and for the honour of Scotland, and thereto he
caused fill the wine, and every man drank to other."
The engagement that took place is described as being of the most
desperate character. The Scottish admiral contrived to get to windward
of the enemy. The fight lasted from sunrise to sunset, and was beheld by
an immense crowd of men, women, and children on the coast of Fife. At
last the two fleets were parted by the darkness, and drew off from each
other, till the daylight next morning again enabled them to see what
they were about.
The signal for a renewal of the engagement was then given by blowing of
trumpets on both sides, when the two hosts encountered each other again,
"and fought so cruely," says our historian, "that neither the skippers
or mariners took heed of their ships," but allowed them to drift away
with wind and tide till they reached as far as opposite the mouth of the
Tay, the crews all the while contending hand to hand. At last the
English admiral was compelled to yield, and to give up his sword to Sir
Andrew Wood; and his three ships were then towed up to Dundee, where the
wounded were landed, and placed under medical care. A few days after,
Sir Andrew, our brave countryman, presented the English admiral and his
officers to his majesty, James, King of Scotland, who, so far from
returning evil for evil, released and sent back Admiral Bull, his
officers and men, with their vessels, and with rich gifts as a present
to the English king. King Henry of England had thus, in addition to his
vexation at this signal defeat, the humiliation of being obliged to
acknowledge the generosity and princely bearing of the Scottish king,
whom he had insulted and injured without the slightest provocation.
The next occurrence which we shall record is the melancholy accident
which took place on the Island of May in January, 1791.