From Penrith we were whirled away over the rails to Edinburgh. Edinburgh
is certainly a wonder--a wonder of historic interest, a wonder of
curious old buildings, and a wonder of magnificent new ones. Here we
were in the very place that Walter Scott has made us long and long to
see, and were to visit the scenes that were sung in his matchless
minstrelsy, and painted in his graphic romances. Here was the city where
Knox, the Reformer, preached, and Mary, Queen of Scots, held her brief
and stormy reign. Here we were to see Holyrood, Edinburgh Castle, and a
hundred scenes identified with Scottish history, the very names of which
served to help the melodious flow of the rhythm of Scott's entrancing
poems. With what wondrous charms does the poet and novelist invest
historic scenes! How memory carried us back to the days when the Tales
of a Grandfather held us chained to their pages, as with a spell! How
the Waverley Novels' scenes came thronging into imagination's eye, like
the half-forgotten scenes of happy youth, when we read of the bold
Scottish champions, the fierce Highlanders, and the silken courtiers,
the knights, battles, spearmen, castles, hunts, feasts, and pageants, so
vividly described by the Wizard of the North!
Here we are at a hotel on Princes Street, right opposite the Scott
Monument, a graceful structure of Gothic arches and pinnacles, and
enshrining a figure of Sir Walter and his favorite dog. The view, seen
from Princes Street, reminds one very much of the pictures of Athens
Restored, with its beautiful public buildings of Grecian architecture.
Between Princes Street, which is in the new, and the old city is a deep
ravine or valley, as it were, now occupied by the tracks of the
railroad, and spanned by great stone-arched bridges. An immense
embankment, called the Mound, also connects the old and new city, its
slopes descending east and west into beautiful gardens towards the
road-bed. Upon the Mound are the Royal Institution, Gallery of Fine
Arts, the former a sort of Pantheon-looking building, and both with
plenty of space around them, so that they look as if placed there
expressly to be seen and admired.
Princes Street, which is one of the finest in Great Britain, runs east
and west. It is entirely open upon the south side, and separated only by
a railing from the lovely gardens that run down into the hollow I have
mentioned, between the old and new town. Looking across the hollow, we
see the old city, where the historic steeples of St. Giles and others
mingle among the lofty houses in the extended panoramic view, the
eastern end of which is completed by the almost impregnable old castle,
rich in historic interest, which lifts its battlements from its rocky
seat two hundred feet above the surrounding country, and is a grand and
picturesque object. The city, both old and new, appears to be built of
stone resembling our darkest granite. The old town is built upon a
ridge, gradually ascending towards the castle, and is a curious old
place, with its lofty eight and ten-story houses, its narrow lanes,
called "wynds," or "closes," and swarming population.
The "closes" are curious affairs, being sort of narrow enclosures,
running up in between lofty buildings, with only one place of ingress
and egress, that could, in old times, be closed by a portcullis, the
remains of some of them being still in existence, and were built as
defences against incursions of the Highlanders.
Here in the old town are many streets, the names of which will be
recognized by all familiar with Scott--the High Street, Grass Market,
Cow Gate, and Canon Gate. We went, one afternoon, and stood in the Grass
Market, amid a seething mass of humanity that fills it. Lofty old houses
rise high about on all sides, every one with a history, and some of them
two or three hundred years old--houses the windows of which were oft
packed with eager faces to see the criminal executions here. Some of
these houses, Scott says in his Heart of Mid-Lothian, were formerly the
property of the Knights Templars and Knights of St. John, and still
exhibit, on their points and gables, the cross of those orders in
iron--houses that looked down on the furious mob that hung Captain
Porteous upon the dyer's pole, over the very spot where we stood. Then,
walking down towards the other extremity, we entered the Canon Gate,
extending down the hill towards Holyrood Palace--Canon Gate, which was
the residence of the wealthy canons of the church when Holyrood was an
abbey, and after the Reformation the abode of the Scottish aristocracy.
At one end of the old city stands Holyrood, at the other the castle rock
rears its rugged height.
The new city is beautifully laid out in broad streets and squares, which
are adorned with imposing buildings, monuments, and bronze statues of
celebrated men; but I am not to give a guide-book description of
Edinburgh, although there is so much that interests in its streets and
buildings that one is almost tempted to do so.
The very first visit one desires to make is to the lofty old castle that
overlooks the city. It is situated on an elevated basaltic rock, and is
separated from the town by an esplanade about three hundred feet wide,
and three hundred and fifty long. The castle is said to have been
founded in the year 617, and contains many curious relics of antiquity,
and is fraught with historic interest, having been the scene of so many
crimes, romantic adventures, captivities, and sieges, within the past
three or four hundred years--scenes that have been the most vivid in the
pages of history, and formed an almost inexhaustible theme for the most
graphic pictures of the novelist.
Among the most notable captures will be recollected that of the Earl of
Randolph, nephew to Robert Bruce. And also, when in the possession of
the English King Edward I., thirty brave fellows, guided by a young man
called William Frank, who had often climbed up and down the Castle Rock
to visit his sweetheart, ventured one night, in their heavy iron armor,
with their swords and axes, to scale the most precipitous side
overhanging the West Princes Street Gardens, and, succeeding, quickly
overcame the garrison. In 1341, when the castle was again held by the
English, Sir William Douglas and Sir Simon Fraser took it by stratagem
and surprise in broad daylight, having sent in a cart loaded with wine,
which was dexterously overturned in the gateway, so that the gate could
not be closed when the Scottish soldiers rushed forward to the attack.
The broad esplanade before the castle affords a fine view, and is used
as a place for drilling the troops, the castle having accommodations for
two thousand men. We passed across this, and by the statue of the Duke
of York, son of George III., and uncle of Queen Victoria, and the
monumental cross, erected in memory of the officers of the Highland
regiment who fell in the years 1857 and 1858, in the Indian Rebellion
War. On over the moat and drawbridge, and through the old portcullis
gate, over which was the old prison in which the Earl of Argyle, and
numerous adherents of the Stuarts, were confined previous to their
execution, and after passing beneath this, were fairly within the
castle. One point of interest was the old sally-port, up which Dundee
climbed to have a conference with the Duke of Gordon, when on his way to
raise the Highland clans in favor of King James II., while the
convention were assembled in the Parliament House, and were proceeding
to settle the crown upon William and Mary.
Dundee, accompanied by only thirty picked men, rode swiftly along a
street in the old city, nearly parallel to the present line of Princes
Street, while the drums in the town were beating to arms to pursue him;
and leaving his men in a by-place, clambered up the steep rock at this
point, and urged the duke to accompany him, but without effect. Scott's
song of "Bonnie Dundee" tells us,--
"Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
The bells they ring backward, the drums they are beat;
But the provost, deuce man! said, 'Just e'en let him be,
For the town is well rid of that de'il o' Dundee.'"
Dundee rode off towards Stirling, with the threat that,--
"If there's lords in the Southland, there's chiefs in the North;
There are wild dunnie vassals, three thousand times three,
Will cry, 'Hey for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!'"
From what is known as the Bomb Battery an excellent view of Edinburgh is
obtained. Here is a curious piece of early artillery, of huge size,
designated Mons Meg, made at Mons in Brittany, in 1476, of thick iron
bars hooped together, and twenty inches diameter at the bore. Near this
is the Chapel of Queen Margaret, a little Norman building eight hundred
years old, used by Margaret, Queen of Malcolm III., daughter of Edward
the Outlaw, and granddaughter of Edmund Ironside, who, it will be
remembered, disputed the crown of England for so many years with Canute.
One of the most interesting, as well as one of the oldest rooms, was a
little irregular-shaped apartment, known as Queen Mary's Room, being the
room in which James VI. was born, in 1566. The original ceiling remains,
with the initials J. R. and M. R., surmounted by a crown, and wrought
into the panels. From the window of this little room, it is said, the
infant king was let down to the street, two hundred and fifty feet
below, by means of a rope and basket, and carried off secretly to
Stirling Castle, to be baptized in the Roman Catholic faith. When James
made his first visit to Scotland, in 1617, after his accession to the
English throne, he caused the royal arms to be elaborately painted on
the wall, and underneath his mother's prayer, which still remains in
quaint old English letters, somewhat difficult to decipher:--
"Lord Jesu Chryst that crownit was with Thornse
Preserve the birth quhais Badyie heir is borne.
And send hir Sonne successive to reigne stille
Lang in this Realme, if that it be Thy will.
Als grant O Lord quhat ever of Hir proseed
Be to Thy Glorie, Honer and Prais sobied."
The view from the windows, here at the east and south sides of the old
castle, is varied and romantic. The curious old houses in the Grass
Market, far down below; the quaint, blackened old streets of the old
city; the magnificent towers of Herriot's Hospital against the blue sky;
and stretching beyond the city, the fine landscape, with the familiar
Borough moor, where the Scottish hosts were wont to muster by clans and
chieftains,--form a scene of picturesque beauty not soon forgotten.
The armory of the castle contains many interesting weapons of ancient
warfare. Among the most notable was a coat of mail worn by one of the
Douglases in Cromwell's time; Rob Roy's dagger; some beautiful steel
pistols, used by some of the Highland followers of Prince Charles Stuart
at the battle of Culloden; and cuirasses worn by the French cuirassiers
at Waterloo. The crown room contains the regalia of Scotland, and the
celebrated crown of Robert Bruce. The regalia of Scotland consist of a
crown, sceptre, and sword of state, the latter a most beautiful piece of
workmanship, the scabbard elegantly ornamented with chased and wrought
work, representing oak leaves and acorns, and which was a present from
Pope Julius II. to James IV. Particular interest attaches to these
regalia, from the fact of their discovery through Scott's exertions, in
1818, after a disappearance of about one hundred and eleven years. The
crown is the diadem that pressed the valiant brow of Robert the Bruce,
and the devoted head of Mary, and was placed upon the infant brow of her
son. Charles II. was the last monarch who wore this regal emblem, which
is connected with so many stirring events in Scottish history.
From Edinburgh Castle, a gradually descending walk, through some of the
most interesting portions of the old city, will take the visitor to
Holyrood Palace and Abbey,--quite a distance, but which should be walked
rather than rode, if the tourist is a pedestrian of moderate powers, as
it is thronged with so many points of historic interest, to which I can
only make a passing allusion. The High Street, as it is called, is one
of the principal through which we pass, and in old times was considered
very fine; but its glory departed with the building of the new portion
of the city, and the curious old "closes," in the streets diverging from
it, are the habitations of the lowest class of the population.
Bow Street, which, if I remember rightly, runs into Grass Market from
High Street, was formerly known as West Bow, from an arch or bow in the
city wall. We passed down this quaint old street, which used to be the
principal avenue by which carriages reached the upper part of the city.
It was a curve of lofty houses, filthy kennels, and noisy children,
spirit-shops, groceries, and garbage; yet up this street had ridden, in
old times, Anne of Denmark, James I., Charles I., Oliver Cromwell,
Charles II., and James II. It was down this street that the Earl of
Argyle and Marquis of Montrose were dragged, in the hangman's cart, to
execution in the Grass Market, which is situated at its foot, and to
which I have previously alluded. Porteous was also dragged down through
this street to execution, by the rioters who took him from his jailers.
In the old city we visited a court called Dunbar's Close, where, after
the victory of Dunbar, some of Cromwell's soldiers were quartered. Here
remains a carved inscription, said to bear the oldest date in the city.
It reads as follows:
=Y faith in Christ.
Onlie Savit, MDCLII.=
St. Giles Church, in High Street, is a notable building, and was, in
popish times, the cathedral of the city, named after St. Giles,
Edinburgh's patron saint. I will not tire the reader with a visit to its
interior; but it was here that took place that incident, which every
school-boy recollects, of Jenny Geddes throwing her stool at the head of
the officiating clergyman, upon his attempt to read the liturgy as
prescribed by Archbishop Laud, and which it was proposed to introduce
into Scotland.
The "Solemn League and Covenant" was sworn to and signed in this church,
in 1643. Just within the railings surrounding the old church stands the
shaft of the old cross of Edinburgh; and the site of the Tollbooth,
which figures in Scott's novels, is marked, near by, by the figure of a
heart in the pavement--"The Heart of Mid-Lothian." Numerous other points
of historic interest might be enumerated, did space permit. We must, as
we pass rapidly on, not forget to take a view of the quaint old
rookery-looking mansion of John Knox, the Reformer, with a steep flight
of steps, leading up to a door high above the sidewalk, and the
inscription upon it, which I could not read, but which I was informed
was
=Lufe God above all, and
Your Neighbour as Yourself=,
and the massive-looking old Canon Gate Tollbooth, erected in the reign
of James VI. On we go through the Canon Gate, till we emerge in the open
space in front of that ancient dwelling-place of Scottish royalty,
Holyrood Palace.
Holyrood Palace is interesting from the numerous important events in
Scottish history that have transpired within its walls. It is a great
quadrangular building, with a court-yard ninety-four feet square. Its
front is flanked with double castellated towers, the tops peaked, and
looking something like the lid of an old-fashioned coffee-pot, or an
inverted tin tunnel, with the pipe cut off. The embellishments in front
of the entrance to the palace and the beautiful fountain were completed
under the direction, and at the expense, of the late Prince Albert. The
palace is said to have been founded by James IV., quite early in the
year 1500, and it was his chief residence up to the time of his death,
at Flodden, in 1513. Some of the events that give it its historic
celebrity are those that transpired during the life of Mary, Queen of
Scots, who made it her ordinary residence after her return to her native
country, in 1561. It was here that Mary was married to Darnley, and we
were shown the piece of stone flagging upon which they knelt during the
ceremony, and which we profaned with our own knees, with true tourist
fervor; here that Rizzio, or, as they spell it in Scotland, Riccio, was
murdered in her very presence; here that she married Bothwell, endured
those fiery discussions with the Scotch Reformers, and wept at the rude
and coarse upbraidings of John Knox; here that James VI. brought his
queen, Anne of Denmark, in 1590, and had her crowned in the chapel;
here, also, was Charles I. crowned, and here, after the battle of
Dunbar, in 1650, did Cromwell quarter a part of his forces.
In modern times, George IV. visited the palace in 1822, granting, after
his departure, over twenty thousand pounds for repairs and improvements;
and in 1850, Queen Victoria, Prince Albert, and the royal children made
a visit there, and since that time she stops annually on her way to and
from her Highland residence at the Castle of Balmoral, for a brief
period here at old Holyrood.
To those familiar at all, from reading history or the romances and
poems, with those events in which this old pile occupies a prominent
position, it of course possesses a great interest.
In the broad, open space before the palace, the elaborate fountain, with
its floriated pinnacles, figures, &c., will attract attention, although
it ill accords with the old buildings. The most interesting apartments
in the palace are those of Mary, Queen of Scots.
Passing in at the entrance gate, and buying tickets at a little office
very much like a theatrical ticket office, we visited the more ancient
part of the palace, and entered first Lord Darnley's rooms. These were
hung with fine specimens of ancient tapestry, upon which Cupids are
represented plucking fruit, and throwing it down to others; oak trees
and leaves, Cupids plucking grapes, &c. Another scene was a lake and
castle, with fruit trees and Cupids; also figures of nude youngsters,
turning somersaults and performing different antics. Another room
contains two pieces of tapestry, telling the story of the flaming cross
that appeared to Constantine the Great, the motto, _In hoc signo
vinces_, embroidered on the corner of the hangings; Darnley's elegant
armor, &c. Other fine pieces of tapestry are in Darnley's bed-room and
dressing-room. Portraits of Scottish kings also adorn the walls.
We were then shown Queen Mary's private staircase, that by which Darnley
admitted the conspirators up from a little turret room to assassinate
Rizzio. Mary's audience chamber is a room about twenty feet square, the
ceiling divided into panelled compartments, adorned with initials and
armorial bearings, and the walls hung with tapestry, upon which were
wrought various scenes, now sadly faded by the withering breath of time.
These tapestry hangings the curious traveller soon becomes accustomed
to, and the more, I think, one sees of them, the more he admires
them--the scenes of ancient mythology or allegorical design so
beautifully wrought as to rival even oil paintings in beauty of color
and design, and exciting a wonder at the skill and labor that were
expended in producing with many colored threads these wondrous loom
mosaics. In the audience chamber stands the bed of Charles I., and upon
this couch Prince Charles, the unfortunate descendant of the former
occupant, slept in September, 1745, and the Duke of Cumberland, his
conqueror, rested upon the same couch. Cumberland, yes, we recollect
him; he figured in Lochiel's Warning, Campbell's beautiful poem--
"Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain."
Some rich old chairs of the same period, and other furniture, are also
in this room, which was the scene of Mary's altercation with Knox.
Looking upon the antique bed, one can see how, despite care, the hand of
time leaves its indelible impress upon all that is of man's creation.
You can scarcely imagine how time affects an old state bed. No matter
what be the care or exclusion from sunlight, the breath of time leaves
its mark; the canopy and hangings gradually fade and deaden, the very
life seems to be extracted, and they look like an old piece of husk or
dried toast, light, porous, and moulding; the wood-work, however, grows
dark, and apparently as solid as iron; the quaint carving stands out in
jetty polish, rich and luxuriant--a study and a wonder of curious and
fantastic art and sculpture in wood.
Queen Mary's room is hung with a beautiful piece of tapestry,
representing the fall of Phaeton; half hidden by this tapestry is the
door opening upon the secret stair by which Rizzio's murderers entered;
upon the wall hang portraits of Mary at the age of eighteen, portraits
of Queen Elizabeth and King Henry VIII., presented her by Elizabeth;
here also was furniture used by the queen, and the baby linen basket
sent her by Elizabeth.
From here we enter that oft-described apartment so celebrated in
Scottish history--the queen's supper room, where Rizzio was murdered.
Its small size generally excites astonishment. Here, into this little
room, which half a dozen persons would fill, rushed the armed
conspirators, overturning the table and dragging their shrieking victim
from the very feet of the queen, as he clung to her dress for
protection, stabbing him as they went beneath her very eyes, forcing him
out into the audience chamber, and left him with over fifty ghastly
wounds, from which his life ebbed in a crimson torrent, leaving its
ineffaceable stain, the indelible mark upon the oaken floor, not more
indelible than the blackened stain which rests upon the names of the
perpetrators of this brutal murder.
Adown the little staircase which the conspirators passed, we go through
a low door into the court-yard. Over the top of this little door, a few
years ago, in a crevice of the masonry, an antique dagger-blade was
discovered by some workmen; and as the murderers escaped through this
door, it was surmised that this was one of the very daggers used in the
assassination.
But we leave the place behind, and enter the romantic ruins of the old
abbey. How interesting are these picturesque ruined remains of the
former glory and power of the church of Rome in England! Their
magnificent proportions, beauty of architecture, and exquisite
decoration bespeak the wealth of the church and the wondrous taste of
those who reared these piles, which, in their very ruin, command our
admiration. The abbey is immediately adjoining the palace,--its front a
beautiful style of early English architecture, and the noble,
high-arched door, with cluster pillars, elaborately sculptured with
fret-work figures of angels, flowers, vines, &c.,--one of those
specimens of stone carving that excite wonder at the amount of patient
work, labor, and skill that must have been required in their production.
The abbey was founded in 1128, and the fragment which remains formed the
nave of the ancient building. Here are the graves of David II., James
II., Darnley, and that of the ill-starred Rizzio, and other eminent
personages, some of whom, judging from the ornaments upon the marble
slabs of their graves, were good Freemasons and Knights Templars,--the
perfect ashler, setting maul, and square upon the former, and the
rude-cut figures of reclining knights, with crossed feet and upraised
hands, upon others, indicating the fact.
But the gairish sun shines boldly down into the very centre of what was
once the dim-lighted, solemn old abbey, with its cool, quiet cloisters,
that scarce echoed to the monk's sandalled footstep, and the
gracefully-pointed arches, supported by clusters of stone pillars, throw
their quaint shadows on the greensward, now, where was once the chapel's
stone pavement; the great arched window through which the light once
fell in shattered rainbows to the floor, stands now, slender and
weird-like, with its tracery against the heaven, like a skeleton of the
past; and the half-obliterated or undecipherable vain-glorious
inscriptions upon the slabs, here and there, are all that remain of this
monument of man's power and pride--a monument beautiful in its very
ruins, and romantic from the halo of associations of the dim past that
surround it.
The new city, to which I have referred, is a creation of the last
hundred years, the plans of it being published in 1768. The two great
streets are George Street and Princes Street, the former filled with
fine stores, and adorned with statues of William Pitt, George IV., and
many public buildings and beautiful squares.
Here, in Edinburgh, we began to hear the "burr" of the Scotch tongue.
Many of the salesmen in the stores where tourists go to buy Scotch linen
or Scotch pebble jewelry, the Scotch plaids which were temptingly
displayed, or the warm under-clothing which New Englanders appreciate,
seemed to have their tongues roughened, as it were, to a sort of
pleasant whir-r in speaking the English language.
Up from one end of Princes Street rises Calton Hill, with its unfinished
national monument, designed to represent the classical Parthenon at
Athens; and in one respect it does, being a sort of ruin, or, I may say,
a fragment of ruin, consisting of a dozen splendid Doric columns,--for
the monument which was to commemorate the Scotchmen who fell at Waterloo
was never finished. Here also is a round monument to Nelson, and a dome,
supported by pillars, a monument to Professor Dugald Stewart; while a
monument to Burns is seen upon the Regent's Road, close at hand. The
view of the long vista of Princes Street from Calton Hill, in which the
eye can take in at one sweep the Scott monument, the splendid
classical-looking structures of the Royal Institution and National
Gallery, the great castle on its rocky perch, and then turning about on
the other side and viewing the square, solid old palace of Holyrood,
with the fragment of ruined abbey attached, and rising high above them
the eminence known as Arthur's Seat, and the winding cliffs of Salisbury
Crags, forms a panoramic scene of rare beauty and interest.
Speaking of interest, I cannot leave Edinburgh without referring to the
interesting collection of curious relics at the Antiquarian Museum.
Think of standing in John Knox's pulpit, and thumping, with your
curious, wonder-seeking hand, the same desk that had held his Bible, or
been smitten by his indignant palm, as he denounced the church of Rome,
nearly three hundred years ago; of looking upon the very stool that
Jenny Geddes launched at the head of the Dean of St. Giles, when he
undertook to introduce the liturgy into Scotland, in 1565; and seeing
one of the very banners of the Covenanters that had been borne amid the
smoke and fire of their battles; nay, there, in a glass case, we saw the
old Scotch Covenant itself, with the signatures of Montrose, Lothian,
and their associates. Here also were Gustavus Adolphus's spurs, Robert
Burns's pistols, the very glass that Prince Charlie drank from before
the disastrous battle of Culloden; the original draft of inquiry into
the massacre of Glencoe, dated 1656, original autographic letters from
Charles VI., Prince Charles Edward Stuart, Cromwell, and Mary, Queen of
Scots. This was reading Scottish history from the original documents.
Here was the flag of Scotland that flouted the breeze at the battle of
Dunbar, in 1650, the pikes of Charles II.'s pikemen, and the old
Scottish six-ell spears; nails from the coffin and a portion of the very
shroud of Robert Bruce, the blue ribbon of Prince Charlie, worn as
Knight of the Garter, in 1745, and the very ring given to him by Flora
Macdonald at parting. Among the horrors of the collection is "the
Maiden," a rude guillotine of two upright posts, between which a loaded
axe blade was hoisted by a cord, and let fall upon the devoted neck
beneath. By this very instrument fell the Regent Morton, in 1581, Sir
John Gordon, in 1644, the Earl of Argyle, in 1685, and many others--a
bloody catalogue.
The collection of ancient implements, coins, seals, medallions, weapons,
&c., was interesting as well as valuable and extensive, comprising many
that have been exhumed from ancient ruins, and antique relics, more or
less connected with the history of the country. The Free National
Gallery contains a noble collection of elegant pictures by eminent
artists of old and modern times, and a fine statue of Burns.
The ride up Salisbury Crags to the eminence known as Arthur's Seat,
which rises behind Holyrood eight hundred feet high, is one of the great
attractions to the tourist; the drive to it by the fine carriage road,
known as "Queen's Drive," is delightful, and the view of the city and
surrounding country from the elevated road very picturesque. There is a
romantic little path here, on Salisbury Crags, running by the ruins of
St. Anthony's Chapel, that Walter Scott used to walk when working out
the plot of some of his novels, and the now broad road was then but a
winding path up the crags; the chapel, it will be remembered, figures in
the Heart of Mid-Lothian.
The elegant monument, nearly in front of the Royal Hotel, in the Princes
Street Gardens, erected in memory of Walter Scott, and known as the
Scott Monument, is familiar to most American readers, from engravings.
It is a splendid Gothic tower, and said to be "a recollection of the
architectural beauties of Melrose Abbey."
I cannot help reflecting here, in the native land of Scott, what the
present generation owes to him for preserving the history, traditions,
and romance of their country to undying fame; for investing them with
new interest to the whole civilized world; for strengthening Scottish
national traits, inculcating new pride to preserve the relics of their
bravery and noble deeds among all classes, high and low.
Thousands and thousands of the Scotch people are to-day indebted to the
labors of this indefatigable, industrious, and wonderful man for their
daily bread. I have been through enormous publishing houses here, or, I
might more appropriately style them, vast book factories, where editions
of his works, in every conceivable style, are issued. Year after year
the never-tiring press throws off the same sheets, and yet the public
are unsatisfied, and call for more; new readers step yearly into the
ranks vacated by those who went before them; and the rattle of the press
readily beats to quarters, each season, a fresh army of recruits.
The poems, couplets, pictures, carved relics, guide-books, museums,
ruins, &c., which his magic pen has made profitable property, are
something marvellous. Fashions of brooches, jewelry, plaids, dress, and
ornaments to-day owe their popularity to his pen, and what would be
forgotten ruins, nameless huts, or uninviting wastes, it has made the
Meccas of travellers from all nations.
As an illustration of the latter fact, I met a man upon the battlements
of Edinburgh Castle, from Cape Town, Africa, whose parents were Scotch,
but who for years had been an exile, who in far distant countries had
read Scott's Waverley novels and Scott's poems till the one wish of his
heart was to see old Scotland and those scenes with which the Wizard of
the North had inflamed his imagination, and who now, at fifty years of
age, looked upon his native land the first time since, when a boy of
eight years, he
"ran about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine."
He was now realizing the enjoyment he had so many years longed
for,--looking upon the scenes he had heard his father tell and his
mother sing of, enjoying the reward of many years of patient toil, made
lighter by the anticipation of visiting the home of his fathers; and I
was gratified to find that, unlike the experiences of many who are so
long in exile, the realization of his hopes was "all his fancy painted"
it, and he enjoyed all with a keen relish and enthusiastic fervor.
It is a pleasant seven mile ride from Edinburgh out to Rosslyn Castle,
and the way to go is to take Hawthornden, as most tourists do, _en
route_. This place--a delightful, romantic old ivy-covered mansion--is
perched upon a high precipice, eighty or one hundred feet above the
River Esk ("where ford there was none"), in a most delightfully romantic
position, commanding a view of the little stream in its devious windings
in the deep, irregular gully below; the gardens and walks, for a mile
about and above the river, are charmingly rural and tastefully arranged.
One can well imagine that Drummond, the Scottish poet and historian, the
friend of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Drayton, drew inspiration from
this charming retreat. Jonson is said to have walked all the way from
London to make a visit here.
Under the mansion we visited a series of curious caves, hollowed from
the solid rock, and connected with each other by dark and narrow
passages, very much like those subterranean passages told of in
old-fashioned novels, as existing beneath old castles. One of these
rocky chambers had a little window cut through its side, half concealed
by ivy, but commanding a view of the whole glen. Here, the guide told
us, Robert Bruce hid for a long time from his enemies; and I was
prepared to hear that this was the scene of the celebrated spider
anecdote of the story-books. We got no such information, but were shown
a long, two-handed sword, however, said to have belonged to the Scottish
king, which I took pleasure in giving a brandish above my head, to the
infinite disgust of the guide, who informed me, after I had laid down
this formidable weapon, that visitors were not allowed to handle it.
It may be as well to state that the authenticity of this sword, and also
the correctness of the story that Bruce ever hid there, are questioned.
One of the chambers has regular shelves, like book-shelves, cut in the
rock, and this is styled Bruce's Library. Passing out into the grounds
of the house, we descended, by a pretty rustic pathway, to the valley,
and along by the side of the Esk River, which babbled over its rocky bed
at our feet. If this Esk is the same one that Young Lochinvar swam, he
did not accomplish anything to boast of; for during a walk of over two
miles at its side, I saw no part over twenty feet wide, and no very
dangerous depth or current.
Our romantic walk brought us to the ruins of Rosslyn Castle, but little
of which remains, except a triple tier of vaults and some masses of
masonry, its position being on a sort of peninsular rock, overhanging
the picturesque glen of the Esk we had just traversed; and the massive
stone bridge which spans the ravine forms the only connection between
the opposite bank and the castle.
Rosslyn Chapel, or Roslin,--for they spell it both ways here,--was
founded by William, the third earl of Orkney, in 1446, who had conferred
on him by James II. the office of Grand Master of the Scottish
Freemasons, which continued hereditary in the family of his descendants
till 1736, when it was resigned into the hands of the Scottish Lodges.
The chapel is one of the most elaborately decorated specimens of
architecture in the kingdom, and, besides its celebrity in history, and
the interest that Scott has invested it with, is a building of peculiar
interest to members of the fraternity of Freemasons. It is impossible to
designate the architecture by any familiar term; it is distinguished,
however, by its pointed Gothic arches and a profusion of ornament, the
interior being a wonder of decoration in stone carving, particularly the
pillars, which are pointed out to the visitor as its chief wonders, and
some of which bear the mark master mason's "mark."
The interior of the chapel is divided into a centre and two side aisles,
and the two rows of clustered pillars which support the roof are only
eight feet in height. The capitals of these pillars are decorated with
the most beautifully chiselled foliage, running vines, and ornaments,
and on the friezes masonic brethren are represented feeding the hungry,
clothing the naked, visiting the sick, &c.; there are also a number of
allegorical figures, representing the seven deadly sins.
But the marvel of the whole is the Apprentices' Pillar, which, according
to the familiar legend, was left unfinished by the master mason, while
he went to Rome to study designs to enable him to perfect it in a
suitable manner. During his absence, an "entered apprentice," fired with
ambition, completed it after designs of his own, which so enraged the
master on his return, that, in a fit of rage, he killed him with a blow
on the head with a setting-maul. The pillar is a clustered column,
surrounded by an exquisitely-wrought wreath of flowers, running from
base to capital, the very poetry of carving. Above this pillar is the
following inscription:--
=Forte est vinum, fortior est rex, fortiores sunt mulieres;
super omnia vincit veritas.=
Which is, "Wine is strong, the king is stronger, women are strongest;
above all things, truth conquers."
We stood upon the ponderous slab that was the door to the vault beneath,
in which slumber the barons of Roslin, all of whom, till the time of
James VI., were buried uncoffined, but in complete armor--helm,
corselet, and gauntlets. Scott's familiar lines came to mind,--
"Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
Each baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply."
It seems, however, that some of the descendants of the "barons" had a
more modern covering than their "iron panoply;" for, about two years
ago, upon the death of an old earl, it was decided to bury him in this
vault; and it was accordingly opened, when two huge coffins were found
at the very entrance, completely blocking it up, and which would have
broken in pieces in the attempt to move them. The present earl,
therefore, ordered the workmen to close the old vault, and his father's
remains were interred in a new one in the chancel, built about eighty
years ago, where the inscription above his remains tells us that "James
Alexander, third Earl, died 16th June, 1866."
Bidding adieu to this exquisite little building, we will take a glance
at another, or rather the ruins of another, that owes much of its fame
also to the interest with which Walter Scott has invested it--one which
he loved to visit, and much of whose beautiful architectural
ornamentation he caused to be copied into his own Abbotsford. I refer to
Melrose Abbey; and, as no tourist ever thinks of leaving Scotland
without seeing it, a sketch of our visit may possibly be but a new
version of an oft-told story; but now that I have seen it, I am never
tired of thinking and reading of its wondrous beauty.
Melrose is thirty-five miles from Edinburgh by rail; and on arrival at
the station, we were at once pounced upon by a number of drivers of
vehicles in waiting, who were desirous of securing us, or of having us
secure them, for a drive to Melrose Abbey, Abbotsford, or Dryburg Abbey,
and if we had not been cautioned, we should have been warned by a card
which was thrust into my hand, and which I give for the benefit of other
tourists who may go that way, informing them that the "Abbey Hotel,"
herein mentioned, is less than five minutes' walk from the little
railroad station.
"THE ABBEY HOTEL, ABBEY GATE, MELROSE.
"This hotel is situated upon the abbey grounds, and at the
entrance to the 'far-famed ruins.' Parties coming to the hotel,
therefore, are cautioned against being imposed upon by
cab-drivers at the railroad station and elsewhere, as this is
the only house which commands the views of Melrose Abbey.
"An extensive addition having been lately built to this
establishment, consisting of suites of sitting and bed-rooms,
it is now the largest and most handsome hotel in Melrose.
"One-horse carriage to Abbotsford and back 6s. 6d.
" " to Dryburg and back 7s. 6d.
"These charges include everything."
Upon the reverse we were treated to a pictorial representation of this
"most handsome hotel," an unpretending, two-story mansion, which, we
were informed, was kept by Archibald Hamilton, who also kept various
"horses, gigs, and phaetons for hire; wines and foreign and British
spirits for sale." A rush of twenty visitors would have overrun the
"establishment," to which "an extensive addition" had been made. The
Abbey Hotel was a comfortable English inn, and we found, on arriving at
it, that it almost joined on to the very abbey itself; while another
little building, the dwelling of the widow and two daughters who showed
the ruins, as we found, for a consideration, was close by--too close, it
seemed to us, to this glorious old structure, which, even in its ruins,
is an object of universal admiration, its magnificence and gracefulness
entitling it to be ranked as one of the most perfect works of the best
age of this description of ecclesiastical architecture.
Melrose was built in 1146, destroyed by the English in 1322, and rebuilt
with two thousand pounds sterling, given by Robert Bruce, in 1326--a sum
of money equal to about fifty thousand pounds at the present time. So
much for its history. But let us pay the sexton's pretty daughter her
shilling, for here she is with the key that unlocks the modern
iron-railing gate that excludes strangers who do not pay for the
privilege; and following her a few steps, we are in the midst of the
grand and glorious ruins of the old abbey that we are familiar with in
song and story, and from the many counterfeit presentments that we have,
time and again, gazed upon in luxurious illustrated books, or upon the
walls of art galleries at home.
"The darkened roof rose high aloof,
On pillars lofty, light, and small;
The key-stone that locked each ribbed aisle
Was a fleur-de-lis, or a quatre-feuille.
The corbels were carved grotesque and grim,
And the pillars with clustered shafts so trim,
With base and with capital flourished around,
Seemed bundles of lances which garlands had bound."
As we came into the midst of this glorious old structure, we actually
stood silent for some time, so filled were we with admiration at its
wondrous beauty. To be sure, the blue arch of the heavens is now its
only roof, and from the shattered walls rooks or jackdaws fly noisily
overhead; but, then, the majestic sweep of the great Gothic arches, that
vista of beauty, a great Gothic aisle still standing, fifty feet long,
and sixty feet from floor to key-stone, the superb columns, and the
innumerable elegant carvings on every side, the graves of monarch,
knight, and wizard, marked with their quaint, antique inscriptions at
your feet, and
"The cloister galleries small,
Which at mid height thread the chancel wall,"
all form a scene of most charming and beautiful effects.
And we stood there, with the blue sky looking in through the shattered
arches, the noisy rooks flying hither and thither on their morning
calls, the turf, soft, green, and springy, sprinkled here and there with
wild flowers, in the centre of the ruin, while festoons of ivy waved in
the breeze, like tapestry hung about the shattered windows and crumbling
columns.
Here was the place, and the day was one of those quiet, dreamy spring
days, on which tourists could sit
"Them down on a marble stone,"
and read bold Deloraine's visit to the wizard's grave, as described by
Scott in the Lay of the Last Minstrel. And here is his grave, an
unpoetical-looking place enough now, and perhaps less wonderful since
Branksome's knight wrenched it open, and took away the magic volume from
Michael Scott's dead clasp. Here is the spot where Robert Bruce's heart
was buried; here the grave of the Earl of Douglas, "the dark Knight of
Liddesdale," and of Douglass, the hero of Chevy Chase; while quaint and
Latin inscriptions on the walls and the time-worn slabs record the
resting-place of once proud, but now extinct families and forgotten
heroes, all now one common dust.
We must not forget the great windows of the abbey, more especially the
EAST WINDOW. I write it in large letters, for it is an architectural
poem, and it will live in my memory as a joy forever, it is such a thing
of beauty. The lightness of its proportions and beauty of its tracery at
once impress the beholder; and all around the sides and above it are
quaint and wonderfully-executed sculptures in the stone-work--statues,
chain and crown; figures on carved pedestals, beneath canopies of
wrought stone, while wreaths and sculptured flowers are artistically
wrought in various directions.
The exterior of the abbey presents remarkable symmetry, and a profusion
of embellishment in sculptured stone-work, and is built in the usual
form of such structures--a Latin cross. The nave, in its present ruined
condition, is two hundred and fifty-eight feet long, by seventy-nine in
breadth. The transept is one hundred and thirty feet long, and
forty-four in breadth, which will give some idea of the size of these
splendid old edifices of the Romish church. The ornamental carving, with
which the whole edifice is so profusely decorated, would afford study
for a month, and consists, besides delicately-chiselled flowers and
plants, of grotesque and curious figures of monks, saints, nuns, demons,
&c.
Among other sculptures is that of a man seated cross-legged, upholding a
pedestal on his shoulders, his features expressing pain at the heavy
weight; a group of musicians playing on various instruments and
performing different antics; a man with his head in his hand; monks with
rosaries, cooks with knife and ladle, grinning heads, and women with
faces veiled and busts displayed; effigies of the apostles, rosettes,
ribbed work, bouquets of flowers, scallop shells, oak leaves, acorns,
lilies and plants; in fact, the faithfulness with which well-known
plants have been represented by the sculptor has long been the subject
of comment of the historian and antiquarian; and "in this abbey," says
an historian, "there are the finest lessons and the greatest variety of
Gothic ornaments that the island affords, take all the religious
structures together."
What must it have been when nave, and transept, and aisle were perfect,
when the great windows were perfect glories of colored glass, the
carvings fresh from the sculptor's chisel, and the chant of a hundred
monks floated through the lofty arches! In those times when these holy
men gave their hearts and hands to the extending and embellishing of
those temples erected to the great Architect of the Universe, by that
wonderful order of men, the Freemasons, and did it with an enthusiasm
and taste which proved that they deemed a love of the beautiful not
incompatible with the love of religion! It was then that religious
fervor expressed itself in grand creations, and all the arts of the age
were controlled and made to contribute to the one great art of the age,
Architecture, as evinced in these wondrous works of their hands that
they have left behind--models of artistic skill and beauty unexcelled as
yet by those who have come after them.
Melrose Abbey is a place that I would have enjoyed spending a week at
instead of a single day, which was all too short for proper study and
examination of the curious specimens of the sculptors' and builders'
arts one encounters in every part of the ruins; but we must up and away.
A carriage to Abbotsford and back was chartered, and we were soon
rattling over the pleasant road on our way to the home of Sir Walter
Scott, about three miles distant. It is in some respects a curious
structure, half country-seat, half castle, "a romance of stone and
lime," as its owner used to call it. We did not catch sight of its
castellated turrets, till, driving down a slight declivity from the main
road, we were at the very gates; entering these, a beautiful walk of a
hundred and fifty feet, along one aisle of the court-yard, and
commanding a fine view of a portion of the grounds, the garden front,
led us to the house itself.
At different points about the grounds and house are various stone
antiquities, and curiosities gathered from old buildings, which one must
have a guide-book to explain. Melrose Abbey and the old city of
Edinburgh appear to have been laid under contribution for these
mementos--the door of the old Tollbooth from the latter, and a stone
fountain, upon which stood the old cross of Edinburgh, being conspicuous
objects. Abbotsford is a lovely place, and seems to be situated in a
sort of depression among the hills, and by them, in some degree,
sheltered from any sweeping winds. Besides being of interest as the
residence of Scott, it is a perfect museum of curiosities and relics
identified with Scottish history.
The entrance hall is richly panelled in oak taken from the palace of
Dunfermline, and the roof with the same. All along the cornice of the
roof of this hall are the coats of arms of the different clans of the
Border, painted in colors, on small armorial shields, an inscription
stating,--
"=These be the coat armoires of the clanns and chief men of name, wha
keepit the marchys of Scotland in the auld tyme for the Kynge. Trewe men
were they in their defence. God them defendyt.="
Here are also three or four complete suits of tilting armor, set up and
looking as though still occupied by the stern warriors who once owned
them: one grasps a huge two-handed sword, captured at the battle of
Bosworth Field; another a broad claymore taken from the dead grasp of a
Highlander, who fell with
"His back to the field and his feet to the foe,"
on the disastrous field of Culloden; the breastplates and trappings of
two of Napoleon's celebrated French cuirassiers, whose resistless charge
trampled down whole battalions, but who were swept from their saddles by
hundreds, as these two were by the leaden hail of the English infantry
squares at Waterloo. Here also were stout old lochaber axes, English
steel maces, battle-axes, and other weapons, many with histories, and
from the bloody fields whose horrors are a prominent feature on the
pages of history.
But the most interesting rooms of all, to me, were the study and library
of Sir Walter; and among the most interesting relics were the plain,
unpretending suit of clothes last worn by him, his walking-sticks, his
shoes, and his pipes; and in his study the writing-table at which he
wrote, and the great leather-covered chair in which he sat. The library
is quite a large apartment, some fifty or sixty feet in length,
handsomely decorated, and with its deep, broad windows looking out upon
the River Tweed. It is completely lined with books from floor to
ceiling--in all, some twenty thousand.
Here are also many curiosities; among others, the silver urn presented
by Lord Byron, which rests on a stand of porphyry; Marie Antoinette's
clock; very curious and richly carved ebony arm-chairs, presented by
George IV.; a glass case contained Rob Roy McGregor's purse, a piece of
Robert Bruce's coffin, a purse wrought by Joanna Baillie, a small case
by Miss Martineau, two gold bees, each as big as a hen's egg, taken from
Napoleon's carriage, a portfolio that once belonged to Napoleon,
miniature portrait of Prince Charlie, ("Wha'll be King but Charlie?"),
snuff-box of George IV., the seal of Mary, Queen of Scots, a little box
from Miss Edgeworth, and other relics and momentos.
In the armory, among other curiosities, we saw the musket of that
redoubtable outlaw Rob Roy, Claverhouse's pistol, a sword that was given
to the Marquis of Montrose by Charles I., James VI.'s hunting flask,
pair of pistols found in Napoleon's carriage at the battle of Waterloo,
the armor of one of the old Scottish kings, General Monk's pistols, keys
of the old Tollbooth, &c.
Among the more striking pictures upon the walls of the different rooms
were the portrait of the head of Mary, Queen of Scots, upon a charger,
said to have been taken a few hours after her execution, the sad, pale
features of which haunted my imagination for many an hour afterwards.
Then there were the stern, heavily-moulded features of Cromwell, Charles
XII., the lion of Sweden, and Claverhouse, Charles II., and a
long-bearded old ancestor of Sir Walter's, who allowed his beard to grow
after the execution of Charles I.; and a collection of original etchings
by Turner and other artists, the designs for the "Provincial Antiquities
of Scotland." But from all these we sauntered back reverentially to the
little study, with its deep arm-chair, and its table and books of
reference, and its subdued light from the single window; for here was
the great author's work-room. A garrulous guide and three or four
curious friends allow a dreamer, however, no time for thought and
reflection while there is sight-seeing to be done; so we were escorted
over a portion of the prettily laid-out grounds, and then took our
leave, and our carriage, and soon left Abbotsford behind us.
Edinburgh, Melrose, and Abbotsford seen, we must next have a look at
Stirling Castle. So, after a ride of thirty-six miles from Edinburgh, we
are eating the well-cooked mutton chops that they serve at the Golden
Lion, in Stirling, and, after being duly fortified with good cheer, wend
our way up through the steep streets to the castle on its rocky perch.
This strong old castle, standing directly upon the brow of a precipitous
rock, overlooks one of the most extended and beautiful landscapes in the
kingdom--the beautiful vale of Menteith, the Highland mountains in the
distance, Ben Lomond, Benvenue, Ben Lodi, and several other "Bens;" the
River Forth, winding its devious course through the fertile valley, the
brown road, far below at our feet, running along to the faintly-marked
ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey, and the little villages and arched
bridges, form a charming view.
The eye here takes in also, in this magnificent prospect, no less than
twelve of Scotland's battle-fields, including one of Wallace's fierce
contests, and Bannockburn, where Bruce gained the independence of
Scotland in 1314.
James II. and James V. were born in Stirling; and I looked at the little
narrow road which goes down behind the castle with some interest, when I
was told it furnished King James V. the fictitious name, "Ballangeich,"
he was in the habit of assuming when he went among his subjects in
disguise. Theatre-goers will remember the play of the "Gude Man of
Ballangeich," and the "King of the Commons," and that he was the king
who was hero in those plays, and also the "James Fitz-James" of Scott's
Lady of the Lake. And, speaking of the Lady of the Lake, the beautiful
view from the battlements of Stirling Castle, three hundred feet above
the valley, recalled Roderic Dhu's reply to James:--
"Saxon, from yonder mountain high,
I marked thee send delighted eye
Far to the south and east, where lay,
Extended in succession gay,
Deep waving fields and pastures green,
With gentle slopes and groves between;
Those fertile fields, that softened vale,
Were once the birthright of the Gael."
The outer gates of the castle are said to have been built by the old
Romans, and were strong enough for ancient batteries, but not for modern
artillery. The marks of the cannon shot fired by General Monk when he
attacked the castle, directing the whole fire of his artillery at one
point till he battered down a portion of the wall, and the breach
through which William Wallace entered, are points of interest. So was
the dark, secure, stone cell into which we peeped, where Rob Roy is said
to have been confined. The outer works of the castle were erected in
Queen Anne's time, and that known as the Palace, built by James V. The
little room known as the Douglass Room, with its adjoining closet, is
one of the "lions" of the castle, for it was here that the Earl of
Douglass--the "Black Douglass"--met King James II. under promise of safe
conduct; and after a fierce discussion, in which the king vainly tried
to induce him to abandon a compact he had made with other chiefs, he
stabbed the earl, in a fit of passion. The nobles attendant on the king,
concealed in the little antechamber, rushed in and completed the murder,
throwing the body from the window--which is pointed out to us--into the
garden beneath.
Not far from the castle is the "Lady's Rock," a small hill from which
the ladies of the Scottish court, and other favored ones, could look
down upon the tournament field, a hundred feet below. And as we sat
there, and looked upon the form of the lists, still visible upon the
turf below, marked by the green ridges, it was easy to imagine what an
animated and beautiful scene it must have presented when filled with
knights and squires, steeds and men; for it was here that James was
forced to award Douglass the prize, as the victor in the feats of
strength at the Scottish sports.
"The gray-haired sires, who know the past,
To strangers point the Douglass cast,
And moralize on the decay
Of Scottish strength in modern day."
This beautiful vale has witnessed many a joust and tournament. This vale
at our feet, this "Lady's Rock," and the lady's seat, which makes for us
a sort of rocky throne, as we sit here and muse on Scotland's history
and Scotland's poet, are the very ones he speaks of as
"The vale with loud applauses rang,
The Lady's Rock sent back the clang."
Near the Lady's Rock is a modern cemetery, beautifully laid out, and
containing statues of Knox and Henderson, and other handsome monuments.
The old churchyard of Grayfriars contains many curious monuments, and
here, on an old sun-dial, I found this inscription:--
"I mark time; dost thou?
I am a shadow; so art thou."
It was in Grayfriars that James VI. was crowned, and Knox preached the
coronation sermon.
No tourist will think of leaving Stirling without taking a ride to the
field of Bannockburn, a short distance. The scene of a battle which
occurred more than five hundred and fifty years ago cannot be expected
to preserve many features of its former character; the only one which is
of particular interest is the "Bore Stone," a fragment of rock with a
small cavity, in which the Scottish standard is said to have been
raised; it is clamped all over with iron bars, to prevent relic-hunters
from carrying what remains of it away.
The story of the battle is one of the most familiar ones in Scottish
history to both young and old readers, and your guide will indicate to
you points where the Scotch and English forces were disposed, where the
concealed pits were placed into which plunged so many of the English
cavalry, the point where Bruce stood to watch the battle, nay, the very
place where
"The monarch rode along the van,
The foe's approaching force to scan,"
when Sir Henry Boune, thinking, as the Bruce was mounted on a slight
palfrey, far in advance of his own line, to ride him down with his heavy
war horse, set his lance in rest, and dashed out from the English lines
with that intent.
"He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
And darted on the Bruce at once,"
thinking to distinguish himself and have his name in history. He did so,
but not in the manner, probably, he had anticipated; for
"While on the king, like flash of flame,
Spurred to full speed, the war horse came!
But swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear.
* * * * *
High in his stirrups stood the king,
And gave his battle-axe the swing;
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet cracked like hazel-nut;"
and so began the battle of Bannockburn, which ended in the defeat of one
hundred thousand English by thirty thousand Scots, raising Bruce from a
hunted rebel to the rank of an independent sovereign. It was the most
important battle the Scots ever won, and the most severe defeat the
English ever experienced in Scotland.
Another pleasant little excursion was a walk to Cambuskenneth Abbey,
crossing the River Forth by an old ferry, where we had to hail the
ferry-man from the other side. We did not have to say,--
"Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry,"--
for the old fellow came over, rowed three of us across, and demanded
_three half-pence_ for the service; so we were liberal, and gave him
double fare. The only part of the abbey remaining is a Gothic tower, and
a few remnants of walls, and the foundation lines of nave and transept,
which are visible. A few years ago, when some excavations were being
made here, the site of the high altar was found, and beneath it the
supposed coffin and skeleton of James III. They were re-interred, and a
handsome square sarcophagus marks the spot, bearing an inscription,
which tells the visitor that Queen Victoria erected it in 1861, in
memory of her ancestors.
While at Stirling we had the opportunity of seeing a real Highland
regiment, who were quartered there, in their picturesque, unmilitary
dress,--kilt, bare legs, plaid stockings, crown of feathers, &c.,--a
most uncomfortable and inconvenient dress for service in the field, I
should imagine. I also had an opportunity of hearing native Scotch
songs, sung by a Scotch minstrel, as I never heard them sung before. It
was a still, quiet moonlight night, in one of the streets, and the
wandering minstrel accompanied himself on a violin. I never heard
ballad-singing better or more effectively rendered. The singer's voice
was a pure, flexible tenor, and as he sung, "Flow gently, sweet Afton,"
there was hardly a finger moved in the crowd that stood about him; but
when he gave a pathetic Scotch ballad, in which the tear was in his
voice, he brought it into the eye of more than one of his auditors; and
the hearty manner in which many a poor, ragged fellow crowded up to give
him a ha'penny at the close, showed how deeply they were touched, and
how grateful they felt towards one who could interpret their national
melodies so well.
From Stirling we will make a detour through that charming scenery of
Scotland which Scott so frequently mentions in his Lady of the Lake,
especially in the ride of Fitz-James after the stag, which at eve had
"drunk his fill,"
"Where danced the moon on Monan's rill."
But first an unromantic railroad ride of sixteen miles must be taken;
and not unromantic, either, for there are many pleasant spots and points
of historic interest on the route,--the Bridge of Allan, a pleasant
village, which is a popular watering-place not far from Stirling, being
one;--through Donne,
"The bannered towers of Donne,"
and on by the rippling stream of the River Forth.
"They bathe their coursers' sweltering sides,
Dark Forth, within thy sluggish tides."
And we might go on with half the poem in the same manner, such is the
charm which Scott's poetry has lent to this part of the country.
At the rugged-looking little stone-built town of Callander we left the
train, and climbed into a sort of open wagon stagecoach, similar to
those sometimes used at the White Mountains, which held sixteen of us,
and had a spanking team driven by an expert English "whip;" and we were
whirled away, for a ride of twenty miles or more, through the lake
country and "the Trossachs" to Loch Katrine. The word "trossachs," I was
told by a communicative Scotchman, signified "bristles," and the name
was suggested by the species of coarse furze which abounds in the passes
of this rough and hilly country. The wild mountain scenery reminded me
often of our own White Mountains; and the reaches of view, though giving
pretty landscape scenes, showed a country rather sterile for the
husbandman--better to shoot over than plough over.
At last we reached a little sort of hollow in the hills, where Lake
Vennachar narrows down to the River Teith, and came to where the stream
swept round a little grassy point of land; and here our coach stopped a
moment for us to look,--
"For this is Coilantogle Ford,"--
which, it will be recollected, was
"Far past Clan Alpine's outmost guard,"
and the scene of the combat between Fitz-James and Roderic Dhu. "And
there," said an old Scotchman, pointing to the little grassy peninsula,
"is the very place where the fight took place"--a borrowed stretch of
the imagination, inasmuch as the poet himself imagined the combat.
But we whirled away past Vennachar, mounted a little eminence, from
whence we had a grand panoramic view of hills, lake, road, and river,
with Benvenue rising in the background; and as we rattled down the hill
the road swept round with a curve near to a little village that I
recognized at once from the pictures in illustrated editions of Scott's
poems--Duncraggan's huts, one of the points at which the bearer of the
fiery cross paused on his journey to raise the clans.
"Speed, Malise, speed! the lake is past,
Duncraggan's huts appear at last."
And passing this, we soon rolled over a little single-arched bridge--the
bridge of Turk.
"And when the Brigg of Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone."
On over the Brigg of Turk, past Loch Achray, and we come to the
Trossachs Hotel, commanding a good view of the black-looking "loch," and
the rocky peak of Ben A'an. Between this point and Loch Katrine, a mile,
are the "Trossachs." All the drives and scenery in the immediate
vicinity are delightful; and the hotel, which is a fine castellated
building, must be a most pleasant place for summer resort.
Embarking upon a little steamer named Rob Roy, on Loch Katrine, we sail
close by Ellen's Isle, and sweep out into the middle of the lake--a
lovely sheet of water, and reminding the American tourist of Lake
George. A delightful sail on this lake carried us to Stronachlachar.
There we disembark, and take carriage again through the valley to Loch
Lomond, passing on the road the hut in which Helen McGregor, Rob Roy's
wife, was born, and also a fort built to check the incursions of the
McGregors, and at one time commanded by General Wolfe--the same who
afterwards fell at the capture of Quebec. Then, descending to
Inversnaid, we came to Loch Lomond, with the dark mountains looking down
upon its waters.
That there is some wind among these Scotch hills we had ample
opportunity of ascertaining; for so furiously did the gusts pour down
upon the lake, that they lashed it into foam-capped waves, and sent the
sheets of spray so liberally over the boat as to make us glad to
contemplate this pride of the Scottish lakes, its hills, and thirsty
islands from the cabin windows. Disembarking once more at Balloch,
situated at the southern extremity of the lake, the train was in waiting
which took us to Glasgow, passing Dumbarton on our route, and giving us
a fine view of Dumbarton Castle, situated upon the two high peaks of
Dumbarton Rock, five hundred and sixty feet high, and noted as being the
place of confinement of William Wallace. The highest peak of the rock is
called Wallace's Seat, from this circumstance.