The nominal attraction of Scotland, particularly at this season, is the
shooting. Immediately on your arrival, you are asked whether you prefer
a flint or a percussion lock, and (supposing that you do _not_ travel
with a gun, which all Englishmen _do_,) a double-barrelled Manton is
appropriated to your use, the game-keeper fills your powder and
shot-pouches, and waits with the dogs in a leash till you have done your
breakfast; and the ladies leave the table, wishing you a good day’s
sport, all as matters of course.
I would rather have gone to the library. An aversion to walking, except
upon smooth flag stones, a poetical tenderness on the subject of
“putting birds out of misery,” as the last office is elegantly called,
and hands much more at home with a goose-quill than a gun, were some of
my private objections to the “order of the day.” Between persuasion and
a most truant sunshine, I was overruled, however; and, with a silent
prayer that I might not destroy the hopes of my noble host, by shooting
his only son, who was to be my companion and instructor, I shouldered
the proffered Manton and joined the game-keeper in the park.
Lord Ramsay and his man looked at me with some astonishment as I
approached, and I was equally surprised at the young nobleman’s
metamorphosis. From the elegant Oxonian I had seen at breakfast, he was
transformed to a figure something rougher than his highland dependant,
in a woollen shooting-jacket, that might have been cut in Kentucky,
pockets of any number and capacity, trousers of the coarsest plaid,
hob-nailed shoes, and leather gaiters, and a manner of handling his gun
that would have been respected on the Mississippi. My own appearance in
high-heeled French boots and other corresponding geer for a tramp over
stubble and marsh, amused them equally; but my wardrobe was exclusively
metropolitan, and there was no alternative.
The dogs were loosed from their leash and bounded away, and crossing the
Esk under the castle walls, we found our way out of the park, and took
to the open fields. A large patch of stubble was our first ground, and
with a “hie away!” from the gamekeeper, the beautiful setters darted on
before, their tails busy with delight and their noses to the ground,
first dividing, each for a wall side, and beating along till they met,
and then scouring toward the centre, as regularly as if every step were
guided by human reason. Suddenly they both dropped low into the stubble,
and with heads eagerly bent forward and the intensest gaze upon a spot,
a yard or more in advance, stood as motionless as stone. “A covey, my
lord!” said the game-keeper, and, with our guns cocked, we advanced to
the dogs, who had crouched, and lay as still, while we passed them, as
if their lives depended upon our shot. Another step, and whirr! whirr! a
dozen partridges started up from the furrow, and while Lord Ramsay cried
“Now!” and reserved his fire to give me the opportunity, I stood stock
still in my surprise, and the whole covey disappeared over the wall. My
friend laughed, the game-keeper smiled, and the dogs hied on once more.
I mended my shooting in the course of the morning, but it was both
exciting and hard work. A heavy shower soaked us through, without
extracting the slightest notice from my companion; and on we trudged
through peas, beans, turnips, and corn, mudded to the knees and smoking
with moisture, excessively to the astonishment, I doubt not, of the
productions of Monsieur Clerx, of the Rue Vivienne, which were reduced
to the consistency of brown paper, and those of my London tailor, which
were equally entitled to some surprise at the use they were put to. It
was quite beautiful, however, to see the ardor and training of the dogs;
their caution, their obedience, and their perfect understanding of every
motion of their master. I found myself interested quite beyond fatigue,
and it was only when we jumped the park paling and took it once more
leisurely down the gravel walks, that I realized at what an expense of
mud, water, and weariness, my day’s sport had been purchased. _Mem._
Never to come to Scotland again without hob-nailed shoes and a
shooting-jacket.
* * * * *
Rode over to Roslin castle. The country between Dalhousie castle and
Roslin, including the village of Lasswade, is of uncommon loveliness.
Lasswade itself clings to the two sides of a small valley, with its
village church buried in trees, and the country seat of Lord Melvill
looking down upon it, from its green woods; and away over the shoulder
of the hill, swell the forests and rocks which imbosom Hawthornden (the
residence of Drummond, the poet, in the days of Ben Jonson,) and the
Pentland Hills, with their bold outline, form a background that
completes the picture.
We left our horses at the neighboring inn, and walked first to Roslin
chapel. This little gem of florid architecture is scarcely a ruin, so
perfect are its arches and pillars, its fretted cornices and its painted
windows. A whimsical booby undertook the cicerone, with a long cane-pole
to point out the beauties. We entered the low side door, whose stone
threshold the feet of Cromwell’s church stabled troopers assisted to
wear, and walked at once to a singular column of twisted marble, most
curiously carved, standing under the choir. Our friend with the
cane-pole, who had condescended to familiar Scotch on the way, took his
distance from the base, and drawing up his feet like a soldier on drill,
assumed a most extraordinary elevation of voice, and recited its history
in a declamation of which I could only comprehend the words “A_w_braham
and Isaac.” I saw by the direction of the pole that there was a bas
relief of the Father of the Faithful, done on the capital—but for the
rest I was indebted to Lord Ramsay, who did it into English as follows:
“The master-mason of this chapel, meeting with some difficulties in the
execution of his design, found it necessary to go to Rome for
information, during which time his apprentice carried on the work, and
even executed some parts concerning which his master had been most
doubtful; particularly this fine fluted column, ornamented with wreaths
of foliage and flowers twisting spirally round it. The master on his
return, stung with envy at this proof of the superior abilities of his
apprentice, slew him by a blow of his hammer.”
The whole interior of the chapel is excessively rich. The roof,
capitals, key-stones, and architraves, are covered with sculptures. On
the architrave joining the apprentice’s pillar to a smaller one, is
graved the sententious inscription, “_Forte est vinum, fortior est rex,
fortiores sunt mulieres; super omnia vincit veritas._” It has been built
about four hundred years, and is, I am told, the most perfect thing of
its kind in Scotland.
The ruins of Roslin castle are a few minutes’ walk beyond. They stand on
a kind of island rock, in the midst of one of the wildest glens of
Scotland, separated from the hill nearest to the base by a drawbridge,
swung over a tremendous chasm. I have seen nothing so absolutely
picturesque in my travels. The North Esk runs its dark course, unseen,
in the ravine below; the rocks on every side frown down upon it in black
shadows, the woods are tangled and apparently pathless, and were it not
for a most undeniable two-story farm house, built directly in the court
of the old castle, you might convince yourself that foot had never
approached it since the days of Wallace.
The fortress was built by William St. Clair, of whom Grose writes: “He
kept a great court, and was royally served at his own table in vessels
of gold and silver; Lord Dirleton being his master-household; Lord
Borthwick his cup-bearer, and Lord Fleming his carver; in whose absence
they had deputies to attend, viz: Stewart, Laird of Drumlanrig; Tweddie,
Laird of Drumerline, and Sandilands, Laird of Calder. He had his halls
and other apartments richly adorned with embroidered hangings. He
flourished in the reigns of James the First and Second. His princess,
Elizabeth Douglas, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, whereof
fifty-three were daughters of noblemen, all clothed in velvets and
silks, with their chains of gold and other ornaments, and was attended
by two hundred riding gentlemen in all her journeys; and, if it happened
to be dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings were at the
foot of the Black Fryar’s Wynd, eighty torches were carried before her.”
With a scrambling walk up the glen, which is, as says truly Mr. Grose,
“inconceivably romantic,” we returned to our horses, and rode back to
our dinner at Dalhousie, delighted with Roslin castle, and uncommonly
hungry.