EDINBURGH.
A Jolly Party of Americans—Dim-Eyed Pilgrim—Young Goslings—An
American Goose Ranch—Birthplace of Robert Pollok and Mary Queen of
Scots—The Boston of Europe—Home of Illustrious Men—A Monument to
the Author—Monument to Sir Walter Scott—Edinburgh Castle—Murdered
and Head Placed on the Wall—Cromwell’s Siege—Stones of Power—A
Dazzling Diadem—A Golden Collar—Baptized in Blood—Meeting American
Friends.
WE ARE now in Edinburgh; we have been here some days. On our way from
Ayr, we fell in with a jolly party of American gentlemen. The eyes of
one grey-haired brother in the crowd are somewhat dimmed with age,
though he is unwilling to acknowledge it.
As the train made a graceful curve around a mountain, we came into a
large, green pasture where many sheep were grazing. Now, the people of
this country feed their sheep on turnips—large, yellow turnips, with
the tops cut off. While in this pasture, we saw, some seventy-five
or a hundred yards from the road, a great quantity of these turnips
scattered over the grass for sheep food. The dim-eyed pilgrim spied the
yellow objects and, pointing to them, he enthusiastically exclaimed:
“Oh, what a fine lot of young goslings!” Then he added, “There are the
goslings, but where are the geese?” I explained that those objects he
saw were not “goslings” but turnips, and suggested that the goose was
on our train. Before we separated, the two parties became fast friends.
We all agreed to throw in and buy our friend a farm, to be known, not
as a turnip patch, but as “The American Goose Ranch,” and on this ranch
we are to meet the first day of May of each year, to discuss vital
questions and living issues pertaining to the life and character of
“young goslings.”
[Illustration: EDINBURGH.]
Leaving the pasture, we passed the Moorhouse farm, where Robert Pollok,
author of “The Course of Time,” was born, in 1798, two years after the
death of Robert Burns. We came by Linlithgow, the birthplace of Queen
Mary. The majestic ruins of its once proud palace are still standing on
a green hillside near the town, as if to impress the passer-by with the
mutability of all human greatness and all human grandeur.
In one hour more we had reached the end of our journey. Edinburgh has
two hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, just half the number of
Glasgow, and is a magnificent city. It is the pride of every Scotchman.
It is called “The Classic City,” “The Bonnie City,” “The Capital City,”
“The Monumental City,” and “The Athens of Britain.” I expected to hear
it called “The Boston of Europe,” but the people did not seem to think
of it. This was the birthplace of Sir Walter Scott, the novelist and
poet; the home of Hume, the scholar and historian; of John Knox, the
reformer, who never feared the face of man, nor doubted the Word of
God; of Thomas Chalmers, the Astronomical preacher from whose pulpit
the stars poured forth a flood of light and glory; and it was for a
thousand years the home of the Scottish Kings and state officials. It
is now the political home of Gladstone, who is perhaps the greatest
living statesman, and the home of Drummond, author of “Natural law in
the Spiritual World.”
The city is filled with many objects of peculiar interest, only a
few of which I will mention. About a hundred years ago, though the
people here speak of it as “recently,” the city was greatly enlarged,
and I suppose the object of the enlargement was to make room for
the monuments and statues. One sees a monument on almost every
street-corner, and there is a perfect forest of statuary. These Scotch
people are very fond of honoring great men. I am going to leave here
to-morrow, for fear they put up a monument to me. They have not said
anything about the monument yet, but I notice the police have been
following me about for two or three days, as though they thought of
something of that sort.
[Illustration: SCOTT’S MONUMENT.]
On Princess street, in the prettiest and most romantic part of the
city, stands a colossal monument to Sir Walter Scott which was
fashioned by one of the world’s greatest artists, and which is said to
be one of the most superb structures of the kind ever built. I am quite
prepared to believe the statement. In this monument architectural
grandeur and artistic beauty are blended in the sweetest and most
perfect manner imaginable. Like a sunset at sea, it never becomes
monotonous, but is always pleasing. A fit emblem this of Scott himself,
in whom a strong character was so gracefully blended with smooth
and polished manners. This monument may be painted, but it beggars
description.
To me, however, the most interesting object in Edinburgh is the Castle,
located just in the centre of the city. The Castle is built on a high
rock whose base covers an area of eleven acres. This rock rises to a
height of four hundred feet, its summit being accessible only in one
place, the other portions of the rock being very precipitous, and, in
some places, absolutely perpendicular. The top of the rock presents
a level surface, has an area of five acres, and is surmounted by a
massive stone wall built close around on the edge of the cliff. On this
storm-beaten rock, and within these moss-covered walls, stands the
historical Castle, built ten centuries ago. In appearance the Castle
is “grand, gloomy, and peculiar.” In his charming poem, Marmion, Scott
refers to it thus:
“Such dusky grandeur clothed the night,
Where the huge castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down;
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massive, close and high,
Mine own romantic town!”
According to the history of Scotland, which to me is as charming as
a story of romance, this Castle has a strange and bloody tale to
tell. Here James II was confined, likewise James III. Here “The Black
Dinner” was given, and the Douglasses were murdered. Here the Duke of
Argyle and the good Montrose were beheaded. Montrose, you remember,
is a conspicuous figure in Scottish history. He was loyal to his king
and country. He was courageous as a lion, and as true and noble as he
was brave. Yet he was tried before a false court, whose verdict was
that on the next day he should be put to death, and his head placed on
the prison wall. When permitted to reply, Montrose, in his calm and
dignified manner, stepped forward and, with his usual boldness, said to
the Parliament: “Sirs, you heap more honor upon me in having my head
placed upon the walls of this Castle, for the cause in which I die,
than if you had this day decreed to me a golden statue, or had ordered
my picture placed in the King’s bed-chamber.”
[Illustration: EDINBURGH CASTLE.]
In 1650, Cromwell besieged the Castle, for more than two months,
without success. This was the home of the beautiful Queen Mary at the
time she gave birth to James VI, since whose reign the whole of Great
Britain has been ruled by one sceptre.
In what is called “The Crown Room” of the Castle, are “The Stones of
Power,” or the “Emblems of Scottish Royalty.” These regalia consist
of three articles, the Crown, the Sceptre, and the Sword of State. By
a fortunate circumstance, I obtain free access to these royal relics.
They are entirely new to me, hence I examine them closely. Thinking
perhaps the reader would like to know something of an earthly crown
before going home to wear an Heavenly one, I give the following
description of this one: The lower part is composed of two circles, the
undermost much broader than that which rises above it. Both are made of
purest gold. The under and broader circle is adorned with twenty-two
precious stones, such as diamonds, rubies, topazes, amethysts,
emeralds and sapphires. There is an Oriental pearl interposed between
each of these stones. The smaller circle, which surmounts the larger
one, is studded with small diamonds and sapphires alternately. From
this upper circle two imperial arches rise, crossing each other at
right angles, and closing at the top in a pinnacle of burnished gold.
The Sceptre is a slender and an elegant rod of silver, three feet long,
gilded with gold and set with diamonds. The Sword of State is five feet
long. The scabbard is made of crimson velvet and is ornamented with
beautiful needlework and silver.
In the same glass case with the above-named insignia, is a golden
collar of the “Order of the Garter,” which collar is said to be that
presented by Queen Elizabeth to King James VI when he was created
Knight of that Order. In the same case, is also a ruby ring labeled as
the coronation ring of Charles I. But enough about
“The steep and belted rock,
Where trusted lie the monarchy’s last gems—
The Sceptre, Sword, and Crown that graced the brows,
Since Father Fungus, of an hundred kings.”
I am having a perfect feast in re-reading the “Heart of Midlothian,”
the plot of which is laid in this city. I never had such a thirst for
knowledge, nor did I ever enjoy reading so much as now. I make daily
visits to the Haymarket, to the old Tolbooth, to Holyrood Palace, to
Arthur’s Seat, to the cottage where the Dean family lived, and to many
places which have been baptized in blood, and about which Scott’s muse
loved to sing.
While in the Waverly Hotel, a few days ago, I chanced to meet Reverends
J. K. Pace and W. T. Hundly, Baptist preachers from South Carolina.
What a happy meeting! We were together only two days. Theirs was a
flying trip, and they had to rush on to London and the Continent
without seeing much of “Bonnie Scotland.” We agree to meet in six weeks
in London or Paris.