So wondrous wild, the whole might seemThe scenery of a fairy dream.
Scott was always fond of brilliant hues, but here he fairly revels in colour:—
The western waves of ebbing dayRolled o'er the glen their level way:Each purple peak, each flinty spire,Was bathed in floods of living fire.*****All twinkling with the dew-drop sheen,The brier rose fell in streamers greenAnd creeping shrubs of thousand dyesWaved in the west wind's summer sighs.*****Boon nature scattered, free and wild,Each plant or flower, the mountain's child,Here eglantine embalmed the air,Hawthorn and hazel mingled there:The primrose pale and violet flowerFound in each clift a narrow bower.
The best way to read 'The Lady of the Lake' is to see the Trossachs; the best way to see the Trossachs is to read 'The Lady of the Lake.' There is a peculiar affinity between the poem and the country that makes each indispensable to the other. Those who read the poem without some knowledge of the scenery are likely to have an inadequate conception of its real significance, or possibly to feel that the poet has painted in colours too vivid and that his enthusiasm is not perhaps fully justified by the facts. Those who see the Trossachs without reading the poem are apt to say, as one man did say to me, 'Yes, this is beautiful, but after all I have seen just such roads in New Hampshire.' He might have added, 'The Rocky Mountains are much higher and more sublime, and the Italian lakes reflect a sky of more brilliant blue and are bordered by foliage infinitely more gorgeous in its colourings,'—all of which is true. But when you come to read the poem with a mental vision of the Trossachsbefore you and to see the Trossachs with the exquisite descriptions of the poem fully in mind, each acquires a new charm which alone it did not possess.
Before the poem was written the Trossachs were scarcely known and Loch Katrine was no more than any other Highland lake. Now these regions are visited yearly by thousands of tourists and to those who know the poem, every turn in the road seems to suggest some favourite stanza. To us the tour was one of unfailing delight and productive of mental visions that will never fade. The Brig o' Turk is to me not merely an old stone bridge over a placid rivulet; but, rushing over it at full speed, eagerly spurring his fine grey horse to further effort, I see the figure of a gallant hunter clad in a close-fitting suit of green, his eyes intently fixed on the road ahead, where a splendid stag, now nearly exhausted, is straining his last ounce of energy in a final effort to distance the pursuing hounds. To me the low ground on the edge of Loch Vennachar, known as Lanrick Mead, appears like a military camp, with great crowds of giant clansmen, in Highland kilts and plaids of many colours, their spears and battle-axes glistening in the sun. The aged oak, bending over the water's edge on Ellen's Isle, is not merely an old dead tree, but it brings the vision of Ellen Douglas putting forth in her frail shallop to answer (as she supposes) the bugle call of her noble father from the Silver Strand.
This is the secret charm of the Trossachs. The tourist who goes through, as many do, with whole-hearted devotion to the time-table and guide-book, and whose mind is fixed upon the absolute necessity of 'making' all the points in his itinerary, does not see these scenes anymore than do the horses who draw the lumbering coaches. The more leisurely traveller who can follow the course of the poem, viewing each scene as Scott has so charmingly described it, finds exhilaration and delight in every step of the way.
Scott was only fifteen when he began to make those merry expeditions to the Highlands in the company of congenial companions which gave him so much material of the right kind as to make a poem inevitable. He learned to know the strange but romantic Highland clansmen; he heard many tales and bits of history which his memory stored up for the future, and the rare beauty of the scenery fascinated him as it does every one else. 'This poem,' he said, 'the action of which lay among scenes so beautiful and so deeply imprinted on my recollections, was a labour of love and it was no less so to recall the memories and incidents introduced.'
In one of these excursions (in 1793), he visited the home of the young Laird of Cambusmore, John Buchanan, one of his associates, and subsequently revisited the place many times. Cambusmore is a charming estate about two miles southeast of Callander. Entering by the porter's gate, we drove through a beautiful winding road, lined with rhododendrons. The shrubs, or rather trees (for their extraordinary height and wide-spreading branches entitle them to the more dignified name), were in full bloom, thousands of great, splendid clusters vying with each other to see which could catch and reflect the most sunlight. Here we were hospitably received by the present owner, Mrs. Hamilton, a great-granddaughter of Scott's friend, John Buchanan. The house has been considerably enlarged, but the older portion,thickly covered with ivy, is very much as it was when Scott was a guest and sat on the porch, listening to the story of Buchanan's ancestors. While he was writing 'The Lady of the Lake,' Scott revisited Cambusmore and recited parts of the poem to Mrs. Hamilton's grandfather. He also demonstrated, by actually performing the feat himself, that it would be possible for a horseman to ride from the foot of Loch Vennachar to Stirling Castle in the time allotted to Fitz-James.
CAMBUSMORECAMBUSMORE
From the road in front of this mansion, far away to the north, but faintly visible through the trees, we could see the 'wild heaths of Uam Var,' where the stag first sought refuge when, driven by the deep baying of the hounds, he left the cool shades of Glenartney's hazel woods. From another side we caught a fine glimpse of what the huntsmen saw
When rose Ben Ledi's ridge in air.
These hills of Scotland have witnessed many a hunt where scores of men dashed wildly after the frightened game. But no stag, ever before or since, has been pursued by so many eager hunters as the creature of Scott's fancy. We joined in the hunt, as all tourists are supposed to do, provided they have the time, which many, especially Americans, have not, for as one Scotchman put it, 'they go through so fast, sir, that you could set a tea-table on their coat-tails, sir.'
We saw 'the varied realms of fair Menteith,' a lovely little lake with irregular shores and studded with bright green islands. I remember I had to walk a long way over a lonely heath to get my picture of the lake, and that I was closely followed by a large flock of angry ploverswho feared that I might harm their nests. They flew so close that I had to keep one arm above my head for defence, and all the time they were screaming vociferously.
We visited 'far Loch Ard' and Aberfoyle, both associated more closely with Rob Roy. We found
the copsewood greyThat waved and wept on Loch Achray;
and climbed up among
the pine trees blueOn the bold cliffs of Ben Venue.
We passed along 'Bocastle's heath' and reached the shores of Loch Vennachar, more fortunate than the huntsmen of the poem, most of whom gave up from sheer exhaustion before they reached that place. For,
when the Brig o' Turk was won,The headmost horseman rode alone.
This picturesque old stone bridge, spanning the little stream that waters the valley of Glen Finglas, is the entrance to the Trossachs, a region, as the name implies, of wild and rugged beauty.
Alone, but with unbated zeal,That horseman plied the scourge and steel;For jaded now, and spent with toil,Embossed with foam, and dark with soil,While every gasp with sobs he drew,The labouring stag strained full in view.
Thus the race went along the shore of Loch Achray until they reached the dense woods that lie between this little lake and Loch Katrine. Then just as the hunter,—
Already glorying in the prize,Measured his antlers with his eyes,
the wily stag dashed suddenly down a darksome glen and disappeared
In the deep Trossach's wildest nook.
The place thus indicated may be reached by leaving the fine wagon road and walking up the hill on the right by a path that leads along a little rill to a dense thicket, over which hang some rugged cliffs. We spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon exploring the dark ravines,—
Where twined the path in shadow hid,Round many a rocky pyramid,Shooting abruptly from the dellIts thunder-splintered pinnacle.
This is one of the most delightful spots in the Trossachs, though never seen by the thousands who whirl through all this enchanted land in a single day, packed five or six in a seat on a jolting coach, breathing the dust of the road and frittering away their golden opportunity in idle chatter. You cannot catch the spirit of this wild and rugged region unless you walk into the unfrequented parts and see the 'native bulwarks of the pass,' where
The rocky summits, split and rent,Formed turret, dome, or battlement,Or seemed fantastically setWith cupola or minaret.
Here Fitz-James found himself alone and on foot, for his good grey horse had fallen, exhausted, never to rise again. Marvelling at the beauty of the scene, he wandered on, until, seeing no pathway by which to issue from the glen, he climbed a 'far-projecting precipice'; when suddenly there burst upon his sight the grandest view of all, Loch Katrine,—
gleaming with the setting sunOne burnished sheet of living gold.
As sentinels guarding an enchanted land, two mountains stood like giants: on the south rose Ben Venue, its sides strewn with rough volcanic rocks and its summit 'a wildering forest feathered o'er': on the north 'Ben An heaved high his forehead bare.'
The stranger stood enraptured and amazed. Then, thinking to call some straggler of his train, he blew a loud blast upon his horn. To his great surprise the sound was answered by a little skiff which glided forth
From underneath an aged oakThat slanted from the islet's rock.
The old oak was the supposed landing place of Ellen Douglas on what has since been known as 'Ellen's Isle.' The oak, old in Scott's day, is dead now, but singularly enough it died not of old age but by drowning. Loch Katrine is now the reservoir that supplies the city of Glasgow. In preparing it for this service the engineers raised the level of the lake about twenty-five feet, creating many new islands to keep the 'lone islet' company, and completely submerging the 'Silver Strand' so often mentioned in the poem. But the beauty of the lake has not been marred, and the scenes, though changed, are still as lovely as when they aroused the poetic fervour of Sir Walter Scott.
GLENFINGLASGLENFINGLAS
The visitor who takes the trouble, as we did, to row out to Ellen's Isle, will find nothing to suggest the imagined home of Roderick Dhu and the temporary shelter of the Douglas and his daughter. But he will have an excellent opportunity to indulge his fancy and call backto memory the stirring incidents which served to bring together all the leading people of the tale. He may stand on the shore of the island and see the barges, filled with the warriors of Roderick Dhu, bearing down upon him, their spears, pikes, and axes flashing and their banners, plaids, and plumage dancing in the air. He may hear the sound of the war-pipes and the chorus of the clansmen as they shout their chieftain's praise. Then, as the storm of war rises higher and higher, he may fancy Brian the Hermit with wild incantations calling the clans to battle and uttering a terrible curse upon any who failed to heed the summons. He may see the fiery Cross placed in the hands of the young Malise, and watch the fleet messenger as he crosses the lake to the Silver Strand where he lightly bounds ashore. Then, if he be a real enthusiast, he may follow the course of the fiery cross. Malise carried it through the Trossachs, and along the shore of Loch Achray to the hamlet of Duncraggan, just beyond the Brig o' Turk, and in sight of Lanrick Mead, the gathering-place of the clans. Then young Angus, the stripling son of Duncan, seized the fatal symbol, and hurried over the mountains, crossing the southern slopes of Ben Ledi, until, reaching the river Leny at the outlet of Loch Lubnaig, he swam the stream, and after a desperate struggle with the swollen torrent, reached the opposite bank at the chapel of St. Bride. No chapel now exists, but a stone wall marks the site where the little church once stood, and within the enclosure is a single grave. As Angus arrived, a little wedding party was issuing from the churchyard gate. The dreadful sign of fire and sword was thrust into the hands of Norman, the bridegroom, and the command given to 'speedforth the signal.' Not daring to look a second time upon the tearful face of his lovely bride, Norman manfully seized the torch and hurried to the north. He followed the shores of Loch Lubnaig and the swampy course of the river Balvaig, then, turning sharply to the left, entered the Braes of Balquhidder and passed along the northern shores of Loch Voil and Loch Doine, two lovely little Highland lakes that lie hidden away in the solitude of the hills. Thence, turning to the south, he crossed the intervening mountains until he came to the valley of Strathgartney on the northern shore of Loch Katrine.
The scene now changes to the slopes of Ben Venue, a rugged mountain peak, towering high above the south-eastern end of Loch Katrine and dominating the entire region of the Trossachs. On the side nearest the lake is a confused mass of huge volcanic rocks overhung here and there by scraggly oaks or birches. Ancient Celtic tradition assigned this wild spot to the Urisk or shaggy men whose form was part man, part goat, like the satyrs of Greek mythology. In later times the Celtic name of Coir-nan-Uriskin gave way to the more euphonious title of the Goblin Cave. To this 'wild and strange retreat,' fit only for wolves and wild-cats, Douglas brought his daughter for safety. Roderick Dhu, hovering about the place like a restless ghost, heard the soft voice of Ellen, singing her 'Hymn to the Virgin.' Then, goaded by the thought that he should never hear that angel voice again, the chieftain strode sullenly down the mountain-side, and crossing the lake soon rejoined his men at Lanrick Mead.
In the night Douglas silently departed, resolved to go to Stirling Castle and give his life as a ransom for hisdaughter and his friends. In the morning Fitz-James found the retreat of Ellen and offered to carry her away in safety. But Ellen in simple confidence told of her love for Malcolm Graeme, and warned the knight that his life was in danger from his treacherous guide. Fitz-James then gave a signet ring to Ellen, telling her to present it to the King, who would redeem it by granting whatever she might ask. The wanderer then went on his way, passing through the Trossachs again, where he met the half-crazed maid, Blanche of Devon. The poet actually saw the original of this strange character in the Pass of Glencoe. 'This poor woman,' he says, 'had placed herself in the wildest attitude imaginable upon the very top of a huge fragment of rock: she had scarce any covering but a tattered plaid, which left her arms, legs, and neck bare to the weather. Her long shaggy black hair was streaming backwards in the wind and exposed a face rather wild and wasted than ugly, and bearing a very peculiar expression of frenzy. She had a handful of eagle feathers in her hand.'
Following the dramatic death of Blanche and the swift justice to her murderer, the treacherous guide Murdoch, comes the well-remembered meeting of Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu. Clan-Alpine's chief extended to his enemy the hospitality of 'a soldier's couch, a soldier's fare,' and conducted him safely through countless hordes of his own men concealed behind every bush and stone until they reached the ford of Coilantogle, at the extreme limit of the Highland chief's territory. The place is at the outlet of Loch Vennachar, about two miles west of Callander, and is readily seen from the main road to the Trossachs. Here occurred the terrificcombat, so vividly painted by the poet, and Roderick was left upon the field, severely wounded, a prisoner in the hands of Fitz-James's men, who had responded to the bugle call of their leader. The latter, accompanied by two of his knights, rode rapidly along the shores of the Forth. They passed 'the bannered towers of Doune,' now a ruin, which makes a pretty picture seen in the distance from the bridge over the river. Pressing on, they were soon in sight of Stirling Castle, when Fitz-James saw a woodsman 'of stature tall and poor array,' and at once recognized 'the stately form and step' of Douglas.
Cambus Kenneth, from which Douglas had just come, is a tall square tower on the banks of the Forth, west of Stirling. It was once a large abbey, founded in the twelfth century and built on the site of the battle-field, where the Scots under Kenneth MacAlpine defeated the Picts. The tower is all that now remains, but the foundations of some of the walls show the great extent of the structure. Amid the ruins is the grave of King James III, over which is a monument erected by Queen Victoria. It is supposed to be in exactly the place where King James was buried, under the high altar, but is so far away from the tower as to indicate that the original abbey must have been unusually large.
Next to Edinburgh Castle, Stirling is the most imposing fortress in Scotland. It stands on a rock four hundred and twenty feet above the sea, commanding a fine view in every direction. On the esplanade is a statue of King Robert the Bruce. The figure is clad in chain armour and the king is sheathing his sword, satisfied with his great victory as he gazes toward the field ofBannockburn. Across the valley on the Abbey Craig, two miles away, is a tall tower in memory of that other great national hero, the mention of whose name still brings a tingle into the blood of the loyal Scotsman, William Wallace. The castle is entered by a gateway between two round towers, beneath one of which is the dungeon where Roderick Dhu may be supposed to have been carried after the fatal duel. Here one may fancy the aged minstrel Allan-bane, singing to the dying chief the story of the Battle of Beal' an Duine. A poem that can hold the attention of a company of soldiers when actually under fire themselves must be thrilling, indeed; yet this test was successfully applied to the tale as Scott told it through the minstrel. Sir Adam Ferguson received the poem on the day when he was posted with his company on a point of ground exposed to the enemy's artillery. The men were ordered to lie prostrate on the ground, while the captain, kneeling at their head, read the description of the battle. The soldiers listened attentively, only interrupting occasionally with a loud huzza, when a shot struck the bank just above their heads.
On the left of the castle gate is the Royal Palace, built by James III and a favourite residence of James IV and James V. All the windows have heavy iron bars, making the palace look more like a prison than a king's mansion. They were placed there for the protection of the infant James VI, son of Mary, Queen of Scots. He was born in Edinburgh Castle; but considered unsafe there, he was lowered over the walls in a basket and carried to Stirling Castle. Queen Mary had lived here for four years in her childhood and it was here that she was secretly married to Darnley. Two years later, on avisit to the castle to see her son, she was intercepted by Bothwell and carried away to Dunbar, probably with her own connivance, where a month later the two were married. James VI, afterward James I of England, spent most of his boyhood here, and when he left to assume the English crown, Stirling ceased to be a royal residence.
Among the many strange and much mutilated statues on the exterior of the palace is one representing King James V as the 'Gudeman of Ballengeich.' It was the custom of this king, as it had been of his father, to disguise himself and mingle with the people, thereby finding relief from the strain of more serious affairs and doubtless learning at first hand what the people thought of him. Their opinions must have been favourable, for the King enjoyed the experiences and the intercourse was always friendly and often amusing. Once on a hunting expedition, the King became separated from the others of his party and was obliged to spend the night at a cottage in the moorlands. The 'gudeman,' like all true Highlanders, was extremely hospitable to the stranger, and ordered the 'gude wife,' to kill for supper the plumpest of the hens. The stranger, departing the next morning, invited the farmer to call on the 'Gudeman of Ballengeich' when he next visited Stirling. The farmer soon accepted the invitation and was much astonished to find himself received by the King, who enjoyed his confusion most heartily and gave him the facetious title, 'King of the Moors.' This story and others like it gave the idea to Scott which he so skilfully made the basis of 'The Lady of the Lake.'
STIRLING CASTLESTIRLING CASTLE
Another gateway leads into the upper court, on the right of which is the old Parliament House, wherethe last Scottish Parliament met. At the north end of the court is the Chapel Royal. A third gateway leads to the Douglas Garden, at the left of which is the Douglas Room, where James II treacherously stabbed the Earl of Douglas. The latter had visited the castle under a safe-conduct granted by the King himself. The body was dragged into an adjoining room and thrown out of the window. Later it was buried just where it fell. Scott makes James Douglas refer to the incident as he sadly returns to Stirling to surrender himself and die for his family.
Ye towers, within those circuit dreadA Douglas by his sovereign bled.
From the parapet along the walls of this garden, built on a rock three hundred feet high, a splendid landscape may be seen. Down below appear the windings of the river Forth and the old Stirling Bridge, known as the 'Key to the Highlands,' the only bridge across the Forth during all the stirring times of Scottish history. There too is the 'Heading Hill' to which Douglas also refers:—
And thou, O sad and fatal mound!Thou oft hast heard the death-axe sound,As on the noblest of the landFell the stern headsman's bloody hand.
From another place on the wall, far down on the plain below, we could see the King's Knot, a curiously shaped, octagonal mound of great antiquity, near the base of the precipitous rock upon which the castle stands. This plain, so easily seen from the castle, was the place where many a knightly tournament was held, and it was to this castle park that Douglas went to take part in the games, so that
King James shall markIf age has tamed these sinews stark,Whose force so oft in happier daysHis boyish wonder loved to praise.
Here was held the archery contest where Douglas won the silver dart; here was the wrestling match where he won the golden ring; here his brave dog Lufra pulled down the royal stag, and Douglas knocked senseless with a single blow the groom who struck his noble hound; and from here Douglas was led a captive into the fortress.
Meanwhile Ellen had found her way to the castle determined to see the King and with his signet ring beg the boon of her father's life. She learned to her astonishment that the King and Fitz-James were one, and that her suit was granted before it was asked, for the genial monarch announced Lord James of Douglas as 'a friend and bulwark of our throne.'
The monarch drank, that happy hour,The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,—When it can say with godlike voice,Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!
Then Ellen blushingly craved, through her father, the pardon of her lover, and the King in jovial mood commanded Malcolm to stand forth, exclaiming,—
'Fetters and warder for the Graeme!'His chain of gold the King unstrung,The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,Then gently drew the glittering band,And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.
Looking out from Stirling Castle over the delightful scenery of the Scottish Highlands, made a hundred times more lovely by the romantic poem, whose magic hasseemed to touch every lake and river, hill and valley, with its influence, we felt a strange reluctance to leave the scene, akin to that of the poet himself as he bids farewell to the Harp of the North:—
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!'T is now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,'T is now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.Receding now, the dying numbers ringFainter and fainter down the rugged dell;And now the mountain breezes scarcely bringA wandering witch-note of the distant spell,And now, 't is silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!
The town of Barnard Castle, where we arrived one evening after a long tour through Yorkshire, is on the left bank of the river Tees and on the southern boundary of the county of Durham. In the morning we were told by 'Boots,' the one man in an English hotel who knows everything, that the castle, which gives its name to the town, could be reached through the stable-yard back of the house. After travelling far out of our way to view the setting of Rokeby, which in the natural beauty of its scenery is unsurpassed by that of any of Scott's other poems, except 'The Lady of the Lake,' the suggestion of such an entrance to the locality of the opening stanzas was a rude shock to our sense of romantic propriety. The reality was worse than the suggestion and we began to think that possibly Mr. Boots might have misdirected us, supposing we wished to see the barnyard instead of Barnard Castle. We proceeded on our way, however, soon coming to a small cottage with a pretty little garden,—nearly every English cottage boasts one of these delightful little areas of colour and of fragrance,—and passing through, reached the enclosure where all that is left of the castle, or nearly all, now stands. Two impressive ruined towers and a short connecting wall are practically all that remain of a once splendid royal residence. On the left is 'Brackenbury's dungeon-tower,' no longer 'dismal,' for the ancient stones are partly clothed withthe foliage of fruit trees, trained English fashion against the walls, while a bed of bright-blooming flowers on the right, the fresh green leaves of some overhanging branches on the left, and the lawn, plentifully besprinkled with the dainty little English daisies, each catching its own ray of sunshine and giving a sparkle to the whole scene, all spoke eloquently of the change from death to life since the time when these walls cast only deep shadows of darkness and despair.
On the right of the enclosure is the old Baliol Tower, and in the wall connecting it with Brackenbury is an oriel window, where the arms of King Richard III may still be faintly traced in the stone.
Baliol Tower is a heavy round structure of great antiquity. It has a remarkable vaulted ceiling composed entirely of keystones arranged in circles. A narrow staircase within the walls leads to the battlements from which we obtained a magnificent view of the valley of the Tees.
What prospects from his watch-tower highGleam gradual on the warder's eye!Far sweeping to the east he seesDown his deep woods the course of Tees,And tracks his wanderings by the steamOf summer vapours from the stream.
If Barnard Castle appeared unromantic, approached from the yard of the inn, exactly the opposite feeling took possession of us when we viewed it from the footbridge, just above the dam. Here the river widens until it looks like a placid lake. The castle rises high above the stream, its base concealed by trees of heavy growth, but not tall enough to cover the two great towers andthe oriel window of King Richard. It is no longer a single ruined wall, but the imposing front of a vast structure, well placed for defence, once strong in war but now beautiful in peace.
Barnard Baliol, whose father was one of the followers of William the Conqueror, founded the castle in the beginning of the twelfth century. He was the grandfather of John Baliol, who contested with Robert Bruce the claim to the Scottish crown. The original castle or fortress covered an extensive area of over six acres, most of which is now given over to sheep-raising or to the cultivation of fruit trees. An extensive domain, comprising much of the surrounding country, was granted to the descendants of Barnard Baliol in the reign of King Rufus. Edward I granted it to Guy Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, in whose family it remained for several generations. Through the marriage of the daughter of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, famous as the king-maker, to the Duke of Gloucester, afterward King Richard III, the estate came into possession of the Crown. The castle was a favourite residence of Richard, who made many additions to it. In the reign of Charles I it was purchased by Sir Henry Vane the elder. When Scott makes it the property of Oswald Wycliffe, he does not go very far astray, for John Wycliffe, the great forerunner of the Reformation in England, was born on the banks of the river Tees and received his education at Baliol College, Oxford, which was founded by the Baliols of Barnard Castle, who were the neighbours of his family.
BRACKENBURY TOWER, BARNARD CASTLEBRACKENBURY TOWER, BARNARD CASTLE
Barnard Castle, however, interesting as it is, was not the magnet that drew the poet to this region for hisscenery. In 1808, Scott began his intimacy with John B. S. Morritt, a man of sterling character and high literary attainments, for whom he came to entertain a genuine affection. Morritt had inherited the estate of Rokeby, situated about four miles southeast of Barnard Castle. The Rokebys, like their neighbours, the Baliols, were descended from one of the followers of the Conqueror. The old manor house was destroyed by the Scotch after the battle of Bannockburn (1314), and the Rokeby of that day built the Castle of Mortham, much of which still remains standing on the opposite bank of the Greta. The present Hall was built in 1724. It stands in the midst of an extensive and beautiful park, which Scott, on the occasion of his first visit, thought 'one of the most enviable places' he had ever seen. 'It unites,' said he, 'the richness and luxuriance of English vegetation with the romantic variety of glen, torrent, and copse, which dignifies our Northern scenery. The Greta and Tees, two most beautiful and rapid rivers, join their currents in the demesne. The banks of the Tees resemble, from the height of the rocks, the Glen of Roslin, so much and justly admired.' The letter containing this enthusiastic praise of his friend's estate was written in 1809. Two years later, when the purchase of Abbotsford seemed to require another poem for its consummation, it was to the one place worthy of comparison with his beloved Glen of Roslin that the poet instinctively turned for his backgrounds.
Scott's ambition to be the 'laird' of an estate was gratified in the summer of 1811 when he became the owner of an unprepossessing farm of about one hundred acres. The land was in a neglected state, but little of ithaving been under cultivation. The farmhouse was small and poor, and immediately in front of it was a miserable duck pond. The place, from its disreputable appearance, had been known as 'Clarty Hole.' But Scott's prophetic vision could look beyond all this and see something, if not all, of the transformation which was to be wrought in the next twelve years. The farm lay for half a mile along the banks of the beautiful Tweed, the river which Scott loved. He knew the fertility of the soil and saw the possibility of making the place a beautiful grove. At first he thought only of 'a cottage and a few fields,' but as the passion for buying, planting, and building grew with his apparent prosperity, the farm became a beautifully wooded estate of eighteen hundred acres, the cottage grew into a castle, and 'Clarty Hole,' its name changed into 'Abbotsford' within less than an hour after the new owner took possession, became one of the most famous private possessions in the world.
The farm cost £4000, one half of which was borrowed from the poet's brother, Major John Scott, and the other half advanced by the Ballantynes on the security of 'Rokeby,' though the poem was not yet written. The plans for the purchase out of the way, Scott wrote to his friend, Morritt, outlining the new poem, having for its scene the domain of Rokeby and its subject the civil wars of Charles I. Morritt was delighted and immediately responded with a letter full of valuable information. The following summer was a busy one. Until the middle of July, Scott's duties as Clerk of the Court of Sessions kept him at Edinburgh five days in the week. Saturdays and Sundays were spent at Abbotsford. He composed poetry while planting trees and wrote down the versesamid the noise and confusion incident to building his new cottage. 'As for the house and the poem,' he wrote to Morritt, 'there are twelve masons hammering at the one and one poor noddle at the other.' Both 'Rokeby' and 'The Bridal of Triermain' were written under these conditions and at the same time, while Scott found opportunity also to continue his work on the 'Life of Swift,' which eventually reached nineteen octavo volumes, and to render other literary services to his publishers, the Ballantynes.
It was not long before Scott found an opportunity to visit Rokeby again, where he remained about a week. On the morning after his arrival, he informed Morritt that he needed 'a good robber's cave and an old church of the right sort.' Morritt promptly undertook to supply both, and to find the former rode with his friend to Brignall Woods, where the Greta flows through a deep glen, on one side of which are some perpendicular rocks, the site of an old quarry. I could not find any robber's caves, but it was easy enough for Scott to make one in such a rock formation. I could, however, form a pretty good idea of the wild flight of Bertram Risingham as he
Now clomb the rocks projecting highTo baffle the pursuer's eye:Now sought the stream, whose brawling soundThe echo of his footsteps drowned.
In all probability, the scene is the same to-day, as it was in Scott's time, wild and beautiful. The stream winds around through shady nooks, here rippling over the rocks and then widening out into a placid pool; occasionally passing out from beneath the trees into an open glade, where the well-worn boulders that punctuated itscourse lay gleaming in the sun, and presenting at every turn some new and changing view.
O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,And Greta Woods are green.
In describing the visit to this place Mr. Morritt gives an excellent idea of Scott's method:—
I observed him noting down even the peculiar little wild flowers and herbs that accidentally grew round and on the side of a bold crag near his intended cave of Guy Denzil; and could not help saying that as he was not to be upon oath in his work, daisies, violets, and primroses would be as poetical as any of the humble plants he was examining. I laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness; but I understood him when he replied, 'that in nature herself no two scenes were ever exactly alike, and that whoever copied truly what was before his eyes would possess the same variety in his descriptions and exhibit apparently an imagination as boundless as the range of nature in the scenes he recorded; whereas whoever trusted to imagination would soon find his own mind circumscribed, and contracted to a few favourite images, and the repetition of these would sooner or later produce that very monotony and bareness which had always haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the patient worshippers of truth.
The 'old church of the right sort' was found on the other side of Rokeby Park. We reached it from Barnard Castle by crossing the high Abbey Bridge, beneath which the Tees flows in a narrow, rippling, foaming lane of water, flanked on either side by trees of rich foliage whose bright green branches wave to each other continually across the stream in a sort of friendly salute. The old grey Abbey of Egliston is pleasantly situated on rising ground near where the Tees is joined by the rivulet known as Thorsgill.
Yet scald or kemper erred, I ween,Who gave that soft and quiet scene,With all its varied light and shade,And every little sunny glade,And the blithe brook that strolls alongIts pebbled bed with summer song,To the grim God of blood and scar,The grisly King of Northern War.
The abbey was founded in the twelfth century and dedicated to St. Mary and St. John the Baptist. It was once a beautiful cruciform building in the Early English style, but has been allowed to fall into decay and now only parts of the walls of the choir and nave remain.
The reverend pile lay wild and waste,Profound, dishonoured, and defaced.Through storied lattices no more,In softened light the sunbeams pour,Gilding the Gothic sculpture richOf shrine and ornament and niche.
This was the scene which Scott chose for the culminating tragedy of the poem.
There are many other places in the neighbourhood to which the poet refers. There is 'Raby's battered tower,' a large castle which boasts the honour of twice entertaining Charles I. There is the Balder, 'a sweet brooklet's silver line,' which flows into the Tees a few miles above Barnard Castle, and farther to the northwest, where the three counties of York, Durham, and Westmoreland meet, is the place
Where Tees in tumult leaves his sourceThundering o'er Cauldron and High-Force.
These two cataracts are most impressive when rainstorms have swelled the stream to its full capacity. Justoutside the park of Rokeby is a charming spot where the Greta meets the Tees,—
Where, issuing from her darksome bed,She caught the morning's eastern red,And through the softening vale belowRolled her bright waves in rosy glowAll blushing to her bridal bed,Like some shy maid in convent bred,While linnet, lark, and blackbird gaySang forth her nuptial roundelay.
Half hidden by the trees, the old stone 'dairy bridge' crosses the Greta, just where the river emerges from the park. It makes a pretty picture as you look through the single arch into the cool shades of the peaceful domain. Passing over this bridge we came to the old tower of Mortham. We did not find it deserted as did Wilfrid and Bertram, for it is now used as a farm and the tower is almost completely surrounded by low buildings of comparatively recent construction. From the garden, however, a fairly good view can be obtained.
And last and least, and loveliest still,Romantic Deepdale's slender rill.Who in that dim-wood glen hath strayed,Yet longed for Roslin's magic glade?
The glen which Scott would compare with his favourite Roslin must be romantic, indeed. The rill of Deepdale joins the Tees just above Barnard Castle. The scenery increases in beauty as the stream is ascended, to the solitary spot near the Cat Castle rocks—
Where all is cliff and copse and sky,—
and reaches its climax at the pretty waterfall of Cragg Force.
THE VALLEY OF THE TEES, FROM BARNARD CASTLETHE VALLEY OF THE TEES, FROM BARNARD CASTLE
The Cavaliers and Roundheads whom Scott introduces into the midst of this beautiful scenery are not, it must be confessed, particularly interesting, nor is the villain Bertram, in spite of the fact that the poet was a little proud of him as a sketch full of dash and vigour. There are three people, however, who hold the attention. The first is Matilda, who, by the poet's faintly veiled admission, was intended to be the picture of his early love, Williamina Stuart. In Wilfrid, the youth of poetic temperament, who loved in vain, and Redmond, his successful but generous rival, there is a suggestion, which one can scarcely escape, of the poet himself and Sir William Forbes, who married Williamina. Redmond showed his kindly heart and soldierly strength by fighting desperately over the prostrate figure of his wounded rival, at length carrying him in his arms from the burning castle to a place of safety, after his entire train had deserted their leader. Sir William Forbes was one of the first to offer aid when financial misfortune overtook Sir Walter, and when one creditor undertook to make serious trouble, privately paid the entire claim of nearly £2000, taking care that Scott should not know how it was managed. As a matter of fact, Sir Walter did not learn the truth until some time after the death of his generous friend.
One of Scott's chief delights was the little game offooling the critics. No sooner had he arranged for the publication of 'Rokeby' than he began tolay a trap for Jeffrey, whose reviews of the earlier poems had not been altogether agreeable. From this innocent little scheme the poet and his confidant, William Erskine, anticipated great amusement. The plan was to publish simultaneously with 'Rokeby,' a shorter and lighter romance, in a different metre and to 'take in the knowing ones' by introducing certain peculiarities of composition suggestive of Erskine. The poem thus projected, of which fragments had already been published, was 'The Bridal of Triermain.' The scheme so far succeeded that for a long while the public was completely mystified. A writer in the 'Quarterly Review,' probably George Ellis, thought it 'an imitation of Mr. Scott's style of composition,' and added, 'if it be inferior in vigour to some of his productions, it equals or surpasses them in elegance and beauty.' Jeffrey escaped the trap by the chance of a voyage to America that year, though it may be doubted whether he would have fallen into it.
I have already referred to the fact (chapter I) that much of the material for this poem came to Scott in the summer of 1797, when, after a visit to the English Lakes, he found some weeks of real romance near the village ofGilsland. To this period the poet's recollection turned for his 'light romance.' In the passage where Arthur derides the pretensions of his military rival,—
Who comes in foreign trasheryOf tinkling chain and spur,A walking haberdasheryOf feathers, lace, and fur,—
Lockhart finds an allusion to some incident of the ball at Gilsland Spa where Scott first met his future wife. Whether the walk along the Irthing River below the 'Spa' was really in the poet's mind, when he wrote of the 'woodland brook' beside which Arthur and Lucy wandered, is of course unknown, but I do not doubt that it may have been, since so much of the poem was suggested by the experiences of that pleasant summer. Triermain Castle, or what is left of it, is about three miles west of Gilsland. Only a fragment about the size of an ordinary chimney is now standing, though Scott saw more of it, for a considerable portion of the ruin fell in 1832. The Barons of Gilsland received a grant of land from Henry II sometime in the twelfth century, and Robert de Vaux, son of the original grantee, was probably the builder of the castle. On his tombstone in Lannercost Priory, near by, is this inscription:—
Sir Robert Vaux that sometime was the Lord of Triermain,Is dead, his body clad in lead, ligs law under this stane;Evin as we, evin as he, on earth a levan man,Evin as he, evin so maun we, for all the craft of men.
The castle was built of the stones of the old Roman wall which passes near the place. From Triermain, Sir Roland de Vaux sent his page to Ullswater, passingthrough Kirkoswald, a village of Cumberland on the river Eden. He came to Penrith, to the south of which is a circular mound supposed to have been used for the exercise of feats of chivalry, which the poet calls 'red Penrith's Table Round.' In the same locality near the river Eamont is 'Mayburgh's mound,' a collection of stones said to have been erected by the Druids. Continuing to the southward, he came to the shores of Ullswater, where he found the wizard of Lyulph's Tower. The venerable sage then related the story of King Arthur's adventure in the Valley of St. John.
THE VALLEY OF ST. JOHN, SHOWING TRIERMAIN CASTLE ROCKTHE VALLEY OF ST. JOHN,SHOWING TRIERMAIN CASTLE ROCK
We set out in quest of the mysterious phantom castle and found the drive through the narrow valley a delightful one. Nearly everybody who visits the English Lakes drives over the hills from Ambleside to Keswick. After passing Dunmailraise and skirting the shores of Thirlmere Lake beneath the shadows of Helvellyn, we turned off the main road near the mouth of St. John's Beck, one of the many pretty brooks that are found everywhere in the neighbourhood. A huge pile of rocks, projecting curiously from the side of a green-coated hill, is called, from the poem, Triermain Castle Rock. Following the course of the streamlet, upward, we found a view much like that which appeared to King Arthur, after the goblet with its liquid fire had disenchanted him.
The monarch, breathless and amazed,Back on the fatal castle gazed—Nor tower nor donjon could he spy,Darkening against the morning sky;But on the spot where once they frowned,The lonely streamlet brawled aroundA tufted knoll, where dimly shoneFragments of rock and rifted stone.
As we proceeded up the valley, looking back time and again for a last view of the rock, it was easy to fancy that what we saw in the distance might well be a castle and that under certain atmospheric conditions the illusion might be heightened.
'The Lord of the Isles,' was another effort to deceive the critics. A long poem acknowledged by Walter Scott, following soon after 'Waverley' and only a month preceding 'Guy Mannering,' was calculated to 'throw off' those who were trying to identify the mysterious author of the Waverley Novels with the well-known poet. It was the result of a vacation journey of about six weeks in a lighthouse yacht, made in the summer of 1814 in the company of a party of congenial friends. The chief of the expedition was Robert Stevenson, a distinguished civil engineer in charge of the lighthouse service on the north coast of Scotland, and the grandfather of Robert Louis Stevenson. After circling the Shetland and Orkney Islands they came down into the Minch or channel which separates the west coast of Scotland from the Hebrides, and stopped at Dunvegan, on the Isle of Skye, to see the ancient castle. Two days later they stopped to examine Loch Corriskin, which made a profound impression upon the poet's mind. 'We were surrounded,' he said in his Diary of the expedition, 'by hills of the boldest and most precipitous character and on the margin of a lake which seemed to have sustained the constant ravages of torrents from these rude neighbours. The shores consist of huge layers of naked granite, here and there intermixed with bogs and heaps of gravel and sand, marking the course of torrents. Vegetation there waslittle or none, and the mountains rose so perpendicularly from the water's edge that Borrowdale is a jest to them. We proceeded about one mile and a half up this deep, dark, and solitary lake, which is about two miles long, half a mile broad, and, as we learned, of extreme depth.... It is as exquisite as a savage scene, as Loch Katrine is as a scene of stern beauty.' In the poem he gives a little more vivid description:—
For rarely human eye has knownA scene so stern as that dread lakeWith its dark ledge of barren stone.Seems that primeval earthquake's swayHath rent a strange and shatter'd wayThrough the rude bosom of the hill,And that each naked precipice,Sable ravine, and dark abyss,Tells of the outrage still.The wildest glen but this can showSome touch of Nature's genial glow;On high Benmore green mosses grow,And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe,And copse on Cruchan-Ben;But here—above, around, below,On mountain or in glen,Nor tree nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,Nor aught of vegetative powerThe weary eye may ken.For all is rocks at random thrown,Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,As if were here deniedThe summer's sun, the spring's sweet dew,That clothe with many a varied hueThe bleakest mountain-side.
No wonder that the exiled monarch, Bruce, should say:
A scene so rude, so wild as this,Yet so sublime in barrenness,Ne'er did my wandering footsteps pressWhere'er I happed to roam.
Returning to their vessel after an extraordinary walk, the party left Loch Scavig and, rounding its southern cape, sailed into the Loch of Sleapin, where they visited Macallister's Cave. Here they found a wonderful pool, which, 'surrounded by the most fanciful mouldings in a substance resembling white marble, and distinguished by the depth and purity of its waters, might be the bathing grotto of a Naiad.'
In the morning they sailed toward the south and
Merrily, merrily goes the barkOn a breeze from the northward free,So shoots through the morning sky the lark,Or the swan through the summer sea.The shores of Mull on the eastward lay,And Ulva dark and Colonsay,And all the group of islets gayThat guard famed Staffa round.
They were following the same route, or nearly so, which the poet afterward laid down for Robert Bruce on his return from the Island of Skye to his native coast of Carrick.
They stopped at Staffa to view the famous basaltic formation,—
Where, as to shame the temples deckedBy skill of earthly architect,Nature herself, it seemed, would raiseA minster to her Maker's praise.
'The stupendous columnar side walls,' says the Diary; 'the depth and strength of the ocean with which the cavern is filled—the variety of tints formed by stalactitesdropping and petrifying between the pillars and resembling a sort of chasing of yellow or cream-coloured marble filling the interstices of the roof—the corresponding variety below, where the ocean rolls over a red, and in some places a violet-coloured rock, the basis of the basaltic pillars—the dreadful noise of those august billows so well corresponding with the grandeur of the scene—are all circumstances unparalleled.'
They also stopped to view 'Old Iona's holy fane,' the ancient burial-place of kings and abbots and other men of eminence. It is said that Macbeth was buried here and before him sixty other Scottish kings whose names are now unknown.
The vivid descriptions of scenes along the route of Bruce to Scotland, with which 'The Lord of the Isles' abounds, were gathered on this memorable journey of the poet. It was not so, however, with the arrival of Bruce at his ancestral castle of Turnberry on the coast of Ayr, the information for which was supplied by Scott's indefatigable friend, Joseph Train, whose investigations brought to light the ancient superstition that on each anniversary of the night of Bruce's return a meteoric gleam reappeared in the same quarter of the heavens.
The light that seemed a twinkling starNow blazed portentous, fierce and far,Dark red the heaven above it gleamed,Dark red the sea beneath it flowed,Red-rose the rocks on ocean's brim,In blood-red light her islets swim.
The ruins of Bruce's castle may still be seen close by the lighthouse at Turnberry. So little remains that they are scarcely visible from the land side, and thoughthousands visit the locality for a run over the superb golf links, few realize that here was the birthplace of Robert Bruce, and that the skirmishes here begun, when the future king returned prematurely from exile, led eventually to the series of successes which terminated in the great victory of Bannockburn.
The poetic description of this terrific combat lacks nothing of the vigour and dramatic force that characterize the story of Flodden Field. The scene where the Bruce, suddenly attacked by Sir Henry de Bohun, rises in his stirrups and fells the fierce knight with a single blow of his battle-axe; the stratagem of the concealed ditches into which the English rode with fearful losses; the kneeling of the Scottish army in prayer before the battle; the charge of the cavalry against the English archers; the sudden appearance of the Scottish camp-followers on the brow of the hill, waving their spears and banners, so that they resembled a fresh army of reinforcements; the tragic death of De Argentine and the final triumph of the Scottish cause are vividly portrayed with all the poet's accustomed power.
'The Lord of the Isles' was the last of Scott's important poems. Two other attempts followed, 'The Field of Waterloo' and 'Harold, the Dauntless,' but neither was considered successful.
TURNBERRY CASTLE, COAST OF AYRSHIRETURNBERRY CASTLE, COAST OF AYRSHIRE
'Rokeby,' 'The Bridal of Triermain,' and 'The Lord of the Isles,' though well worthy of the genius of the poet, had failed to equal in popularity the three greater poems by which his fame had been established. The brilliant success of Byron was, as Scott feared, 'taking the wind out of his sails.' Moreover, his own interest in poetry had waned under the influence of his greater achievementsin prose. As the author of the Waverley Novels he had stepped into a new and vastly more important field, where he now stood alone. So with the passing of Walter Scott the poet came the rising star of the novelist, and the world was the richer by the transition.
One morning during our stay at Melrose, we drove by motor westward along the Tweed, passing Ashestiel, situated high up on the opposite bank, but catching only a glimpse of it through the trees. Here 'Waverley' was begun in 1805 and laid aside because of the criticism of a close friend. Here, too, in 1810, it was resumed and again put aside because of the faint praise of James Ballantyne. This time the manuscript was lost and completely forgotten. It came to light in 1813 when Scott was searching in an old cabinet for some fishing-tackle. He was seized with a desire to finish it, and the work was done so fast that the last two of the original three volumes were written in three weeks. It was published on the 7th of July, 1814.
Farther up the stream we could see in the distance on a high elevation the ruins of Elibank, where Scott's ancestor, young Wat of Harden, came so near paying the penalty for 'lifting' a few head of his neighbour's cattle. Scott always said that the blood of the old cattle-drivers of Teviotdale still stirred in his veins, and in this way he accounted for his 'propensity for the dubious characters of borderers, buccaneers, Highland robbers, and all others of a Robin Hood description.'
Our journey on this particular morning was for the purpose of visiting an old baronial mansion which Scott no doubt had very much in his mind during the writingof 'Waverley.' This was Traquair House, situated in the village of that name, about two miles south of Innerleithen. It presents some striking resemblances to the description of Tully Veolan. There is a long and wide avenue, having an upper and a lower gate. 'This avenue was straight and of moderate length, running between a double row of very ancient horse-chestnuts, planted alternately with sycamores, which rose to such huge height, and flourished so luxuriantly, that their boughs completely overarched the broad road beneath.' Two narrow drives, one on each side of the broad avenue, converge immediately in front of the inner gate. Between these is a broad space 'clothed with grass of a deep and rich verdure.' The outer entrance to the avenue is barred by a pair of iron gates, hung between two massive pillars of stone, on each of which is a curious beast, standing on his hind legs, his fore legs resting on a sort of scroll-work support. The animals face each other like a couple of rival legislators holding a joint debate from behind tall reading-desks. Scott says somewhat dubiously that these 'two large weather-beaten mutilated masses of upright stone ... if the tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, or at least been designed to represent, two rampant Bears, the supporters of the family of Bradwardine.' If any of the village people, who stood around as I arranged my camera, their wide-stretched eyes and open mouths betraying their curiosity, had told me that these 'bears' were 'rampant hippopotami,' I should have rewarded them with my usual credulous nod and 'thank you.' There can be little doubt that Scott took the idea of the Bears of Bradwardine from this gate, although hemultiplied the two and scattered them all over the place.
Like Tully Veolan, the house seems to consist of high, narrow, and steep-roofed buildings, with numberless windows, all very small, while the roofs have little turrets, 'resembling pepper-boxes.' It was built 'at a period when castles were no longer necessary and when the Scottish architects had not yet acquired the art of designing a domestic residence.'
Scott no doubt was a frequent visitor here. In one of his letters he refers to the owner in connection with a plan to plant some 'aquatic trees,—willows, alders, poplars, and so forth,'—around a little pond in Abbotsford and to have a 'preserve of wild ducks' and other water-fowl. He says, 'I am to get some eggs from Lord Traquair, of a curious species of half-reclaimed wild ducks, which abound near his solitary old château and nowhere else in Scotland that I know of.' This denotes a somewhat intimate acquaintance with the Earl of Traquair. The house, indeed, was so near Ashestiel that Scott could hardly fail to visit so interesting a place many times. It is doubtful if there is another inhabited house in Scotland more ancient than Traquair. The present owner takes care to preserve its appearance of antiquity. No repairs or alterations are made except such as are absolutely necessary, and then the work is done in such a way as to conceal its 'newness.' Among the early owners of the estate was James, Lord Douglas, the friend of Bruce, who attempted to carry his chief's heart to the Holy Land. The founder of the family of Traquair was James Stuart, and his descendants have held the estate for nearly four centuries.
The great gate with the grotesque bears has been closed for more than a century. One tradition is that the defeat of the young Prince Charles at the battle of Culloden in 1746 was the direct cause of its final closing. The Prince visited the Earl of that day (Charles, the fifth Earl of Traquair) to persuade him to lend his active support to the Jacobite cause. The Earl felt compelled to decline, but in escorting his visitor from the park, made a vow that the gate should never be opened again until a Stuart was on the throne. The defeat of the Prince was a severe disappointment to the Traquair family and the vow of the Earl has been kept to this day, even though the earldom is now extinct.
It is not correct, however, in spite of the striking resemblances, to speak of Traquair House as the 'original' of Tully Veolan. Scott himself says in his note in the edition of 1829, 'There is no particular mansion described under the name of Tully Veolan; but the peculiarities of description occur in various old Scottish seats.' Among these were the house of Sir George Warrender upon Bruntsfield Links; the old house of Ravelston, owned by Sir Alexander Keith, the author's friend and kinsman, from which he took some hints for the garden; and the house of Dean, near Edinburgh. He adds,'The author has, however, been informed that the house of Grandtully resembles that of the Baron of Bradwardine still more than any of the above.'
Acting upon this hint, when we were making the city of Perth our centre, we took a long journey by motor with Grandtully Castle as the objective point. I doubt if there is a more beautiful drive in all Scotland. We followed the left bank of the river Tay through a fertilevalley of surpassing loveliness. In the whole journey of nearly one hundred miles it seemed as though there was never a blot on the landscape. No neglected farms, no rough patches of naked earth, no tumble-down fences, no unsightly railroad excavations nor bare embankments, no swamps filled with fallen timber, no hideous bill-boards, none of the hundreds of unsightly objects which mar the scenery of so many country drives. Everything seemed well kept. The big estates were filled with beautiful trees and shrubs, many of them in full bloom, and the humbler places did equally well, though on a smaller scale. I remember passing a hedge of beeches, half a mile long, the trees growing ninety feet high and so close together as to make a wall impenetrable to the sunlight. I was told that this hedge was trimmed once in three years at an expense of fifteen hundred dollars each time. This is only one item in the care of a large estate. We passed the park and palace of Scone, where the coronation stone was kept before its removal to Westminster Abbey, and from which it received its name. Farther to the north we stopped a few minutes at Campsie Linn, which I shall mention later in connection with 'The Fair Maid of Perth.' A little beyond Cargill our course turned sharply to the West, although the main road continues to the north until it reaches Blairgowrie, some two or three miles beyond which is another 'original' of Tully Veolan, the house of Craighall. Unfortunately lack of time did not permit a visit to this place, but I must digress long enough to explain its significance. It was the seat of the Rattray family, who were related to William Clerk, one of Scott's most intimate companions of the early daysspent among the law courts of Edinburgh. During one of the Highland excursions the friends stopped at Craighall. When 'Waverley' came out, twenty-one years later, Mr. Clerk was so much struck with the resemblance of Tully Veolan to the old mansion of the Rattrays that he immediately said, 'This is Scott's.' The reason for the conviction was probably not so much the similarity of the real house to the fictitious one as the recollection of a little incident of the early excursion. Clerk, seeing the smoke of a little hamlet before them, when they were tired and heated from their journey, is said to have exclaimed, 'How agreeable if we should here fall in with one of those signposts where a red lion predominates over a punch-bowl!' In spite of the lapse of so many years, Clerk recognized his own expression (with which he knew Scott had been particularly amused) in that part of the description of Tully Veolan where 'a huge bear, carved in stone, predominated over a large stone basin.'
GRANDTULLY CASTLEGRANDTULLY CASTLE
Following the course of the beautiful river, upstream, we came at length, far up in the Perthshire hills, to the Castle of Grandtully. It is a large and stately mansion, situated in one of those beautiful parks with which the region abounds. It has the pepper-box turrets and small windows of Tully Veolan. It is now, as in Scott's time, the home of a family of Stewarts, one of whom, Sir George, supported the cause of 'the Young Chevalier' in 1745. The gardener, who, in the absence of the family, did the honours of the place, told me that Scott had visited the house many years after 'Waverley' appeared and had said then that it was more nearly like what he had described than any other castle, and that'the only mistake he had made was in putting bears on the gateway instead of bees.' There is a fine wrought-iron gate at Grandtully with the figures of two bees, forming a part of the coat of arms of the Stewart family. An avenue of limes formerly led to this gate, but it is no longer used and only two of the trees remain. Scott was always cautious about admitting any connection of his writings with definite 'originals,' but was ever ready to humour those who fancied they saw certain resemblances. It is curious that he does not mention either Traquair House or Craighall in his note, though both were identified as 'originals' during his lifetime. No doubt, consciously or unconsciously, he wove into his novel partial descriptions of both, as well as of Grandtully, while the houses which he particularly mentions also furnished some of the details.
The historical value of 'Waverley' lies in its picture of the rising of the Highland clans in favour of Charles Edward Stuart, called the 'Young Pretender' by the supporters of the reigning king, but affectionately known among his Scottish adherents as 'Bonnie Prince Charlie.' The ambitious young man, the grandson of James II, left France in the summer of 1745 in a small vessel, with only seven friends, and landed on one of the Hebridean Islands. Before the end of August he had raised his standard in the valley of Glenfinnan and found himself at the head of an army of fifteen hundred men, chiefly of the clans of MacDonald and Cameron. He soon made a triumphant march to Edinburgh, where he established himself in the Palace of Holyrood, which the Stuart family had already made famous. On Tuesday, the 17th of September, he caused the proclamationof his father, 'the Old Pretender,' as King James VIII, to be read by the heralds at the old Market Cross in Parliament Square. The people crowded around the 'Young Chevalier,' eager to kiss his hand or even to touch for a single instant the Scottish tartan which he wore. So great was the crowd that he was compelled to call for his horse, for otherwise he could make no progress. It is said that his noble appearance so won the hearts of all who beheld him that before he reached the palace the polish of his boots was dimmed by the kisses of the multitude.
That night the old palace reawakened to something of its former brilliancy, on the occasion of a great ball, given by the Prince. The old picture gallery, with its array of queer portraits of long-forgotten Scottish kings, was a scene of glittering splendour. The long-deserted halls, now brilliant with a thousand lights, were crowded with an assembly of men of education and fortune, accompanied by their ladies in gowns of such elegance as the confusion of the times might permit. Mingling with these representations of the Jacobean gentry of Edinburgh were the handsomely arrayed officers of the clans, the Highland gentlemen of importance, with their many coloured plaids and sashes, their broadswords glittering with heavy silver plate and inlaid work, and all the other elegant appurtenances for which the picturesque Highland costume offered abundant scope. In the chapter on the Ball, Scott merely introduced into an historic assemblage two handsome women, Flora MacIvor and Rose Bradwardine, and two men, Fergus MacIvor and Edward Waverley.