Chapter XX: The English and Their Institutions 355 (6)

Lairg is the only village on the way, a group of cottages clustered about an immense hotel which is one of the noted Scotch resorts for fishermen. It is situated at the southern extremity of Loch Shin, where, strange to say, fishing is free--not a common state of affairs with the Scotch lochs. It is famous for its trout and salmon, though it is decidedly lacking in picturesqueness, one writer describing it as "little better than a huge ditch."

From Bonar Bridge southward we retrace the broad, level road that we followed out of Inverness, and from the opposite direction the green and thriving countryside presents quite a new aspect. We have often remarked that it is seldom a hardship to retrace our way over a road through an interesting country. The different viewpoint is sure to reveal beauties that we have missed before. One cannot complain that the country here lacks attractions--there are many famous excursions to the lochs and glens and one of the most delightful is the ten-mile drive to Glen Affrick, which may be taken from Beauly. Mr. MacWhirter's picture shows a view of the dashing river--and I recall that the great artist, when showing me the original, remarked that if one were asked to guess, he would hardly locate Glen Affrick in the Scotch Highlands, so strongly suggestive of the Dark Continent is the name.

XII

DOWN THE GREAT GLEN

That we had once--under the guidance of that patron saint of tourists, Thos. Cook--made the regulation boat trip down the Caledonian Lakes and Canal, in no wise lessens our eagerness to explore the Great Glen by motor car. On a previous occasion we reluctantly gave up the run from Inverness to Oban because of stories of inconvenient and even dangerous ferries; but recent information from the Royal Automobile Club shows that while only a few attempt the journey, it is entirely practicable. The English motorist, accustomed to perfect roads and adequate ferry service, is likely to magnify deviations from the best conditions, which would be scarcely remarked upon by his American brother, to whom good highways are the exception rather than the rule. And so it chanced that the Great Glen acquired a rather unsavory reputation and only a few Americans or an occasional venturesome native undertook the journey. At the present time, I understand, the road and service have been so improved that no one need hesitate in essaying this delightful trip.

Mr. George Eyre-Todd, a Scottish author, in a recently published book gives some descriptive and historical information concerning the country we are about to explore:

"Glen More na h' Albyn, the Great Glen of Scotland, stretching from the Moray Firth southwestward to the Sound of Mull, cuts the Scottish Highlands in two. For grandeur and variety of scenery--mountain and glen, torrent and waterfall, inland lake and arm of the sea--it far surpasses the Rhine; and though the German river, with its castled crags and clustering mountain-towns, has been enriched by the thronged story of many centuries, its interest even in that respect is fully matched by the legends, superstitions and wild clan memories of this great lake valley of the north. For him who has the key to the interests of the region the long day's sail from Inverness to Oban unrolls a panorama of unbroken charm.

"The Caledonian Canal, which links the lakes of this great glen, was a mighty engineering feat in its day. First surveyed by James Watt in 1773, at the instance of the trustees of the forfeited estates, and finally planned by Telford in 1804, it was begun by Government for strategic purposes during the Napoleonic wars, and when finally opened in 1847 had cost no more than a million and a quarter sterling. It has a uniform depth of eighteen feet, and ships of thirty-eight feet beam and a thousand tons burden can sail through it from one side of Scotland to the other. In these peaceful times, however, the canal is very little used. In autumn and spring the brown sails of fishing-boats pass through in flights, and twice a day in summer the palace-steamers of David Macbrayne sweep by between the hills. But for the rest of the time the waters lap the lonely shores, the grey heron feeds at the burn mouths, and sunshine and rain come and go along the great mountainsides, exactly as they did in the days of Culloden or Inverlochy.

"The canal at first has the country of Clan Mackintosh, of which Inverness may be considered the capital, on its left. At the same time, down to Fort Augustus, it has the Lovat country on the right. Glengarry, farther down, was the headquarters of the Macdonnells. South of that lies the Cameron country, Lochaber and Lochiel. And below Fort William stretches the Macdonald country. All these clans, in the '45, were disaffected to Government, and followed the rising of Prince Charles Edward."

Inverness, with her bracing air and clear river, her beautiful island park, well-stocked shops and wealth of romantic associations, will always tempt one to linger, come as often as he may. It is our fourth stop in the pleasant northern capital; we have tried the principal hotels and we remember the Alexandra most favorably--though one traveler's experiences may not be of great value in such a matter. Individual tastes differ and a year or two may work a great change in an inn for better or worse.

Within a dozen miles of Inverness one may find many historic spots. Few will overlook Culloden Moor, with its melancholy cairn and its memories of the final extinguishment of the aspirations of the Stuart line. Not less interesting in a different way is Cawdor Castle, the grim thirteenth-century pile linked to deathless fame in Shakespeare's "Macbeth." There are drives galore to glens and resorts and you will not be permitted to forget the cemetery, in which every citizen of the town seems to take a lugubrious pride. Indeed, it is one of the most beautiful burial grounds in the Kingdom. Crowning a great hill which commands far-reaching views of valley and sea, it lacks nothing that art and loving care can lavish upon it.

But Inverness, with all her charm, must not detain us longer. Our journey, following the course of the lakes to Oban, begins in the early morning; the distance is only one hundred and twenty miles, but they tell us we are sure to experience considerable delay at the ferries. It is a dull, misty morning and the drifting fog half hides the rippling river which we follow some miles out of Inverness. By the time we reach the shores of Loch Ness, the sunlight begins to struggle through the mist which has enveloped everything and, to our delight, there is every promise of a glorious day.

The lake averages a mile in width and for its entire length of nearly twenty-five miles is never more than a few score yards from the road. It is an undulating and sinuous road and one of the most dangerous in the Kingdom for reckless drivers. Here it turns a sharp, hidden corner; there it drops suddenly down a short, steep declivity into a dark little glade; at times it winds through trees that press too closely to allow vehicles to pass, and again it follows the edge of an abrupt cliff. Such a road cannot be traversed too carefully, but, fortunately, to anyone with an eye for the beauties of nature, there is no incentive to speed. Every mile of the lake presents new aspects--a dark, dull mirror or a glistening sheet of silver, and again a smiling expanse of blue, mottled with reflections of fleecy white clouds. In one place it shows a strange effect of alternating bars of light and shade sweeping from shore to shore, a phenomenon which we are quite unable to understand. About midway an old castle rises above the dark waters which reflect it with all the fidelity of a mirror, for at this point the plummet shows a depth of seven hundred feet. For six hundred years Castle Urquhart has frowned above the lake and about it has gathered a long history of romantic sieges and defenses, fading away into myth and legend. Its sullen picturesqueness furnished a theme for the brush of Sir John Millais, who was a frequent visitor to the Great Glen and an ardent admirer of its scenery.

As we pursue the lakeside road, we find ourselves contrasting our former trip by steamer, and we agree that the motor gives the best realization of the beauties of landscape and loch. There are points of vantage along the shore which afford views far surpassing any to be had from the dead level of the steamer deck; the endless variations of light and color playing over the still surface we did not see from the boat. There may be much of fancy in this; everything to the motor enthusiast seems finer and more enchanting when viewed from that queen of the road--the open car.

The old chroniclers have it that St. Columba traversed the Great Glen in 565 A. D. and they declare that he beached his boat near Kilchimien on Loch Ness after having by his preaching and miracles converted the Pictish kings. This is the first record of the introduction of Christianity into the northern Highlands.

Fort Augustus marks the southern extremity of Loch Ness and here are the great buildings of St. Benedict's Abbey and School, a famous Catholic college patronized by the sons of the gentry and nobility of that faith. The fort was built by the English a couple of centuries ago as a base of offense against the adherents of the Stuarts in the vicinity, and we may be sure that the fierce Highlanders did not permit the garrison to suffer from inactivity.

At this point the road swings across the canal and follows the western shores of Loch Oich and Loch Lochy. We miss the trees which border Loch Ness; here we pass at the foot of high, barren hills over which, to the southward, rises Ben Nevis, the loftiest of Scotch mountains. There is not much of interest until we reach the vicinity of Fort William at the northern end of Loch Linnhe. As we approach the town we catch glimpses of the ivy-clad ruin of Inverlochy, one of the most ancient and romantic of northern Scottish castles. A portion of the structure is supposed to antedate the eighth century and it was long the residence of a line of Pictish kings--kings, indeed, even though their subjects were but a handful of ill-clad marauders. In any event, one of them, King Achaius, was of enough importance to negotiate a treaty with ambassadors sent by Charlemagne. It would be a long story to tell of the sieges and sallies, of the fierce combats and dark tragedies that took place within and about the walls of Inverlochy Castle; for in all its thousand years it saw little of peace or quiet until after the fight at Culloden; and such a story would accord well with the air of grim mystery that seems to hover over the sullen old ruin to-day. Standing on the verge of the still water, its massive round towers outlined against the rocky sides of Ben Nevis, whose snow-flecked summit looms high over it, it seems the very ideal of the home of chivalry, rude and barbarous though it may have been.

Fort William, with its enormous hotels, shows the usual characteristics of a Scottish resort town--but the attractions which bring guests to fill such hotels are not apparent to us. More likely these are in the neighborhood rather than in the town itself. We pause here in an endeavor to get some authentic information concerning the ferry at Ballachulish, for our doubts have been considerably aroused about it. The office of the steamship company of David Macbrayne, who controls nearly all the coastwise shipping in North Scotland, seems a likely place and thither we hie ourselves. The canny Scot in charge assures us that the ferry is exceedingly dangerous--that motors are transferred on a row-boat and some day there will be a dreadful accident; he even darkly hints that something of the sort has already occurred. The safe and sane thing to do is to place our car aboard the next canal steamer, which will land us in Oban in the course of five or six hours--and it will cost us only three pounds plus transportation for ourselves. Shall he book us and our car for the boat?

His eagerness to close the deal arouses our suspicion--besides, we have done the Caledonian trip by boat before and are not at all partial to the proposed plan. It occurs to us that the proprietor of a nearby garage ought to be as well informed on this matter and more disinterested than Mr. Macbrayne's obsequious representative.

"Cars go that way every little while," he says. "Not especially dangerous--never had an accident that I know of."

Thus encouraged, we soon cover the dozen miles to the ferry. Our fine weather has vanished and a drizzling rain is falling at intervals. At the ferry we learn that the crossing can be made only at high tide, which means four hours' wait amidst anything but pleasant surroundings. There are two vehicles ahead of us--a motor and a small covered wagon about which two miserably dirty and ragged little youngsters play, regardless of the steady rain. A dejected man and a spiritless woman accompany the wagon and soon respond to our friendly advances. They are selling linoleum made in Aberfeldy--traveling about the country in the wagon, stopping at cottages wherever a bit of their commodity is likely to be in demand. It is a pitiful story of poverty and privation, of days without sales enough to provide food, and of cold, wet nights by the roadside. If the end of the trip finds them even they are well content, but more often they are in debt to the makers of the linoleum.

There are thousands of others, they tell us, gaining a precarious living, like themselves, though of course not all selling the same commodity. When they see our annoyance at the delay, they offer to yield us their turn in crossing, which we gladly accept, for it affords an excuse for a gratuity, which we feel our chance acquaintances sorely need.

In the meantime the tide is flowing swiftly through the narrow strait which connects Loch Leven with the wide estuary of Loch Linnhe and our boat approaches from the opposite side. Four men are rowing vigorously and as the small craft grates alongside the slippery granite pier, one would never choose it as a fit transport for a heavy motor. It is about twenty feet in length by ten or a dozen wide; two stout planks are placed crosswise and two more form a runway from the sloping landing, and, altogether, the outlook is rather discouraging to anyone so prejudiced in favor of the terra firma as ourselves. We are half tempted to retrace our journey to Fort William, but fortunately, the two young men who have preceded us in a large runabout furnish an object lesson that proves the trick not nearly so difficult as it looks. We follow suit in our turn and our car, by a little careful jockeying, is soon nicely balanced on the planks in the center of the boat. We express surprise that the added weight seems scarcely to affect the displacement of the craft. "O, ay,--she'll carry twelve ton," says one of the men who overhears us. So the two tons of the car is far from the limit, after all. It is a strong pull, well out of the direct line in crossing, for the tide is running like a mill-race and would sweep us many furlongs down the shore were not due allowance made by the rowers. The landing is easier than the embarking, and we are soon away at something more than the lawful pace for Benderloch Station, where another crossing must be made.

We might have wished to take the right-hand road to Glencoe, only a few miles from Ballachulish--mournful Glencoe, with its memories of one of the darkest deeds that stain the none too spotless page of Scottish history. For here the bloody Cumberland, acting upon explicit orders from the English throne, sent a detachment of soldiers under the guise of friends seeking the hospitality of Clan Macdonald, which received them with open arms. The captain of the troop was an uncle of the young chieftain's wife, which served still farther to win the utmost confidence of the unsuspecting clansmen. For two weeks the guests awaited fit opportunity for their dastardly crime, when they murdered their host in the very act of providing for their entertainment and dealt death to all his clan and kin, regardless of age or sex. A few escaped to the hills, only to perish miserably from the rigors of the Scottish midwinter. Such is the sad tale of Glencoe, where to-day a tall granite shaft commemorates the victims of the treacherous deed.

A hundred tales might be told of the Great Glen--true tales--did our space permit. Here Bonnie Prince Charlie marshalled his forces and made his last stand in his struggle for the throne of his fathers. In 1745, at Gairlochy, near Fort William, the royal adventurer organized the nucleus of the army which was to capture Edinburgh and throw all the Kingdom into consternation by its incursion into England. Here he planned a battle with General Cope, who avoided the encounter, a move which gave great impetus to the insurrection. Charles was in high feather and passed a night in revelry at Invergarry Castle with the Highland chieftains, who already imagined their leader on the highway to the British throne. Less than a year later the prince again sought Invergarry in his flight from Culloden's fatal field, but he found the once hospitable home of the chief of Glengarry empty and dismantled and so surrounded by enemies that, weary and despairing as he was, he still must hasten on. Two weeks later, after a score of hairbreadth escapes, the royal fugitive left Scotland--as it proved, forever.

We did not at the time reflect very deeply on these bits of historic lore; the rain was falling and the winding, slippery road required close attention. Much of the scenery was lost to us, but the gloomy evening was not without its charm. The lake gleamed fitfully through the drifting mists and the brown hills were draped with wavering cloud curtains. Right behind us rose the mighty form of Ben Nevis, on whose summit flecks of snow still lingered. The wildness of the country was accentuated by the forbidding aspect of the weather, but we regretted it the less since our former trip had been under perfect conditions.

At Benderloch Station we found a railway motor van and flat car awaiting us, in response to our telephone message from Ballachulish. Our motor was speedily loaded on the car, while we occupied seats in the van, an arrangement provided for motorists by the obliging railway officials. All this special service costs only fifteen or twenty shillings; but no doubt the railroad people established the rate to compete with the ferry across Loch Creran Inlet. They set us down safe and sound on the other side of the estuary, and we soon covered the few remaining miles to Oban, where we needed no one to direct us to the Station Hotel, for we learned on a former visit that it is one of the best-ordered inns in the North Country.

XIII

ALONG THE WEST COAST

The day following our arrival in Oban dawns clear and bright with that indescribable freshness that follows summer rain in the Highlands. We find ourselves loath to leave the pleasant little town, despite the fact that two former visits have somewhat detracted from the novelty of the surroundings. We could never weary of the quiet, land-locked harbor, with its shimmering white sails and ranges of green and purple hills beyond, or of the ivy-clad ruin of Dunolly that overhangs the waters when looking up the bay. The town ascends the steep hill in terraces and a climb to the summit is well rewarded by the splendid view. One also sees at close range the monstrous circular tower which dwarfs everything else in Oban and which one at first imagines must have some great historic significance. But the surmise that it was the work of ancient Romans in an effort to duplicate the Coliseum is dashed when we learn that Oban is scarcely a hundred years old and that "McCaig's Folly" was built after the foundation of the town. An eccentric native conceived the idea of erecting this strange structure "to give employment to his fellow-townsmen" and dissipated a good-sized fortune in the colossal gray-stone pile. Its enormous proportions can only be realized when one stands within the walls, which form an exact circle possibly two hundred feet in diameter and range from fifty to seventy-five feet in height.

While the town itself is modern, the immediate vicinity of Oban does not lack for ancient landmarks. Dunstaffnage, with its traditions of Pictish kings, is antedated by few Scottish castles and Dunolly is one of the most picturesque. Kilchurn and Duarte, though farther away, are easily accessible, and the former, on the tiny islet in Loch Awe, is one of the most beautiful of Scottish ruins. There are few drives that afford greater scenic charm than the circular trip past Loch Feochan and Loch Melfort, returning by Loch Awe, and there is no steamer trip in the Kingdom that excels in glorious scenery and historic interest the eighty-mile excursion to Staffa and Iona. With such attractions it is not strange that Oban is thronged with tourists during the short summer season.

But we have "done" nearly everything in our two previous visits and have little excuse to linger. The only road out of the town, except the one by which we came, drops southward through a country we have not yet explored. Brown and barren hills greet us at first, relieved here and there by the glitter of tiny lakes and by green dales with flocks of grazing sheep. A touch of brilliant color is given to the landscape by the great beds of blue and yellow flags, or fleur-de-lis, which cover the marshy spots along the road. For several miles we skirt the shores of Loch Feochan, a tidal lake whose blue-green waters are at their height, making a beautiful picture with the purple hills as a background.

The tiny village of Kilninver stands at the inlet of the loch and here the road re-enters the hills; there is a long steady climb up a steep grade ere the summit is reached and in places the narrow road skirts a sharp declivity, sloping away hundreds of feet to the valley beneath. We fortunately escape an unpleasant adventure here; just at the summit we find four men pushing an old-fashioned, high-wheeled car to the top of the grade. It lost its driving-chain, they tell us, and as the brake failed to work, narrowly missed dashing down the hill. Had it gone a rod farther such a catastrophe would surely have occurred; not very pleasant for us to contemplate, since at few places is there more than enough room to pass a vehicle driven with care, let alone one running amuck!

The descent is not so abrupt and a long steady coast brings us to the Pass of Melfort, where a swift mountain stream dashes between towering cliffs. We run alongside until we again emerge on the sea-shore, following the rugged coast of Loch Melfort for some miles. The road is rough in places and passes a sparsely populated country with here and there an isolated village, usually harsh and treeless. Kilmartin is the exception--a rather cozy-looking hamlet with a huge old church surrounded by fine trees. In Kilmartin Glen, near by, are numerous prehistoric sculptured stones often visited by antiquarians. Thence to Loch Gilphead the road is first-class; it crosses over the Crinan Canal, through which steamers bound for Oban and Glasgow pass daily. Loch Gilphead is a straggling fishing-town, its docks littered with nets and the harbor crowded with small craft; its inn does not tempt us to pause, though luncheon hour is well past.

For twenty miles or more we course along the wooded shores of Loch Fyne, another of the long narrow inlets piercing the west Scottish coast. It is a beautiful run; trees overarch the road and partly conceal the gleaming lake, though at intervals we come upon the shore with an unobstructed view of the rugged hills of the opposite side. Near the head of the lake is Inverary, the pleasant little capital of Argyleshire and as cleanly and well-ordered a village as one will find in Scotland. The Argyle Arms, seemingly much out of proportion to the village, proves a delightful place for our belated luncheon. No doubt the inn is necessary to accommodate the retinues of the distinguished visitors at Inverary Castle, which frequently include members of the royal family, with which the present duke is connected by marriage. The modern castle stands on an eminence overlooking town and loch and a smooth lawn studded with splendid trees slopes to the road. The design is Gothic in style, four-square, with pointed round towers at each corner, and the interior is well in keeping with the magnificence of the outside.

The road we follow in leaving Inverary closely hugs the shores of Loch Fyne for some miles and but a short way out of the town passes beneath the ruin of Dunderawe Castle. Rounding the head of the loch, always keeping near the shore, we strike eastward through the range of giant hills that lie between Loch Fyne and Loch Lomond. It is a barren stretch of country; the road is rough and stone-strewn, with many trying grades--dangerous in places; long strenuous climbs heat the motor and interminable winding descents burn the brakes. There is little to relieve the monotony of the wild moorlands save a mountain stream dashing far below the road or a tiny lake set in a hollow of the hills, but never a village or seldom an isolated cottage for miles. Near the summit is a rude seat with the inscription, "Rest and be thankful," erected long ago for the benefit of travelers who crossed the hills on foot. The poet Wordsworth made this journey and described it in one of his sonnets as "Doubling and doubling with laborious walk," ending in a grateful allusion to the resting place.

We are glad to see the waters of Loch Lomond, glinting with the gold of the sunset, flash through the trees, for we know that the lake-shore road is good and one of the most beautiful in Scotland. Miles and miles it follows the edge of the island-dotted loch, which broadens rapidly as we course southward. The waters darken to a steel-blue mirror, but the hills beyond are still touched with the last rays of the sun--a glorious scene, not without the element of romance which adds to the pleasure one so often experiences when contemplating Old Scotia's landscapes. It is only by grace of the long twilight that we are able to reach Glasgow by lamp-lighting time. Measured in miles, the day's run was not extraordinary, but much of the road was pretty strenuous and tire trouble has been above normal, so that the comfortable hotel of the metropolis does not come amiss.

After a perfunctory round in Glasgow, our thoughts turn toward Ayr; even though we have already made two pilgrimages to Burnsland, the spell is unbroken and still would be though our two visits were two score. We will not follow the Kilmarnock route again, but for the sake of variety will go by Barrhead and Irvine on the sea. It proves a singularly uninteresting road; Barrhead is mean and squalid, the small villages are unattractive, and Irvine is a bleak, coal-shipping town. Irvine would be wholly commonplace had not the poet James Montgomery honored it by making it his birthplace and had not Bobby Burns struggled nearly a year within its confines to earn a livelihood as a flax-dresser. The ill luck that befell nearly all the poet's business ventures pursued him here, for his shop burned to the ground and Irvine lost her now distinguished citizen--though she little knew it then, for Burns was only twenty-two. Perhaps it was a fortunate fire, after all, for had he prospered he might have become more of a business man than poet, and the world be infinitely poorer by the exchange. A colossal statue recently erected commemorates his connection with Irvine and again reminds one how Burns overshadows everything else in the Ayr country.

The Station Hotel affords such a convenient and satisfactory stopping-place that we cut short our day's run after completing the forty miles from Glasgow. There is really not much in the town itself to detain the tourist; we wander down the main street and cross the "Twa Brigs;" from the beach we admire the broad bay and the bold rocky "Heads of Ayr" to the south. In the distance are the dim outlines of the Emerald Isle, seen only on the clearest days, and nearer at hand the Isles of Bute and Arran. The town is quite modern; there is considerable manufacturing and ship-building and many of the landmarks of the time of Burns have been obliterated.

Fortunate indeed is it that the shrines at Alloway have not shared the same fate--a third visit to these simple memorials may seem superfluous, but we must confess to a longing to see them all again. The birthplace, Kirk Alloway, the monument, the Brig o' Doon and the museum, with its priceless relics of the poet--all have a perennial interest for the admirer of Burns and Scotland. The bare simple room where the poet was born has a wealth of sentiment that attaches to few such places, and I cannot forbear quoting Mr. George Eyre-Todd's little flight of fancy inspired by this same primitive apartment:

"One can try," he writes, "to imagine the scene here on the afternoon of that wild winter day when 'a blast o' Januar' win'' was to blow 'Hansel in on Robin.' There would be the goodwife's spinning-wheel set back for the nonce in a dark corner; the leglins, or milking-stools--on which the bright-eyed boy was to sit a few years later--pushed under the deal table; the wooden platters and bowls from which the household ate, arranged in the wall rack, and the few delf dishes appearing in the half-open aumrie or cupboard; while from the rafters overhead hung hanks of yarn of the goodwife's spinning, a braxie ham, perhaps, and the leathern parts of the horses' harness. Then, for the actors in the humble scene, there was a shadowy figure and a faint voice in the deep-set corner bed; the inevitable 'neighbour-woman' setting matters to rights about the wide fireplace in the open chimney; and William Burness himself, whip in hand, hurriedly getting into his heavy riding-coat to face the blast outside.

"A glance at the face of the great eight-day clock, a whispered word and a moment's pause as he bends within the shadow of the bed, while the neighbour turns industriously to the fire, and then, with a pale face and some wildness in the eyes, the husband makes off, over the uneven floor of flags, and the door closes after him. In a minute or two the tramp of the hoofs of his galloping mare dies away in the distance, and the women are left, waiting.

"Behind him as he turned from his door on that wild day, the farmer would hear the Doon thundering down its glen, and the storm roaring through the woods about the ruin of Alloway Kirk, which his son's wild fancy was afterwards to make the scene of such unearthly revels. The old road to Ayr was narrower and more irregular, between its high hedges, than the present one; and every step of the way had some countryside memory belonging to it. Behind, by its well, where the road rose from the steep river-bank among the trees, stood the thorn 'where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'.' In the park of Cambusdoon an ash tree still marks the cairn 'where hunters fand the murdered bairn.' Farther on, in a cottage garden close by the road, is still to be seen that 'meikle stane, where drucken Chairlie brak's neck bane.' And on the far side of the Rozelle wood, a hundred yards to the left of the present road, was 'the ford where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd.'

"As William Burness reached the stream here a singular incident befell him. On the farther side, when he had crossed, he found an old woman sitting. The crone asked him to turn back and carry her over the river, which was much swollen by the rains. This, though he was in anxious haste, he paused and did, and then, dashing a third time through the torrent, sped off on his errand to Ayr. An hour later, on returning to his cottage with the desired attendant, he found to his surprise the gipsy crone seated by his own fireside. She remained in the house till the child was born, and then, it is said, taking the infant in her arms, uttered the prophecy which Burns has turned in his well-known lines:

'He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart abune them a',
He'll be a credit till us a';
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.'

"Shortly afterwards, as if to begin the fulfillment of the carline's prophecy, the storm, rising higher and higher, at length blew down a gable of the dwelling. No one was hurt, however, and the broken gable of a clay 'bigging' was not a thing beyond repair.

"Such were the circumstances and such was the scene of the birth of the great peasant-poet. Much change, no doubt, has taken place in the appearance both of the cottage and of the countryside since the twenty-fifth of January in the year 1759; but after all it is the same countryside, and the cottage is on the identical spot. Within these walls one pictures the poet in his childish years:

"There, lonely by the ingle-cheek
He sat, and eyed the spueing reek
That filled wi' hoast-provoking smeek
The auld clay biggin',
And heard the restless rattons squeak
Aboot the riggin'."

And in this rude apartment the immortal scene of "The Cotter's Saturday Night" was enacted--and here it occurred to us to ask Mr. Dobson to give us his conception of the family group at worship--how well he has succeeded the accompanying picture shows. We will be pardoned, I am sure, the repetition of the oft-quoted lines in connection with the artist's graphic representation of a scene already familiar the world over.

"The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care,
And, 'Let us worship God!' he says, with
solemn air."

In this same ingle nook it may be that Burns spent an occasional evening with Highland Mary--for Mary Campbell was for a short time employed as governess in the vicinity, and it is not unlikely that she was a frequent guest at the Burns cottage--a probability that has supplied Mr. Dobson with another of his happiest themes. Associations such as these are more than the scant array of facts given in the guide-books concerning the old cottage, and they give to the bare walls and rude furnishings an atmosphere of romance that no familiarity can dispel.

From Alloway our road quickly takes us to the seashore, which we are to follow for many miles. It is a glorious day, fresh and invigorating, the sky tranquil and clear, and the sea mottled with dun and purple mists which are rapidly breaking away and revealing a wide expanse of gently undulating water, beyond which, in the far distance, the stern outlines of Arran and Kintyre gradually emerge.

It is a delightful run along the coast, which is rich in associations and storied ruins. Athwart our first glimpse of the ocean stands the dilapidated bulk of Dunure Castle, an ancient stronghold of the Kennedys, who have stood at the head of the Ayrshire aristocracy since 1466. Indeed, an old-time rhymester declared:

"'Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr,
Port-Patrick and the Cruives of Cree,
No man may think for to bide there,
Unless he court Saint Kennedie."

But to-day the traditions of the blue-blooded aristocrats of Ayrshire are superseded by the fame of the peasant-poet and the simple cottage at Alloway outranks all the castles of the Kennedys. We are again reminded of Burns at Kirkoswald, a tiny village a few miles farther on the road; here he spent his seventeenth summer and in the churchyard are the graves of the originals of Tam o' Shanter and Souter Johnnie. We pass in sight of Culzean Castle, a turreted and battlemented pile, standing on the verge of a mighty basaltic cliff beneath which the sea chafes incessantly. It is the seat of the Marquis of Ailsa--one of the Kennedys--built about a century ago, and the curious may visit it on Wednesdays.

What Culzean lacks in antiquity is fully supplied by ruinous Turnberry, a scant five miles southward, associated as it is with the name of King Robert Bruce, who may possibly have been born within its walls. Here it was that Bruce, in response to what he thought a prearranged signal fire, made his crossing with a few followers from Arran to attempt the deliverance of his country. The tradition is that the fire was of supernatural origin and that it may still be seen from the shores of Arran on the anniversary of the eventful night. This incident is introduced by Scott into "The Lord of the Isles:"

"Now ask you whence that wondrous light,
Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight?--
It ne'er was known--yet gray-hair'd eld
A superstitious credence held,
That never did a mortal hand
Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand;
Nay, and that on the self-same night
When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleamed the light.
Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor,
And glittering wave and crimson'd shore--
But whether beam celestial, lent
By Heaven to aid the King's descent,
Or fire hell-kindled from beneath,
To lure him to defeat and death,
Or were but some meteor strange,
Of such as oft through midnight range,
Startling the traveller late and lone,
I know not--and it ne'er was known."

Turnberry is very ruinous now and must have been rude and comfortless at its best--another reminder that the peasants of to-day are better housed and have more comforts and conveniences than kings and nobles enjoyed in the romantic times we are wont to dream about.

Girvan is the first town of any size which we encounter on leaving Ayr, a quiet trading-place close on the shore. Just opposite is Ailsa Craig, a peculiar rocky island twelve miles away, though it looks much nearer. It seems very like Bass Rock, near Tantallon Castle on the east coast, though really it is higher and vaster, for it rises more than a thousand feet above the sea. It is the home of innumerable sea-birds which wheel in whimpering, screaming myriads about it. A solitary ruin indicates that it was once a human abode, though no authentic record remains concerning it.

Southward from Girvan we traverse one of the most picturesque roads in all Scotland. It winds along the sea, which chafes upon huge boulders that at some remote period have tumbled from the stupendous overhanging cliffs. Among the scattered rocks are patches of shell-strewn sand on which the surf falls in silvery cascades as the tide comes rolling landward. Even on this almost windless day the scene is an impressive one and we can only imagine the stern grandeur of a storm hurling the waves against the mighty rocks which dot the coast-line everywhere. Soon the road begins to ascend and rises in sweeping curves to Bennane Head, a bold promontory commanding a wide prospect of the wild shore and sea, with the coast of Ireland some forty miles away--half hidden in the purple haze of distance. It is an inspiring view and one which we contemplate at our leisure--thanks to the motor car, which takes us to such points of vantage and patiently awaits our pleasure--different indeed from the transitory flash from the window of a railway car! A long downward glide takes us into the village of Ballantrae, whose rock-bound harbor is full of fishing-boats. Here the road turns inland some miles and passes through a rich agricultural section. In places apparently the whole population--men, women and children--are employed in digging potatoes, of which there is an enormous yield. Hay harvest is also in progress, often by primitive methods, though in the larger fields modern machinery is used.

The road brings us again to the coast and a half dozen miles along the shore of Loch Ryan lands us in the streets of Stranraer. It is a modern-looking town and we stop at the King's Arms for luncheon, which proves very satisfactory. There is a daily service of well-appointed steamers from Stranraer to Larne, a distance of some thirty miles, and much the shortest route to Ireland. The peninsula on which Stranraer and Port Patrick are situated is reputed to have the mildest and most salubrious climate in Scotland and the latter place is gaining fame as a resort. There are many great country estates in the vicinity, notably Lochinch, the estate of the Earl of Stair. Near this is Castle Kennedy, which was burned in 1715, but the ruin is still of vast extent, with famous pleasure grounds surrounding it. The motorist may well employ a day in this locality and will be comfortable enough at Stranraer.

There is no nobler highway in Scotland than the broad, level and finely engineered road from Stranraer through Castle Douglas to Dumfries. It passes through as beautiful and prosperous a country as we have seen anywhere--and we have seen much of Scotland, too. At Glenluce we make a short detour--though it proves hardly worth while--to see the mere fragment of the old abbey which the neighboring vicar is using as a chicken-roost. It is utterly neglected and we are free to climb over the mouldering walls, but there is no one to pilot us about and tell us the story of the abbey in its prosperous days. And it did have prosperous days, for it was once of great extent and its gardens and orchards were reputed one of the sights of Scotland. Here James IV. and his queen came on one of their journeys some four centuries ago and the record of his donation of four shillings to the gardener still stands--a pretty slim royal tip, it seems to us now.

Newton-Stewart is beautifully situated on the River Cree, whose banks we follow to Wigtown Bay, along which the broad white road sweeps in graceful curves. Many country houses crown the green, undulating hills and we catch occasional glimpses of them through the trees--for the parks are all well wooded. The excellent road through Gatehouse and Castle Douglas we cover so rapidly that the sun is still high when we reach Maxwelton. Dumfries, just across the River Nith, is our objective and it occurs to us that there is still time to correct a mistake we made on a previous tour--our failure to see Sweetheart Abbey. It is near the village of New Abbey some ten miles down the river, but on arriving we learn that the abbey is not shown after six o'clock. A visit to the custodian's home, however, secures the key and we have sole possession of the ruin during the quiet twilight hour.

There are many abbey ruins in Scotland--and we have seen the most famous--but it may be the hour of our visit, quite as much as the strange story of Sweetheart, that leaves it with the rosiest memory of them all. In its one-time importance as well as in the beauty of its scattered remnants, it is quite the peer of any of its rivals, but none of these have such an atmosphere of romantic history. For Sweetheart stands forever as a monument of love and constancy, as intimated in its very name. John Baliol of Barnard Castle, Yorkshire, died in 1269, leaving his widow, Countess Devorgilla, to mourn his loss. And truly she did mourn it. There are many monuments to her sorrow--Baliol College, Oxford, Dundrennan Abbey and New Abbey--or Sweetheart, as it is now known. Both of the latter are in Galloway, for Devorgilla was the daughter of the Lord of Galloway and a native of the province. Upon the death of her only sister she became sole heiress to the vast estates of her father and when she became Baliol's widow she was easily the richest subject in all Britain. She survived her husband for twenty-one years, during which time she was engaged principally in benevolent work, visiting many parts of the country. Her husband's heart, embalmed and encased in a silver casket, she constantly carried with her and at her death in 1289 it was entombed upon her breast. She was buried in New Abbey, which she built as a memorial to Baliol and a resting place for her own body. When the abbey was dismantled her tomb was despoiled--but her epitaph still exists in one of the old chronicles:

"In Devorgil a sybil sage doth dye as
Mary contemplative, as Martha pious.
To her, O deign, high King, rest to impart
Whom this stone covers, with her husband's heart."

Such is the story of the beautiful old abbey, whose roofless and windowless walls rise before us, the harsh outlines hidden by the drooping ivy and softened by the fading light. It is more ruinous and fragmentary than Melrose or Jedburgh, but enough remains to show its pristine artistic beauty and vast extent. The sculptures and other delicate architectural touches were doubtless due to workmen sent by the Vatican, since the Scotch had hardly attained such a degree of skill in 1270. It is wrought in red sandstone, which lent itself peculiarly well to the art of the carver and which, considering its fragile nature, has wonderfully withstood the ravages of time and weather. An extensive restoration is in progress which will arrest further decay and insure that the fine old ruin will continue to delight the visitor for years to come.

There is no one to point out refectory and chapel and other haunts of the ancient monks--but it is just as well. We know Sweetheart's story and that is enough, in the silence and solemnity of the gathering twilight, to make the hour we linger an enchanting one. And yet the feeling of sadness predominates, as we move softly about over the thick carpet of green sward--sadness that this splendid memorial to a life of sacrifice and good works should have fallen into such decay that the very grave of the benevolent foundress should be effaced! The spell is broken when one of our party reminds us that it is growing late; that we may miss the dinner hour at our hotel, and we regretfully bid farewell to Sweetheart Abbey. We are glad that the royal burgh of Dumfries is at the end of the day's journey--an unusually long one for us--for we know that its Station Inn is one of the most comfortable in Scotland.

XIV

ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND

Who could ever weary of English Lakeland? Who, though he had made a score of pilgrimages thither, could not find new beauties in this enchanted region? And so in our southward run we make a detour from Carlisle to Keswick by the way of Wigton, a new road to us, through a green and pleasant country. We soon find ourselves among the hills and vales of the ill-defined region which common consent designates as the Lake District. Rounding the slopes of Skiddaw--for we have a rather indirect route--we come upon a vantage point which affords a glorious view of Bassenthwaite Water, glittering like a great gem in its setting of forest trees. We have seen the District many times, but never under better conditions than on this clear, shimmering July day. The green wooded vales lying between the bold, barren hills, with here a church-tower or country mansion and there a glint of tarn or river, all combine to make an entrancing scene which stretches clear and distinct to the silvery horizon. We pause a short space to admire it, then glide gently down the slope and along the meandering Derwent into Keswick town.

It is the height of the summer season here and the place shows unmistakable marks of the tourist-thronged resort; the Hotel Keswick, where we stop for luncheon, is filled to overflowing. It is the most beautifully located of the many hotels in the town, standing in its own well-cared-for grounds, which are bedecked with flower-beds and shrubbery. The Keswick is evidently a favorite with motorists, for we found many cars besides our own drawn up in front. It is a pleasant, well-conducted inn--everything strictly first-class from the English point of view--with all of which the wayfarer is required to pay prices to correspond.

Keswick is anything but the retired village of the time of the poet Southey, whose home, Greta Hall, may be seen on an eminence overlooking the town. As the gateway by which a large proportion of tourists enter the Lake District, and as a resort where a considerable number of visitors--mostly English--come to spend their vacations, it is a lively place for some weeks in midsummer. There is not much of consequence in the town itself or in the immediate vicinity. It is the starting-point, however, for an endless number of excursions, mostly by coach, for the railroad does not enter many parts of the District frequented by tourists. Even wagon-roads are not numerous and the enthusiast who wishes to thoroughly explore the nooks and corners must do much journeying on foot.

We have little reason for choosing the coast road in our southern journey through Cumberland, except the very good one that we have never traversed it, while we are familiar with the splendid highway which follows the lakes to Lakeside and over which runs the great course of tourist travel. The roads are not comparable in interest, so greatly does the lake route excel, both in scenic beauty and in literary and historic associations. Still, the dozen miles from Keswick to Cockermouth is a beautiful run, passing around the head of Derwentwater and following for its entire length--some four miles--the western shore of Bassenthwaite Water. The road winds through almost unbroken woodland and we catch only fugitive glimpses of the shimmering water between the thickly crowded trunks that flit between us and the lake. At intervals, however, we swing toward the shore and come into full view of the gleaming surface, beyond which stretches an array of wooded parks, surrounding an occasional country seat. Still beyond rise the stern outlines of Skiddaw, one of the ruggedest and loftiest of the lake country hills--though as a matter of fact, its crest is but three thousand feet above the sea. It is a delightfully quiet road; we meet no other wayfarers and aside from the subdued purr of the motor, there is no sound save the wash of the wavelets over the rocks or the rustle of the summer breeze through the trees. The north end of Bassenthwaite marks the limit of Lakeland for all except the casual tourist, and here a snug little wayside inn, the Pheasant, affords a retreat for solitude-loving disciples of Ike Walton.

Cockermouth has little claim to distinction other than the fact that the poet Wordsworth was born here a little more than a century and a half ago. A native of whom we inquire points out the large square gray-stone house, now the residence of a local physician. The swift Derwent flows a few rods to the rear and the flower-garden runs down to the river's edge. The house stands near the highway and is no exception to the harsh, angular lines that characterize the village. It is in no sense a public show-place and we have no intention of disturbing the Sunday-afternoon quiet of the present occupants in an endeavor to see the interior. Wordsworth's connection with the house ceased at the death of his father, when the poet was but a child of fourteen. His young mother--a victim of consumption--had laid down life's burdens some six years earlier, and the orphan children were taken to the home of a relative at Kendal.