Before taking leave of the Scottish poet and his picturesque home, we paused for a few minutes to visit the wondrous caverns, cut out of the solid rock upon which the house is built. Antiquarians have insisted that these caves date back to the time of the Picts, at least as far as the ninth or tenth century.
This, too, was the popular understanding before the scientists offered their opinion. In a curious old volume, published in 1753,[2] we are told:—
Underneath [the house of Drummond] are the noted Caverns of Hawthorn-Den, by Dr. Stuckely in his Itinerarium-Curiosa, said to have been the King of Pictlands Castle or Palace; which nothing can shew the Doctor’s Credulity more than by suffering himself to be imposed upon by the Tattle of the Vulgar, who in all things they cannot account for, are ascribed to the Picts, without the least Foundation. For those caves, instead of having been a Castle or Palace, I take them either to have been a Receptacle for Robbers, or Places to secure the People and their Effects in, during the destructive Wars between the Picts and English, and Scots and English.
During the contests between Bruce and Baliol for the Scottish crown, these caves became a place of refuge for Bruce and his friends, and one of the rooms is still pointed out as Bruce’s bedchamber.
| “Here, too, are labyrinthine paths To caverns dark and low, Wherein they say King Robert Bruce Found refuge from his foe.” |
In the walls are many square holes, from twelve to eighteen inches deep, supposed to have been used as cupboards. On a rough table near one of the openings is a rude and very much damaged desk, said to have been the property of John Knox.
Leaving these gloomy resorts of ancient heroes—perhaps of ancient robbers—we sought a brighter and more cheerful scene. Descending the path we reached a bridge over the Esk on which is a gate that permitted us to leave Hawthornden, although it does not allow wanderers on the other side to enter. The bridge gave a fine opportunity for a farewell view of the grand old mansion, high in the air at the top of the cliff, which we were now viewing from below.
A delightful stroll along the left bank of the stream for about two miles brought us to Roslin Castle, situated on a rocky promontory high above the river. At the point of the peninsula the river is narrowed by a large mass of reddish sandstone over which it falls. When flooded this becomes a beautiful cascade,—whence the name, “Ross,” a Gaelic word meaning promontory or jutting rock, and “Lyn,” a waterfall,—the “Rock of the Waterfall.” The Esk, where it forms the cascade, is still called “the Lynn.” The view from the promontory is one of the most delightful to be imagined. The banks are precipitous and covered with a luxurious growth of natural wood. The vale seems to be crowded with every possible combination of trees and cliffs, foliage and sparkling stream, that nature can put together to form a region of romantic suggestion.
| RUINS OF ROSLIN CASTLE |
Little now remains of the ancient castle of Roslin, which was formerly two hundred feet long and ninety feet wide. A few ivy-covered walls and towers may still be seen, in the midst of which is a more modern dwelling rebuilt in 1653. The ancient foundation walls, nine feet thick, still visible below the surface, and the almost inaccessible location of the castle tell the story of its original purpose. A huge kitchen, with the fireplace alone occupying as much space as the entire kitchen of one of our modern houses, suggests the lavish scale upon which the establishment was once conducted.