I cannot help reflecting here, in the native land of Scott, what the present generation owes to him for preserving the history, traditions, and romance of their country to undying fame; for investing them with new interest to the whole civilized world; for strengthening Scottish national traits, inculcating new pride to preserve the relics of their bravery and noble deeds among all classes, high and low.
Thousands and thousands of the Scotch people are to-day indebted to the labors of this indefatigable, industrious, and wonderful man for their daily bread. I have been through enormous publishing houses here, or, I might more appropriately style them, vast book factories, where editions of his works, in every conceivable style, are issued. Year after year the never-tiring press throws off the same sheets, and yet the public are unsatisfied, and call for more; new readers step yearly into the ranks vacated by those who went before them; and the rattle of the press readily beats to quarters, each season, a fresh army of recruits.
The poems, couplets, pictures, carved relics, guide-books, museums, ruins, &c., which his magic pen has made profitable property, are something marvellous. Fashions of brooches, jewelry, plaids, dress, and ornaments to-day owe their popularity to his pen, and what would be forgotten ruins, nameless huts, or uninviting wastes, it has made the Meccas of travellers from all nations.
As an illustration of the latter fact, I met a man upon the battlements of Edinburgh Castle, from Cape Town, Africa, whose parents were Scotch, but who for years had been an exile, who in far distant countries had read Scott's Waverley novels and Scott's poems till the one wish of his heart was to see old Scotland and those scenes with which the Wizard of the North had inflamed his imagination, and who now, at fifty years of age, looked upon his native land the first time since, when a boy of eight years, he
"ran about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine."
He was now realizing the enjoyment he had so many years longed for,—looking upon the scenes he had heard his father tell and his mother sing of, enjoying the reward of many years of patient toil, made lighter by the anticipation of visiting the home of his fathers; and I was gratified to find that, unlike the experiences of many who are so long in exile, the realization of his hopes was "all his fancy painted" it, and he enjoyed all with a keen relish and enthusiastic fervor.
It is a pleasant seven mile ride from Edinburgh out to Rosslyn Castle, and the way to go is to take Hawthornden, as most tourists do, en route. This place—a delightful, romantic old ivy-covered mansion—is perched upon a high precipice, eighty or one hundred feet above the River Esk ("where ford there was none"), in a most delightfully romantic position, commanding a view of the little stream in its devious windings in the deep, irregular gully below; the gardens and walks, for a mile about and above the river, are charmingly rural and tastefully arranged. One can well imagine that Drummond, the Scottish poet and historian, the friend of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Drayton, drew inspiration from this charming retreat. Jonson is said to have walked all the way from London to make a visit here.
Under the mansion we visited a series of curious caves, hollowed from the solid rock, and connected with each other by dark and narrow passages, very much like those subterranean passages told of in old-fashioned novels, as existing beneath old castles. One of these rocky chambers had a little window cut through its side, half concealed by ivy, but commanding a view of the whole glen. Here, the guide told us, Robert Bruce hid for a long time from his enemies; and I was prepared to hear that this was the scene of the celebrated spider anecdote of the story-books. We got no such information, but were shown a long, two-handed sword, however, said to have belonged to the Scottish king, which I took pleasure in giving a brandish above my head, to the infinite disgust of the guide, who informed me, after I had laid down this formidable weapon, that visitors were not allowed to handle it.
It may be as well to state that the authenticity of this sword, and also the correctness of the story that Bruce ever hid there, are questioned. One of the chambers has regular shelves, like book-shelves, cut in the rock, and this is styled Bruce's Library. Passing out into the grounds of the house, we descended, by a pretty rustic pathway, to the valley, and along by the side of the Esk River, which babbled over its rocky bed at our feet. If this Esk is the same one that Young Lochinvar swam, he did not accomplish anything to boast of; for during a walk of over two miles at its side, I saw no part over twenty feet wide, and no very dangerous depth or current.