We really had stopped at the back of the house, which is built facing the glen, but I soon found my way to the front.
I cannot describe the beauty of those terraced gardens, that one after another led down to the green glen beneath, where the river was winding as if loth to leave so sweet a place. They were ablaze with flowers, the grass in the dingle below was very green, the waters sparkled in the sunlight, and beyond the river the braeland was a rolling cloudland of green trees.
We drove out by an avenue—two miles long—bordered by young firs and cypresses.
Altogether, the estate is a kind of earthly paradise.
And think of it being constantly open to tourist or visitor!
“What a kind lady that Miss Hamilton must be, sir!” said my coachman.
“Yes, John,” I replied. “This is somewhat different from our treatment at Newstead Abbey.”
I referred to the fact that on my arrival at the gates of the park around that historical mansion where the great Byron lived, I could find no admission. In vain I pleaded with the lodge-keeper for liberty only to walk up the avenue and see the outside of the house.
No, she was immovable, and finally shut the gates with an awful clang in my face.
I have since learned that many Americans have been treated in the same way.