It seems rather incongruous that the massive, martial-looking castle should originally have been the palace of the Bishop of St. Andrews, but it was in an age when the church and the military went hand in hand. It was not strange, perhaps, in Scotland, where the greater part of the murderous wars among the people sprang out of religious disputes, that the home of a church dignitary should be a stronghold, and the traditions of St. Andrews Castle tell more of violence and bloodshed than the annals of many a secular fortress.
It is a strange comment on the ferocity of the old-time churchmen that one of the most fiendish relics of “man’s inhumanity to man” is to be found in this martial bishop’s palace. Like all gruesome things, it is the center of interest, and the rheumatic old custodian had learned the attraction of the horrible for average human nature, for he greeted us with “Ye’ll be wantin’ to see the bottle dungeon first.” He led us into the dark shadows of the “sea tower,” as John Knox designated it, and placing a lighted candle on a staff, dropped it into a circular opening four or five feet in diameter. Looking down, we could see a bottle-shaped cavity hewn out of the solid rock, and extending below the level of the sea. Into this the captives were lowered, and with no light and little air were left to a dreadful death, their moans drowned by the thunder of the waves overhead. Or perhaps a more merciful fate might be meted to some of them—even though it were death at the stake—for we know that George Wishart, whom Cardinal Beaton burned before the castle, had first been imprisoned in the dungeon. One almost breathes a sigh of relief to know that shortly afterwards the Presbyterians stormed the fortress and slew the inhuman cardinal, whose body was thrown into the dungeon after having been exposed from the castle walls. John Knox was one of the party that slew Beaton, and he wrote a gloating account of the incident.
But enough of these horrors, which the old custodian drones over in broad Scotch dialect. Let us go out upon the pleasant greensward of the courtyard, where there is little to remind us of the terrible deeds that have transpired within the gloomy walls. The seaward walls have nearly disappeared, for the stone was used in work on the harbor by a generation that little dreamed of the value posterity would set on such historic monuments.
Following the coast road from St. Andrews to Kirkcaldy, we were seldom out of sight of the sea, and passed through several little fishertowns centuries old and quite looking their years. Largo is the birthplace of Alexander Selkirk, whose experiences on a desert island gave DeFoe the idea of “Robinson Crusoe.” The house where he was born still stands and a stone figure of Crusoe is set just in front in a niche in the wall. In all of these coast towns an old-world quiet seemed to reign save in the “long town” of Kirkcaldy, through whose dirty streets, thronged with filthy children, we carefully picked our way. Here we turned inland, passing a succession of towns whose rubbish-covered streets were full of drunken miners—it was Saturday afternoon—who stumbled unconcernedly in front of the car; and not a few drunken women joined in the yells which often greeted us. The road was very bumpy and it is a far from pleasant or interesting route until the neighborhood of Dunfermline is reached.
Dunfermline should be a household word in America, for here is the modest slate-roofed cottage where our great dispenser of free libraries was born and which he purchased some years ago. He is a sort of fairy godfather to Dunfermline and has showered on the town more wealth than the canny burghers know what to do with. We had a letter of introduction to one of the linen manufacturers—linen-making is the great industry of Dunfermline—and he insisted upon showing us about the town. He pointed out some of the benefactions of Mr. Carnegie, who, besides the regulation free library, gave a large sum toward the restoration of the abbey church and to establish a public park. Still more, he has set aside a sum of no less than half a million sterling, the income from which is to be spent under the direction of a board of trustees in promoting “the higher welfare, physical, intellectual and moral, of the inhabitants.” So great are his benefactions that Dunfermline has been afforded the opportunity of becoming a model town in every respect, though the experiment is still in its infancy.
The abbey church is one of the most interesting in Scotland and is the shrine of all patriotic Scots, for here is buried King Robert the Bruce, whose name is cut in huge letters in the balustrade surrounding the tower. The nave of the church has been restored and is now used as a place of worship, and there remains enough of the ruined monastery to give the needed touch of the picturesque.
On leaving the town we were somewhat at a loss for the road, and asked a respectable-looking gray-whiskered gentleman if he could direct us to Alloa.
“Oh,” said he, “there are twa roads to Alloa—do you wish the upper or the lower road?”
We expressed our indifference; we only wanted the best.
“I’m no saying which is the best,” he said cautiously.