“But which would you take yourself?” we insisted.
“Since you must be sae particular, I’d say that I should tak the lower road.”
“Let it be the lower road, then,”—but he held up his hand at the first click of the starting lever.
“Since you have decided to tak the lower road, I might say that I live a few miles out on this, and seeing there’s an empty seat, perhaps ye’ll be willing to give me a ride.” It was now clear why he had been so non-communicative. He did not wish to unduly influence us for his own advantage; but after it was all decided on our own motion, he felt free to avail himself of the opportunity to be relieved of a tiresome walk. A few miles out he pointed to a neat residence—his home—and our canny Scotsman left us.
The next day we were in Edinburgh, after passing the night at Stirling. It had rained fitfully during our tour in Fife and a gray mantle still hung over “Auld Reekie,”—though perhaps the name is less appropriate than when Scott first used it. The Fifeshire roads averaged bad—rough and stony and often quite slippery from the rain. We were glad to pass the day in our comfortable rooms at the North British watching the rain-soaked city from our windows. But it was no better on the following day and we were soon on the North Berwick road in the same discouraging drizzle. Nothing could be more depressing under such conditions than the succession of wretched suburban towns through which we passed for some distance out of Edinburgh. The streets, despite the rain, were full of dirty children and bedraggled women, and we were glad to come into the open road along the sea. It is a road that must afford magnificent views in fine weather, but for us it wended along a wind-swept, chocolate-colored ocean that was quickly lost in the driving rain. There are numerous seaside resorts between Portobello and North Berwick, though the latter is the more popular and is supplied with palatial hotels.
It was just beyond here that we caught sight of the object of our pilgrimage along the Firth—the old Douglas castle of Tantallon, which, mirrored in Scott’s heroic lines, excited and dazzled our youthful imagination. It stands drearily on a bleak headland and was half hidden in the gray gusts of rain when
“Close before us showed
His towers, Tantallon vast.”
But its vastness has diminished since the day of which Scott wrote, for much of the castle has disappeared and the sea wall which ran along the edge of the rock has crumbled away. Still, the first impression one gets of the shapeless ruin as he crosses the waterless moat and rings the bell for admission is one of majesty, despite the decay riot everywhere. We waited long, almost despairing of gaining entrance, when the keeper appeared at the gate. He was not expecting visitors on such a stormy day and had been drowsing over old papers in his little booth inside.
