126. LETTER CXXVI.
SPORTING AND ITS EQUIPMENTS — ROSLIN CASTLE
AND CHAPEL.
The nominal attraction of Scotland, particularly
at this season, is the shooting. Immediately on your
arrival, you are asked whether you prefer a flint or a
percussion lock, and (supposing that you do not travel
with a gun, which all Englishmen do), a double-barrelled
Manton is appropriated to your use, the game-keeper
fills your powder and shot-pouches, and waits
with the dogs in a leash till you have done your breakfast;
and the ladies leave the table, wishing you a
good day's sport, all as matters of course.
I would rather have gone to the library. An aversion
to walking, except upon smooth flag-stones, a
poetical tenderness on the subject of “putting birds
out of misery,” as the last office is elegantly called,
and hands much more at home with a goose-quill than
a gun, were some of my private objections to the “order
of the day.” Between persuasion and a most
truant sunshine, I was overruled, however; and, with
a silent prayer that I might not destroy the hopes of
my noble host, by shooting his only son, who was to
be my companion and instructer, I shouldered the
proffered Manton and joined the game-keeper in the
park.
Lord Ramsay and his man looked at me with some
astonishment as I approached, and I was equally surprised
at the young nobleman's metamorphosis. From
the elegant Oxonian I had seen at breakfast, he was
transformed to a figure something rougher than his
highland dependant, in a woollen shooting-jacket, that
might have been cut in Kentucky, pockets of any
number and capacity, trousers of the coarsest plaid,
hob-nailed shoes, and leather gaiters, and a manner
of handling his gun that would have been respected
on the Mississippi. My own appearance in high-heeled
French boots and other corresponding geer for
a tramp over stubble and marsh, amused them equally;
but my wardrobe was exclusively metropolitan, and
there was no alternative.
The dogs were loosed from their leash and bounded
away, and crossing the Esk under the castle walls,
we found our way out of the park, and took to the
open fields. A large patch of stubble was our first
ground, and with a “hie away!” from the game-keeper,
the beautiful setters darted on before, their
tails busy with delight and their noses to the ground,
first dividing, each for a wall-side, and beating along
till they met, and then scouring toward the centre, as
regularly, as if every step were guided by human
reason. Suddenly they both dropped low into the
stubble, and with heads eagerly bent forward and the
intensest gaze upon a spot, a yard or more in advance,
stood as motionless as stone. `A covey, my lord!”
said the game-keeper, and, with our guns cocked, we
advanced to the dogs, who had crouched, and lay as
still, while we passed them, as if their lives depended
upon our shot. Another step, and whirr! whirr! a
dozen partridges started up from the furrow, and
while Lord Ramsey cried “Now!” and reserved his
fire to give me the opportunity, I stood stock still in
my surprise, and the whole covey disappeared over
the wall. My friend laughed, the game-keeper smiled,
and the dogs hied on once more.
I mended my shooting in the course of the morning,
but it was both exciting and hard work. A heavy
shower soaked us through, without extracting the
slightest notice from my companion; and on we
trudged through peas, beans, turnips, and corn, muddied
to the knees and smoking with moisture, excessively
to the astonishment, I doubt not, of the productions
of Monsieur Clerx, of the Rue Vivienne, which
were reduced to the consistency of brown paper, and
those of my London tailor, which were equally entitled
to some surprise at the use they were put to.
It was quite beautiful, however, to see the ardor and
training of the dogs; their caution, their obedience,
and their perfect understanding of every motion of
their master. I found myself interested quite beyond
fatigue, and it was only when we jumped the park
paling and took it once more leisurely down the gravel-walks,
that I realized at what an expense of mud,
water, and weariness, my day's sport had been purchased.
Mem. Never to come to Scotland again
without hob-nailed shoes and a shooting-jacket.
Rode over to Roslin castle. The country between
Dalhousie castle and Roslin, including the village of
Lasswade, is of uncommon loveliness. Lasswade
itself clings to the two sides of a small valley, with its
village church buried in trees, and the country-seat
of Lord Melvill looking down upon it, from its green
woods; and away over the shoulder of the hill, swell
the forests and rocks which imbosom Hawthornden
(the residence of Drummond, the poet, in the days of
Ben Jonson), and the Pentland Hills, with their bold
outline, form a background that completes the picture.
We left our horses at the neighboring inn, and
walked first to Roslin chapel. This little gem of
florid architecture is scarcely a ruin, so perfect are its
arches and pillars, its fretted cornices and its painted
windows. A whimsical booby undertook the cicerone,
with a long cane-pole to point out the beauties.
We entered the low side-door, whose stone threshold
the feet of Cromwell's church-stabled troopers
assisted to wear, and walked at once to a singular column
of twisted marble, most curiously carved, standing
under the choir. Our friend with the cane-pole,
who had condescended to familiar Scotch on the way,
took his distance from the base, and drawing up his
feet like a soldier on drill, assumed a most extraordinary
elevation of voice, and recited its history in a
declamation of which I could only comprehend the
words “Awbraham and Isaac.” I saw by the direction
of the pole that there was a bas-relief of the
Father of the Faithful, done on the capital, but for
the rest I was indebted to Lord Ramsay, who did it
into English as follows: “The master-mason of this
chapel, meeting with some difficulties in the execution
of his design, found it necessary to go to Rome
for information, during which time his apprentice
carried on the work, and even executed some parts
concerning which his master had been most doubtful;
particularly this fine fluted column, ornamented with
wreaths of foliage and flowers twisting spirally round
it. The master on his return, stung with envy at this
proof of the superior abilities of his apprentice, slew
him by a blow of his hammer.”
The whole interior of the chapel is excessively
rich. The roof, capitals, key-stones, and architraves,
are covered with sculptures. On the architrave joining
the apprentice's pillar to a smaller one, is graved the
sententious inscription, “Forte est vinum, fortior est
rex, fortiores sunt mulieres; super omnia vincit veritas.”
It has been built about four hundred years, and is, I
am told, the most perfect thing of its kind in Scotland.
The ruins of Roslin castle are a few minutes walk
beyond. They stand on a kind of island rock, in the
midst of one of the wildest glens of Scotland, separated
from the hill nearest to the base by a drawbridge,
swung over a tremendous chasm. I have seen nothing
so absolutely picturesque in my travels. The North
Esk runs its dark course, unseen, in the ravine below;
the rocks on every side frown down upon it in black
shadows, the woods are tangled and apparently pathless,
and were it not for a most undeniable two-story
farm-house, built directly in the court of the old castle,
you might convince yourself that foot had never
approached it since the days of Wallace.
The fortress was built by William St. Clair, of
whom Grose writes: “He kept a great court and was
royally served at his own table in vessels of gold and
silver; Lord Dirleton being his master-household;
Lord Borthwick his cup-bearer, and Lord Fleming
his carver; in whose absence they had deputies to attend,
viz: Stewart, Laird of Drumlanrig; Tweddie,
Laird of Drumerline; and Sandilands, Laird of Calder.
He had his halls and other apartments richly
adorned with embroidered hangings. He flourished
in the reigns of James the First and Second. His
princess, Elizabeth Douglas, was served by seventy-five
gentlewomen, whereof fifty-three were daughters
of noblemen, all clothed in velvets and silks, with
their chains of gold and other ornaments, and was
attended by two hundred riding gentlemen in all her
journeys: and, if it happened to be dark when she
went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings were at the
foot of the Black Fryar's Wynd, eighty lighted
torches were carried before her.”
With a scrambling walk up the glen, which is, as
says truly Mr. Grose, “inconceivably romantic,” we
returned to our horses, and rode back to our dinner at
Dalhousie, delighted with Roslin castle, and uncommonly
hungry.
