Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, May 22, 1856

For Frederick Douglass' Paper.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

Number XXI.

EDINBURGH, May 22nd, 1856.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—I cannot employ this day of unceasing rain better than in commencing another letter to you, recounting some of my recent expeditions in the vicinity of "Scotia's darling seat."

Wednesday, of last week, was planned for the ROSLIN excursion. The weather, on the previous day, had been of a dubious character, and the dark clouds were watched with no small anxiety. At the time of sunset, every thing was enveloped in thick mist—all signs of the bright luminary disappeared. We unanimously decided not to go, if it rained next morning, and a place of rendezvous was appointed, where, if fine, we were to start; and we hoped the weather might be decided, some way, and not to leave each in doubt as to what the others would do. But vain are all human hopes and wishes! Such a fog (haur, the Edinburgh people call it) enveloped the city next morning, that Salisbury Crags and the Lion Couchant of Arthur's Seat had disappeared, and the Castle and Calton Hill here alike invisible. Yet it did not rain! so, strong in faith that the mist would disperse after early morning, and the noontide sun gild the beautiful vale of Roslin, and shine on "classic Hawthornden," we hastened to the place of meeting; and as the dear friend awaiting us, was one with us in her expectations of the weather, we were soon en route for Roslin. "It surely can`t rain;" "it's only mist;" "it's going to clear;" "remember what a fine day we had on Monday, after the foggy morning," we said, one to another, much in the hopeful spirit with which the school-boy whistles, when running through the church yard at night! With a view to enjoying the scenery by the way, we had selected the Roslin coach, rather than the railway, as our mode of conveyance; and very delightful would it have been, MIST permitting—but he obstinately was sullen, and permitted nothing, not even allowing us to see the gardens, fields, and trees through which we were passing [illegible] have the windows open. Yet we were a merry company; and being prepared for the worst, as to weather, we were resolved to enjoy the day. But lo! A change "comes o'er the spirit of" our "dream"—"a hedge is visible—a real, bright, green hedge! the day is changing!"—Unfortunate travellers, yes, it is changing! and the coach (which is going on to Pennycerick) lands you at the little inn of the village of Roslin, in the midst of a heavy, steady rain, at half past ten in the morning! Happily, there was a bright and cheerful fire; so, we drew our chairs around it, and replanned our programme for the day. This would now have to be considerably shortened; Roslin Chapel and Roslin Castle would comprize it; Hawthornden must be given up, if it did not clear up at twelve—so, after making all due enquiries as to times, places, distances, and guides, we unfurled our umbrellas, and courageously sallied forth to brave the elements, and to see the far-famed Chapel of Roslin. This Chapel is an exquisitely decorated specimen of ecclesiastical architecture, founded in 1446 by William St. Clair, Earl of Orkney, Lord of Roslin, etcetera, and said to have been 40 years in building. It is peculiarly interesting from the unique, highly elaborate, and curious profusion of its decorations. It combines the solidity of Norman architecture with the more minute ornamental of the Tudor age. "It is impossible (says one well able to judge) to designate the architecture of this building by any given or familiar term; for the variety and eccentricity of its parts are not to be defined by any words of common acceptation."

The beautiful edifice was grievously defaced by a mob from Edinburgh, at the time of the Revolution in 1688, and stood more than a hundred and fifty years, without windows and doors—the wild, warring winds whistling thro' it, and the fierce wintry torrents weeping over it.

The present Earl has partially restored it, having recently laid out three thousand pounds upon it. The [illegible] of the Chapel is [bold?] and lofty, enclosed, as usual, by side aisles, the pillars and arches of which display a redundancy of ornament, wrought out with exquisite delicacy of taste, and endless inventive genius.—My eye was struck at once with one pillar of uncommon beauty, and rare elegance. It is entwined with twisted wreaths of finely sculptured foliage, among which the lamel is conspicuous, and is a perfect gem of art. "The [illlegible] Pillar, is it not?" said I to the [illegible] I knew the story, and the column [illegible] beautiful of the beautiful, [illegible] other near it, there [illegible] right. Trad[illegible] of this [illegible]ore each of them, is a most richly chased ornament, to which I am at a loss to give a name, whence, in other days, a lamp was suspended. I never beheld more beautiful carving than here. The rose, the kail leaf, and the fleur-de-lis, may be seen wrought out here with rare skill, and perfect, as if they were only finished yesterday. The founder of the Chapel, the high and mighty William St. Clair, (whose titles, it has been said, were so numerous that they might well weary a Spaniard,) is buried beneath the Chapel, clad in complete armor, and there lie twenty of the Barons of Roslin,

"Like warriors taking their rest,

With their martial cloaks around them."

We looked with awe on the tomb of this renowned Baron St. Clair, who not only founded this exquisite Chapel, but built the Castle of Roslin, and resided there in regal state and magnificence. His martial figure is carved on the tomb, with that of a greyhound at his feet. A curious tradition attaches to this dog, which (of course) our guide told us as a fact, and we were quite in the mood for believing him.—Here it is. Once upon a time, when ROBERT THE BRUCE was King of Scotland, and his Lords, and Barons, and nobles were around him, convened for a large hunting party in the Pentland hills, he complained that a certain "white faunch deer" had always escaped from the royal hounds, and asked his attendants whether any of them had dogs they thought might be more successful? The courtiers were silent; none dared affirm that his hounds were swifter than those of the King—when, lo! up started the high and mighty Baron of Roslin, William St. Clair, exclaiming that he would wager his hand that his two favorite dogs, Help and Hold, would kill the deer before she could cross the March burn. The King accepted the unwary offer, and betted the forest of Pentland-moor against the life of the daring St. Clair. The deer was roused; the dogs were slipped; St. Clair, mounted on a gallant steed, cheered them forward. But the deer reached the middle of the brook, and the Baron threw himself from his horse, in despair, exclaiming,

"Help, Hold, gin ye may,

Or Roslin tins his head this day."

Just at this crisis, Hold stopped the deer in the brook, and Help brought her back to the King's side, and killed her. The king then descended from the hill, (which is still pointed out as the King's Hill,) embraced Sir William, and bestowed fourteen miles of lands in the free forestire; and the Baron, who had earnestly implored the intersession of St. Catherine, built the Chapel of St. Catherine, in the Hopes, as an acknowledgment of his deliverance. So terminates the story.

We lingered long in this architecture gem of beauty, Roslin Chapel, listening to the traditions of our guide, about the old Barons of Roslin; and as Sir Walter Scott's exquisite "Ballad of Rosabelle" was fresh in our memory, we were almost prepared to believe the legend told us, that the Chapel appears on fire previous to the death of any of St. Clair's descendants. Scott says, this is a Norwegian superstition, and may have been imported by the Earls of Orkney into their Lothia dominions.

Those who have read "the Lay of the Last Minstrel" will remember the beautiful Ballad to which I refer; but for the benefit of those who have not, I quote the closing stanzas:

"O'er Roslin all that dreary night.

A wond'rous blaze was seen to gleam;

'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,

And redder than the bright morn-beam.

"It glared on Roslin's Castled rock,

It ruddied all the copswood glen;

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from caren'd Hawthornden.

"Seemed all on fire that Chapel proud,

Where Roslin's [chiefs uncoffined lie]

Each baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply.

"Seem'd all on fire within, around,

Deep sacristy, and altar's pale;

Shone every pillar foliage bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

"Blazed Battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair— So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The Lordly line of high St. Clair.

"There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle;

Each one the holy vault doth hold—

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.

"And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle."

We next visited Roslin Castle, which is a mouldering ruin, with a tremendous double tier of vaults and dungeons, hewn out of the solid and precipitous rock on which it stands, and this peninsular rock overhangs the picturesque glen of the Esk. It was long the abode of the proud family of the St. Clairs, and was burned by the Earl of Hertford in 1554, and taken by General Monk in 1650. We groped our way through the long chain of curious caverns and dungeons, and heard many dismal stories and conjectures about the unfortunate people who were once their unwilling inhabitants. It is a terrible contrast to think of noble knights and fair ladyes feasting in the Baron's princely halls above, while melancholy and hopeless prisoners pined away beneath the feet of their oppressors. Nothing of the old Castle remains in any degree of preservation but these dungeons and caverns; but a comparatively modern dwelling-house has been erected amidst its ruins, and was, for some time, inhabited by a genuine Scottish laird of the old stamp, who was a lineal descendant of the high race who first founded the pile, and the last male of their long line. At his death, the estate descended to Sir Erskine St. Clair, father of the present Earl of Rosslyn, who now represents the family.

As it continued to rain, our enthusiasm on behalf of "cavern`d Hawthornden" somewhat cooled; and although we cast many wistful and lingering glances up the beautiful glen on which that gradual decrease of the mist permitted us to feast our eyes, we unanimously decided that it would be madness to attempt it—so, with umbrellas again uplifted, and the pleasing consciousness that we had (as English travellers sometimes ludicrously say) "done" our Roslin thoroughly, we retraced our steps to the little inn, drew our chairs close to the blazing fire, refreshed our bodies with good cheer, and our minds with Scott, and decided to depart, by railway, to Edinburgh early in the afternoon, instead of waiting for the coach. The two o'clock train was to be gained, if possible; carriages of any kind were there not, to take us to the station—we must walk. "How far was it?" "three-quarters of a mile;" so off we started, with very indefinite notions of the way we were to go, and the rain descending plentifully—"down that hill, and turn to the right—up yon hill, turn to the left—and then straight on," &c. [illegible] it known to you that this romantic, and [pictu]resque walk proved to be one mile and a [illegible] in length; we had to mount the "Hill Dif[illegible]" rendered trebly difficult from the slip[pery] condition of the grass, and to descend in[illegible] "Valley of Humiliation," which every [illegible] expected to do far more rapidly than [illegible] with my desire to retain a per[illegible] [illegible]sition; and had it not been for [illegible] of a bonnie lassie, who put [illegible] pails, and assisted each of us by [illegible] whether some of us (who [illegible] safety many of the most difficult and dangerous of the mountain Passes of Switzerland and the Tyrol) might not have fallen into a "Slough of Despond" at Roslin.

At length the railway station came in sight, and the cheering tidings reached us that the train had gone a quarter of an hour," "and their would be no other train until four o'clock."

Impatience was useless; we had to "wait a wee," and we had to make the best of it. This the station-master help us to do. He took us into his neat little cottage, piled the coals on his good fire, swept up the hearth, and did all in his power to make us comfortable, and to entertain us, and (though living entirely alone, in this secluded spot, his solitude rarely broken in upon but by ascending and descending railway passengers, and a limited number of trains,) we found the handsome young station-master no ordinary person. He could amuse the lovers of National History with his nice specimens of stuffed birds and animals, collected himself; he was poetic; Allan Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd" lay open on the table; he had been reading it when we entered; he was musical; he took up an accordion, and played us some pretty Scotch airs. "Annie Lawrie" inclusive—so when, on the coming up of the train, he handed us into the carriage in a most polite manner, it is not to be wondered at if some among us began to think him a gentleman in disguise, who had merely thought proper to take upon himself the duties of a station-master for a season! This will be the less surprising when it is remembered that we had been in a sort of day dream since early morning, in which noble lords, knights errant, and wandering minstels had figured, in no small degree. Under the sway of the iron king, we soon reached Edinburgh, and found the ever social meal of tea that evening doubly agreeable.

It being decided that I must not quit the neighborhood of Edinburgh without seeing Hawthornden, another party was made up for yesterday, and on as bright a morning as the sun has shone on this spring, we started, by railway, to Eskbank; thence we had a lovely drive to Lasswade, (a pretty little village, situated on the banks of the Esk,) passing Melville Castle, with its beautiful part of fine trees, "crowned with clothed wood."

Between Lasswade and Hawthornden, we learned that the day for seeing the classic habitation of the poet DRUMMOND had been changed; "it was not shown on Wednesdays now." In this dilemma, Dr. Falconer, of Loanhead, came to the rescue, and escorted us to the entrance gates, saying he had no doubt, if our cards were sent in, and we were travellers from afar, the Lady of Hawthornded would admit us. In this he was right, and the cross, old crone that kept the gate so closely, (muttering, she "had orders to send in no cards to Lady Drummond," was wrong. We had a good friend at court, and while we were refreshing ourselves, at a sweet, pretty Gothic cottage, with coffee, of an aroma worthy of Paris, a house servant made her appearance, in readiness to conduct us through all that is interesting in Hawthornden—the worthy doctor joining our party.

I know not how to describe the scene that gradually opened to our view after the magic words, "open Sesama," had been uttered, and the gates rolled back to admit us.

All the materials that compose the romantic and the beautiful, are here, in endless variety—the lordly oak, the stately beech, the graceful birch, with its glossy leaf and silvery stem, and the magnificent Sycamore tree, are here in the perfection of picturesque grouping—stupendous rocks hang suspended, in threatening aspect, on either side of the glen; while, far beneath, the Esk hurries onward, a veritable mountain stream. Huge masses of rock try, in vain, to impeded its course—it dashes, and splashes, and rumbles and tumbles, and laughing in the face of difficulties—it leaps high in the air to overcome them. At the very edge of a tall grey cliff, which descends sheer down to the stream, rises the old castellated mansion of Hawthornden; and as at this point the Esk makes a direct curve, the house appears to stand at the head of the glen, and commands from its windows of the finest views imaginable. It reminded me strikingly of the old castles of the Rhine, some of which appear to be perched on airy nothings—the more so, because part of it is in ruins, covered with ivy, and surmounted by an old elder tree. Under the mansion are numerous subterraneous caverns, hewn out of the solid rock with immense labor, and connected with each other by long passages; in the court yard there is a well of prodigious depth, which, our guide told us, communicates with them. Of course, all kinds of legends are afloat about the former uses of these curious caves. They were, without doubt, constructed by some one, as places of refuge, when the public calamities rendered the usual habitations unsafe; but who directed this Herculean movement, and who availed themselves of the hiding place, it is more difficult to tell. Our guide told us that "Sir William Wallace and the Scottish Chiefs lived in these caverns three years!" and she pointed out one long cave as their dining room, and two others as Wallace's Library and bed-room. In one of these lies a ponderous old sword, which our guide said belonged to the Scottish hero. It was, verily, a weapon for hewing "agag in pieces," and looked as though it had done terrible service in its day. A beautiful little fairy boy, of our company, was eager (though only three years and a half old) to lift the mighty weapon—so the guide aided him the enterprize. Knoxs` pulpit, (a jutting rock,) and Mary Queen of Scott's cave, are shown you on the side of the glen, and endless were the tales of our guide about all these queer places. A splendid Sycamore tree was shown us, under which the poet Drummond is said to have been sitting when his friend Ben Jonson, (having walked from London to pay him a visit,) arrived. They had never seen each other before; but their recognition was intuitive.

"Welcome, welcome royal Ben,"

"Thank you, thank you, Hawthornden,"

Bidding our garrulous and attentive guide adieu, we wandered along the beautiful vale, by the banks of the Esk, to Roslin, escorted by our kind friend, Dr. Falconer, who told us that he had traversed the winding glen, with its narrow paths, precipitous heights, and dangerous depths, the darkest nights in winter. It is in vain to attempt giving you a sketch of the beauties of the walk, up the glen, to Roslin; especially when all the trees, of every imaginable shade of green, are coming into full leaf; when the woods are vocal with the song of many birds; and when each bank and brae is covered with wild flowers—the wood anemone, the fox-glove, the violet, the primrose, the "forget-me-not," abounded on all sides, and the little fairy boy ran wild with delight, gathering "flowers," unconscious of danger, till he was put in care of good Dr. Falconer, who held him tight, lest he should tumble down some of the dangerous steeps of our craggy road. We say farewell to the enchanting regions of Hawthornden, and enter Roslin, and now we see every buttress and battlement of its beautiful chapel in perfection—and now, the ruins of the old castle loom out before us, irradiated by a soft, mellow sunlight. We take a long, last look at the beautiful vale of Roslin, thinking that nothing more lovely can ever meet our eyes. We are told that on a neighboring moor, the battle of Roslin was fought, and we hear a discussion, as to whether Wallace was, or was not, in that battle. The doctor tears all our guide's legends to pieces, by declaring that Wallace never was in that neighborhood—another gentleman is sure that he fought in the battle of Roslin; and the Comyn is mentioned, and Douglass is talked of, and all is left in doubt and mystery, except the fact, that the English were there beaten:

"Three triumphs in one day!

Three hosts subdued by one!

Three armies scattered like the spray

Beneath one summer sun.

Who, pausing 'mid this solitude,

Of rocky streams and leafy trees,—

Who, gazing o'er this quiet wood,

Would ever dream of these?

Or have a thought that ought intrude

Save birds and humming bees?"

Bidding adieu to our kind conductor, Dr. Falconer, (whose active exertions in our behalf will not soon be forgotten,) we took the train to Eskbank, and wound up a day of exceeding enjoyment, by seeing Dalkeith Palace, one of the many mansions of the Duke of Buccleuch.—There is nothing particularly striking in the house, although we went through a large number of apartments, (which the Duke most kindly permitted to be shown, although he was at home,) but the grounds, shrubberies, and parks, are exceedingly fine, and as a fine military band was playing on the lawn, when we entered, "March! March! Ettrick and Tevidale," and people were promenading, the scene was a gay one. Time fails me to tell of divers paintings, cabinets, and vases, choice and beautiful, and of the Queen's bed-room, with its white and blue satin hangings and adornments, and of the beautiful walks by the low placid Esk, which meanders gently through the Duke's domains, and of the graceful deer, sporting about in large numbers, and the fairy boy, begging "Aunt Helen" to "chase me a deer." Every day comes to and; and having sat by rippling Esk, watching the lengthening shadows of evening advancing, we returned to Edinburgh with our hearts full of gratitude to the Great Creator of all things, who has made this fair world so lovely and permitted us to enjoy its loveliness.

"Oh God, Oh good beyond compare,

If thus thy meaner works are fair,

If thus thy beauties gild the span

Of ruined earth, and sinful man,

How glorious will those mansions be,

When thy redeemed shall dwell with thee."

Ever your friend,

JULIA GRIFFITHS.