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Who were the worthies? Martyrs and reformers, discoverers and philanthropists, poets, artists, savans. Let no Archibald "bell the cat with his long sword and short temper," no Douglas with the motto "Proud and True," least of all one of those Hamiltons, who preserve a lock of Mary Stuart's hair to the present day as a relic. This upstanding of two utterly opposite elements, which only converge in the fact that either in its way promoted the national strength and importance of the country, can be probably observed nowhere so well as in Scotland, because the contrast has been rarely so striking as here. While in the course of the last hundred years the economic, puritanic, and prosaic temper of the population has improved matters internally, and saved them from roughness and inevitable decadence, simultaneously the rough brute force epoch, which must at least have been present in order to be glorified in poetry, has imparted to the whole, externally, a nimbus and a respect which the merely business-like character of the nation could never have gained for it.

From Edinburgh to Stirling was a pleasant trip, and M. Fontane's first desire was to go and look after the architectural curiosities of the town, so far as an antiquarian character was maintained. To give an idea of the castle, he says that if Edinburgh be a couching lion, this is a lion rampant. But he was even more interested in the national sports of the soldiers, and watched them for hours playing at putting the stone. He takes occasion here to warn his countrymen that they are greatly mistaken if they represent to themselves the British army system as a mechanism which destroys the last particle of liberty and independence in the individual. That, he assures them, is by no means the case. The English soldier always remains an Englishman, and great care is taken not to deprive him of more of his independence than is absolutely necessary. Armies rich in married men are always disposed to respect the individual, and see in a man what he really is-a man.

The view from Stirling Castle our author considers even superior to that from Edinburgh Castle. From the bastions fourteen battle-fields can be seen, forming a tightly woven garland round Stirling. To the north Stirling Brigg and Sheriffmuir, to the south-east Falkirk and Sauchieburn. But, above all, to the southward, that field of Bannockburn, whose name still echoes in songs, and fills every hearer with proud joy. There is not much otherwise interesting at Stirling but the view, and our traveller therefore hastened on the next morning to Loch Katrine.


With the Trosachs he himself confesses his dissatisfaction. scenery, he allows, is very fine, but it is fashion which has made the place. Even Loch Katrine is so far a deception that the whole interest is over when the steamer has rattled past Ellen Island. "The tour across this greatly besung lake is like a dinner which begins with champagne, and, after a lengthened toying with modest claret, ends with sugar water." The metaphor is so far incorrect, that, on reaching the uninteresting northern sea, an excellent dinner awaits the travellers by the steamer at the Shonachlachar Hotel. From this point a capital road runs across to Loch Lomond, and those tourists who only intend to do the lakes are advised to take advantage of it. M. Fontane, however, anxious to visit Inverness and the field of Culloden, returned through the land of the Lady of the Lake to Stirling.

A Sunday in Scotland, our author makes free to confess, is exactly like a storm at a pic-nic; you get wet through before you reach shelter, and all your good humour is washed out of you. The sights of Stirling

had been done, and M. Fontane was distracted by the thought of being driven back on an old copy of the Times and a silent table d'hôte during twenty-four hours. Fortunately an early train took compassion on him, although there are no Sunday trains in Scotland, and landed him safely in the ancient city of Perth by eleven o'clock. This early train which desecrates the Sabbath sanctity of Scotland bears a resemblance to champagne on a Turk's dinner-table, it goes by another name; it is, in reality, a Saturday night train. It leaves King's-cross at night, and even the Scotch cannot expect travellers to get out before they reach their destination. The only thing is, no Scotch are allowed to enter the train after it has once entered their country, but strangers can do anything.

On leaving the station and entering a square in which sunshine and dust were contending for the mastery, M. Fontane's companion discovered that they had gone from Scylla to Charybdis; in other words, a Sunday at Perth was worse than at Stirling. So soon as the clouddust had laid itself, however, they saw land ahead in the shape of Pople's English Hotel. As they had only that morning left Mr. Campbell's hotel, they decided on trying the English house, especially as it was close by.

Mr. Campbell and Mr. Pople stood to each other exactly like their names : the former abrupt, self-conscious, and warlike, the latter quiet, peaceful, and good tempered. Our request for a room was speedily answered in the affirmative, and our traps conveyed into a garret, where the outlook was the only luxury. In a few minutes we were seated on the stone bench before the house, talking with host and hostess. They came from Devonshire, the garden of England, and where the air is so gentle, that even at Christmas laurel and myrtle have not lost their frondage. They did not feel at all at home in Scotland. Climate and beings were too rough for them, and the Sunday too strict. "It cannot last so; the Scotch feel that themselves; they made a rod for their own backs when they sent Forbes Mackenzie to London. A Sunday holiday is a good thing; but a Scotch Sunday is a bad thing, and ruins trade." It interested us extremely to hear these English people speak exactly as severely about the Scotch as Germans do of the English on first landing. "Stiff, busy-bodied, sanctimonious hypocrites!" were the words which more than once crossed these people's lips, and it was evident to read the delight the young wife felt at having an opportunity to express all he itterness without any danger.


There is but little worth seeing at Perth. At the opening of the High-street, on the quay, is a statue of Sir Walter Scott, which a grateful town erected to the creator of the "Fair Maid of Perth." In fact, what would the world know of Perth had Sir Walter's romance been unwritten? There is nothing fine about the statue save its situation. Surrounded by lofty lime-trees, with the High-street in front, and the noble river in the rear, you forget the defects of the sculpture. On either side the statue is a Russian gun, a trophy from Sebastopol, such as are found in many a town, the soli fruits of a costly war. Another interesting spot is where Gowrie House, celebrated for the conspiracy, once stood, but it was pulled down about fifty years ago. we do not advise our readers to climb up Kinnoul Hill, especially on a Sunday, for it costs a shilling a head to satisfy the moral scruples of the gate-keeper, and the prospect is not very surprising when you have reached the summit.


From Perth to Inverness the tourist has a choice of two roads: one by Forfar and Aberdeen along the coast, the other across country over the crest of the Grampians. The former, though the longer by fifty miles, is shorter, as the railway can be used; for the second a coach runs twice a week from Perth, and it is positively a pleasure even to see it loaded. Still, from M. Fontane's description, we should doubt the comfort of such a conveyance: the seats were so crowded that those at the end only hung on by their eyelids, as it were, and could not have lasted out the journey had not the fuglemen changed their places at each station.

The road runs through the Macbeth country, past Scone Palace, to that district which has gained a celebrity throughout the world under the two names of Birnam Wood and Dunsinane Castle. As for Scone Palace, that is not fifty years old, and probably not a stone of Macbeth's castle was employed in the re-erection. Nor is Birnam Wood visible from the road, as it is concealed by the hill of the same name. Passing through Dunkeld, the coach (after taking up a few more passengers, who compelled the guard to collapse into the boot) entered the pass of Killi


It was pleasant to reach an inn built of stone after passing through this desolation. But the troubles of the day were not yet over: the wheel took it into its head to begin burning, and the result was that Inverness was not reached till long past midnight. Poetry may be a very pleasant thing, but, for our part, we can endure railways, even in the most exquisite scenery. Take, for instance, the Belgian line from Liège to Verviers: the scenery would not be more beautiful if we rolled along the chaussée in a clumsy old Eilwagen. The sights of Inverness, according to our author, are reduced to a single point-a hill near the town, on which stood that castle of Macbeth in which Duncan was murdered. Not a trace of it is left, for it was blown up by the partisans of the Pretender in 1746. But the view from the hill is very fine, and leads our author to the following reflections:

This broad strip of land between the gulf of the Tay and the Moray is the old heart of the country, when its history was played out at an epoch when Edinburgh possessed as yet no importance, and the fertile country to the south of the present had an undecided political character, being rather a republic of highwaymen than a royal possession. The old Grampian land is hence simultaneously the country of the old Scottish kings, especially of King Macbeth. We find him at one moment in the north, at another in the south, but always close to Perth and Inverness. The country round the firth of the Tay was his real home he started as Glammis and Thane of Fife. His victory over the Danes, however, leads at once to his investiture with more northern castles and countries. He becomes Thane of Cawdor, and as such probably comes into possession of the Castle of Inverness, situate near Cawdor, in which the murder of King Duncan takes place. As king, it appears, he gave up his northern possessions again, and selects the Castle of Dunsinane in his own county of Perth as his residency. Here he yields to fate and the sword of the Macduffs.



But even more important to the traveller is Culloden Moor. Fontane confesses to having been deeply impressed by his visit, for there is something fearfully desolate about the moor, for not a tree or bush grows upon it. As he remarks, it is difficult to say which is more terrible, the solitude on a peaceful or a disturbed ocean. The great eastern road to Forres runs right through the centre of the moor and the

battle-field. All the points where the battle raged most fiercely are close to the road. By the bridge is the tower of the last encounter, where the northern clans made their last stand. This tower resembles a Dutch windmill, and, to render it more ludicrous, six or eight wooden guns have been placed round the lower balcony.

As Inverness was the extreme point of M. Fontane's northern tour, he determined on returning to Edinburgh by means of the Caledonian Canal. This canal he describes as bearing considerable affinity to the celebrated Trollhälta Canal, and saves a long and difficult navigation. It afforded him no great delight to cross Loch Ness, for there is a decided monotony about the lake, and even the stories connected with the ruined fortalices that stud the shore. It is ever the same history of a chief inviting another chief to dinner, and serving up to him a father or son's head as ornament of the table: everywhere a clan fight, a wading in blood, or presently the whole tragedy of revenge is trumped by even some more startling tale of a chief who tears out the throat of his Saxon foeman, and declares that he never had a more delicious mouthful. Such stories as these lasted from Urquhart Castle to the mouth of the river and the celebrated Fall of Foyers, where the steamer obligingly stops to allow the passengers to see the sight, for do not the Scotch declare that only the Falls of Tivoli are finer? They are about sixty feet in depth, and are certainly very grand, although the inconvenient way in which the tourist is hurried subtracts much from the satisfaction enjoyed.

The only other curiosity, known by the name of Fort Augustus, had but slight claims to rival the Fall of Foyers in interest, and, as a fort, stands no higher than the block-houses in North America, built at about the same period to check the forage of the Sioux and Chippeway Indians. The wild Highlanders of that day were not much better than these Indian hordes: equally poor, equally rough, equally warlike, devoted quite as exclusively to whisky and the chase, and full of equal hatred for the "white man." Fort Augustus possessed a certain value during the various Jacobite uprisings, and held its own against the rebels; but it is now an insignificant station, a guard-house, a duodecimo barracks, where six privates and a sergeant lead a peaceful and forgotten life. At the outlet of the canal into the sea there is another block-house, Fort William, equally valueless with the one we have just left.

A word of recognition may be given here to Mr. Hutcheon, promoter of all the lines of steam-boats which connect the Highlands and the west coast of Scotland, and which have been so largely augmented during the last few years. The upspringing of new towns and villages depends in a great measure from him. Oban, for instance, is a creation of the line of steamers, the main line of which runs between Glasgow and Inverness. Mr. Hutcheon deserves the thanks of every tourist who, so recently as twenty years ago, visited Staffa, and will remember the annoyance of having to make the passage in an open boat-no trifle on the frequently vexed Atlantic. We have no doubt that, with him, those improvements will be introduced that will render a tour through the Highlands as pleasant as a trip up the Rhine. If these splendid coasts possessed a milder climate, or, at any rate, a longer summer, a new and prosperous life would shortly start into existence here, richer, if not more poetical, than it saw in the days of Ossian.

At Oban, M. Fontane met with a worthy old Scot who had lived for many years at Newcastle, and saved up some money. He had been over"persuaded by his family to come and have another look before he died at Glen Morrison, the abode of his forefathers, and he was hurrying back again to England as fast as boat could carry him. Dear old Newcastle! everybody knew him there, and he did not run a risk of being cheated six times a day. But he was full of admiration of the Highland mode of rearing children on oatmeal and whisky, which were much better than milk, coffee, and sour wine. M. Fontane was obliged to avow the soft impeachment that he was not a Frenchman, and the old Highlandman condescended to say, "Yes, the Germans: I have been in Hamburgkind people those Germans, and I like them; but I beg your pardon, sir, all effeminate." M. Fontane deplored the neglected whisky of his youth, and the conversation turned to other matters.

After a pleasant trip to Staffa and Iona, the account of which, however, will be more novel to his readers than to ours, M. Fontane returned to Oban, en route for Edinburgh. A very clever trick was here played on him by the old crone who kept the hut where he slept. Suddenly arousing him from his slumbers, she bade him make haste or he would miss the boat. He hurriedly packed up his belayings, and asked what was to pay. Fifteen shillings were demanded, and of course the woman had no change for a sovereign. But it would not do to miss the boat, so, throwing down the coin, he hurried off to the quay, and found he had an hour to spare. In addition to the loss of money, he had to deplore a patent leather boot which he left behind in his haste. That is the worst of travelling in Scotland: everybody makes a dead set upon you, and tries to plunder you. It is bad enough for Englishmen, but we sincerely pity poor foreigners who follow M. Fontane's advice and visit the north.

It is, of course, difficult for our author to tell us anything novel or strange of his visit to Melrose Abbey and Abbotsford. Every one among us who has ever crossed the Tweed has visited those two places, and has probably been disappointed. We part from him then at Edinburgh again, on his homeward route, and sincerely trust that he has cleared the expenses of his pleasant trip by the publication of his note-book.

One word we would venture to write, however, in parting from him, and are encouraged to do so by the general prevalence of a fault we have to find with him. He is too much of that "nothing true and nothing new and it don't signify" school, which has succeeded the nil admirari Sir Charles Coldstream. The French have attained in this a cynicism which causes their travelling impressions to become most painful reading, and we regret to have found, in two or three recent instances, the Germans falling into the same error, for error it assuredly is. The diffusion of such useful knowledge is certainly of no advantage to the general reader.

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