To Cawdor Castle and Culloden Moor

WE were in Inverness, — we meaning Saint Katharine and I. For three weeks Scotland had given us of her best. We had had the glory of the heather, the glory of the lakes, the glory of mountain and cloud and sky, to say nothing of that other glory of storied castles, ruins magnificent in their decay, and palaces whose every stone could speak. And we had not seen so much as a hint of a Scotch mist, or a drop of rain!

But on the 22d of August we found the skies overcast and a storm impending. We compared notes, and consulted the most genial and painstaking host in the United Kingdom. Certainly we had not come up there to be daunted by a little rain ; and most certainly, too, if we were to see Cawdor Castle and Culloden Moor at all, we must see them that day. It was not one of the coach days, either. The porter came to the fore to give his advice. The leddies could perhaps get a machine, and go by themselves. “ A machine ? ” We opened wide eyes, and then and there added something to our store of knowledge; namely, the fact that in Highland dialect a “ machine ” is any sort of a “ trap ” in which human beings can ride. Would we have a machine for the round trip, twenty-eight miles ? Indeed we would.

The machine, in this instance, proved to be a light open wagonette for one horse ; the driver in front, and seats for two, facing each other, behind. Unrolling our mackintoshes for the first time since we landed at Liverpool, in June, we took our umbrellas, and climbed into the small vehicle. Our host put in wraps and rugs enough for the supply of a regiment, and off we started just as the rain began to fall, declaring to each other that it was great fun, — as it was, if fun is ever synonymous with pure, unadulterated enjoyment.

For anything more delightful can hardly be conceived than that drive in the soft, warm rain, — that was in itself a luxury after the long drought, — along the curving shores of the Moray Firth, through lovely wooded recesses where the dripping branches met above our heads, between hedge-rows where all sweet wild things were growing together in riotous confusion, — holly, and wild rose, and ivy, and bramble twining their arms about each other and dancing as if for very joy, — and beside banks all matted with heather, so deliciously pink when seen near at hand, so royally purple when it stretches afar over moorland and mountain. All along the way bluebells swaying in the wind and rain swung their perfect chalices, and tiny pink and yellow flowers, unknown to us, poised like butterflies on slender stalks to keep them company. Here and there stately rowan-trees flamed beside the road, their great trusses of scarlet berries burning like torches in the dark emerald of their leaves.

The roads were perfect, as level as a floor ; not a rut, nor a stone, nor a hillock big enough to make a “ cradlehole,” and no mud even in the rain. Well, Great Britain has been building her roads for eighteen hundred years, and she had the Romans to teach her how and set her a good example. Perhaps ours will be as fine when we have worked at them as long.

We drove up at length, after much circumambulation and many devious windings, before Ye Cawdor Arms, a little quaint old inn at the junction of the highway with the lane that leads to the castle. It was a most primitive establishment in which to look for entertainment for man and beast. The low stone walls had lost, if they had ever possessed, the garniture of ivy that so often makes the hovel more picturesque than the palace, and stood forth in all their unveiled nakedness. A few scarlet runners on poles made a bit of intense brightness in one corner. On the opposite corner of the house, just under the low eaves, a weather-beaten sign displayed the latest attempt at emblazoning the arms of the House of Cawdor. Apparently it had been painted over and over again by a hundred successive generations. The inn itself looked old enough to have given food and shelter to King Duncan’s retainers, when he made his unfortunate visit to the Thane of Cawdor.

It had stopped raining by this time, and, leaving our waterproofs and dripping umbrellas at the inn, we walked down the lane to the ivy-covered arch of the gateway leading to the castle. Near it was a small cottage, too unpretentious to be called a lodge, in the door of which stood an old woman, curtsying. Did we wish to call on the leddies o’ the family ? No, we were strangers. We only wished permission to see the castle, we answered. “ But ye maun ha’ tickets for that,” she said. Here was a dilemma. But it proved a very simple matter. They could be had at the post-office for a “ saxpenny ” each; and our driver, who, having looked after the well-being of his horse, now stood at a little distance, peering over the lichencovered stone wall into the dark flowing rivulet beyond it, could readily obtain them. The “ saxpennies ” were for the poor. Meanwhile, what wonder that we were seized with a sudden conviction that our feet were cold ?

“ May we come in and warm our feet by your fire ? ” I asked.

“ Ay, ay, coom in, coom in, and sit ye doon,” she said heartily, as she ushered us in, and wiped two spotlessly clean chairs before offering them to us. Such a queer little place as it was ! The outside door was of some rich, dark, polished wood, studded with brass knobs, but in it lay all the splendor of the establishment. The walls were so low I could have touched the ceiling with my hand. The stone floor, the table, and the two or three chairs, one of which was adorned with a cushion covered with worsted patchwork, had been scoured till they were white. In one corner stood a narrow bed, entirely covered by a pointed canopy of some faded pink stuff. Over the blackened, smokestained fireplace were a couple of shelves, not for bricabrac, but filled with dishes and household utensils. A kettle hummed over the fire, which was certainly built on an economical scale, considering the dampness of the day. On the one broad window-seat lay a book, brown leather and well thumbed, which was evidently a Bible. In the chimneycorner, a cat purred softly. It was like a chapter out of some story of humble, pious poverty,—little fire, little cat, well-worn Bible, and all.

The old woman was interested in her visitors. We had come a long ways, — from Lunnon, or from furren parts, mebbe, to see the old castle ?

Yes ; we had come from over the sea, all the way from America.

As usual, we had found the “ open sesame.” Everywhere, in England and Scotland alike, America had been the magic key that unlocked all doors.

“ Ye can’t get in till three o’clock,” she said, excitedly. " But if ye only tell the housekeeper that, she ’ll let ye in noo! ”

We preferred, however, notwithstanding this encouragement, to wait till the regular hour of admittance. As we started to go back to the inn for our luncheon, I slipped a bit of silver into the old woman’s wrinkled hand. She would have refused it. had I not insisted, crying, " Ye need n’t to do it; ye need n’t to do it! But God bless ye, and mak ye rich, and bring ye safe hame to yer ain people.”

This was so remarkable that I at once “ made a note on’t.” And I wish here to solemnly record the fact that there were two persons in the United Kingdom who actually objected to receiving a proffered shilling. In both cases they were not able-bodied men, but poor, lonely old women.

Ye Cawdor Arms does not provide very luxuriously for its guests. But we had our luncheon, such as it was, at the same table with a young man who looked like a student on his vacation tramp. As he slowly ate his cold meat and bread and cheese, and sipped his single glass of wine, he read from a book lying open beside his plate, with one hand resting half the time on the head of a beautiful Scotch collie. The master kept his distance, but the dog, after making a deliberate survey, drew nearer and nearer, and finally laid his great head on my knee, while his eloquent brown eyes begged for a share of our portion of the feast. He got it.

We started for the castle at last, entering in under the ivied archway, and going up the broad graveled road, with smooth green lawns, dotted with stately forest trees, stretching far to the left.

“ ‘ This castle hath a pleasant seat ; the air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses,’ ” quoted Saint Katharine, as we crossed the rusty drawbridge over the moat, and entered through what had once been a portcullis into a small, square court, from which steps descended on either side unto other courts. Right in front of us, facing the drawbridge, was a mounted cannon, with the conical heap of balls beside it. We knew that in spite of all these warlike preparations there must be a hospitable bell somewhere ; and failing to discover it above, we went down into the lower right-hand court, where we found it and the door of entrance.

An exquisite young Adonis in livery appeared, — Jeemes being generally a more elegant man than his master. Certainly we could see the castle, from three to five. But — looking at his watch — it still wanted five minutes to three.

We begged pardon. Our watches must be at fault. But, meanwhile, might we be permitted to walk in the grounds ?

We might ; and he would himself notify the housekeeper of our desires.

We crossed the drawbridge again, nothing loath to wander about the place, so still and peaceful now, and to look down the long vistas leading into the adjoining forest. Presently a schoolboy, with slate and books, came out of the castle, and hurried down a shaded lane to a building near by. Soon two young women in walking costume, with tartans picturesquely draped over their shoulders, and carrying small baskets, passed by us, on the traditional errand of mercy, no doubt.

“ Port wine and beef-tea in one basket,” we whispered, u and a flannel petticoat in the other.”

Then, as we turned towards the house again, we met two gentlemen, one of whom, it was evident, from his air of proprietorship and at-homeness, was Lord Campbell.

“ ‘ The Thane of Cawdor lives, a prosperous gentleman’ still, if one may judge from appearances,” I remarked to Saint Katharine, as he lifted his cap, and we went our separate ways.

The housekeeper, a handsome, middle-aged woman, in cashmere gown and pretty cap, received us at the door with such an air of smiling hospitality that we felt at home at once. Cawdor Castle is almost the only one of the really old castles — that is, those that have not been thoroughly made over and modernized — that is still used as a family residence. We were first taken into the dining-room, where the table, not yet fully cleared, showed that luncheon was just over. It was a pleasant, low-ceiled room, completely hung with old needlework tapestry. The only modern thing in or about it was the carved wooden mantelpiece, which was put in by the present earl, and bears his crest and those of his four sisters, with the date of the room, 1510.

From thence we went to the kitchen, whose walls, many feet thick, were redolent with the odors of roasting mutton and venison as far back as the fourteenth century. The enormous fireplace that nearly fills one end is unaltered, and before it, or in it, the family cooking is done to this day. For the help of the cook there is some odd machinery, still in good working order and in daily use, though as old as the chimney itself, by which the heat of the fire turns and regulates the spit. The upper end of the great room is hewn out of the solid rock, floor, walls, and ceiling being of the same mass of stone. Long tables extended down the middle throughout the whole length, and half a dozen maids, busy with pans, pots, and scrubbing-brushes, glanced at ns curiously as we passed by. Familiarity breeds contempt, and there is small doubt that they marveled under their caps at the interest or curiosity that brought so many questioning eyes into their old kitchen.

A short winding passage and a flight of steps led us to the dungeon. It is not a bad place, as dungeons go, having more light, air, and space than most of them. Still, the sound of the heavy iron door swinging to, with a clang, upon its rusty hinges, must have been anything but agreeable to the poor captives upon whom it has so often closed. It was a hard thing to realize, with that kindly, smiling face beside us, instead of a warder in coat-of-mail. In the middle of the dungeon, like the central column of a chapter-house, rose the trunk of a large hawthorn-tree. “ There is a curious story about this old tree, which is older than the castle itself,” said the housekeeper, laying her hand upon it. “ The founder of the house was looking for a place to build upon, when a saint, or an angel (it does n’t matter which), appeared to him, and told him he must build upon whatever spot an ass laden with gold should stop three times successively. Shortly afterward, an ass weighed down with treasures persisted in stopping three times in the shade of this hawthorn-tree. And so, you see, we have our castle, which was built around it.”

To establish at once the principle of believing whatever is told you wonderfully enhances the interest of travel. We had done this at the very outset of our pilgrimage, and of course believed this bit of mediæval history implicitly. But we may perhaps be forgiven if we ventured to wonder whether the ass and his gold belonged to the founder or to his dearest enemy.

“ Now you must see King Duncan’s room,” said our pleasant guide, leading the way to the tower stairs. The climbing of steep, narrow, winding ways, worn into such great hollows that one can hardly feel sure of a foothold, is, to put it mildly, not as easy as going up in an elevator. But reflecting it was but once in a lifetime, I plucked up my courage, and gallantly followed in the wake of the small procession. After ascending two or three flights, we entered a large square room, with two windows commanding a wide and pleasant outlook. It was plainly furnished, containing a canopied bed, with chintz drapery drawn up and carefully spread over the pillows, after the inevitable Scotch-English fashion, a table, a chest of drawers, and a few chairs.

“Now tell me truly,” said I, — for, sad as it is to say it, there is sometimes a limit to the credulity of the most conscientious traveler, — " was King Duncan ever in this room ? The castle figures in the play, but was the king murdered here ? ”

“ No,” she said, “ as you ask me frankly, I must say he was not. This castle is not as old as the date of Macbeth. But Shakespeare chose it as the scene of the murder, and out of deference to that fact the family has always kept up the tradition, and called this the Duncan room.”

The decorations of the apartment, if so they could be called, were truly unique. The space above the fireplace, in which was a pair of huge iron firedogs, was completely covered by a charcoal sketch done upon the white wall. The three weird sisters were brewing their unholy witch-broth in a great caldron, while the flames struggled with the clouds of smoke, out of which the uncanny faces peered. On one side of the fire, a black cat humped her back, and hissed at a serpent coiled and just ready to dart, on the other side. On the left of the fireplace was a life-sized figure of Macbeth, with hair on end and dagger drawn, staring with horror in his eyes at the real and truly bed, in which Duncan, no doubt, was supposed to be lying. On the wall at the foot of the bed was Lady Macbeth, tragical to the last degree, urging him on to the commission of the bloody deed. Rough as they were, there was spirit in the drawings. Evidently a party of merry young people had amused themselves with this attempt to make the Duncan room truly Shakespearean.

The rest of the party went up several flights farther, while I stayed below with Duncan and the witches. They saw the window from which Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, was let down in a basket during the Jacobite wars, — escaping then only to be beheaded afterwards ; and the loop-holes through which, in the good old times, melted lead was poured like coals of fire upon the heads of besieging foes. Pleasanter far than this was it to look down from their airy perch into the forest, where they could see the lovely woodland paths stretching on and on. The great estate runs thirty miles in one direction.

We were agreeably surprised by being taken into the family rooms, the private apartments, to say much of which here would be a breach of trust and hospitality. But some jewel-lovers amongst us envied my lord the magnificent gems that sparkled on his dressing-table. One daintily furnished chamber, with the open Prayer-Book on its own small table, the text for the day on the wall, the basket of needlework, the well-worn companionable books lying within convenient reach of the low, deep-cushioned chair that awaited the coming of its mistress in front of the smouldering fire, left on some of our minds a most pleasant impression of gentle, refined, studious, thoughtful girlhood.

The great drawing-room was as homelike a place as one need wish to see, — a long, low-ceiled, tapestry-hung apartment, with the fire of logs on the broad hearth burning low, the sunshine streaming in, and flowers in profusion everywhere ; a room for use, not show, for on a little table, where some one had been mounting photographs, the sponge, bowl of water, and mucilage bottle were all ready for further operations. From the walls the ancient lords and ladies of Cawdor looked down on the pretty, peaceful scene. I wondered if they did not think they had had a hard time of it themselves in the far-away centuries, full of turmoil and bloodshed.

“ Have the lords of Cawdor always been Campbells ? ” I inquired.

“ Oh, no,” was the answer. “ But long ago the sole heiress of the house of Cawdor married a Campbell, — one of the Argyles, you know,” she added confidentially,— “and so the family name was changed.”

Soon after this we passed out under the portcullis and over the drawbridge, down the broad, smooth walk and through the green archway into the country lane again, and our visit to Cawdor Castle was over.

It was not actually raining again, but it was still dark and lowering. The young Highlander who had charge of our “ machine ” looked dubiously at the clouds, as we resumed our seats. By a short cut across country, we could be home in an hour. If we went round by way of Culloden, we would surely be caught in the rain.

“ And there’s nothing to see there, anyhow,” he said. “ Just an empty field.”

But the nothingness of Culloden Moor was exactly what we wanted to see, and we went on.

Nature had harmonized charmingly with all our doings through the whole summer. Sunshine would have been out of place that afternoon. As we approached Culloden, the clouds grew darker and deeper. The dull gray mists lay damp and heavy on the barren moor. The silent hills were blotted out. The sky hung so low it seemed as if we could touch it; and it and the mists shut us in. There was nothing left of the whole wide world but the moor of Culloden, and we were the only living creatures in it. Not a bird sang; not a grouse nor a rabbit resented our intrusion upon its solitudes.

First we passed, lying in a field to our left, but very near the road, an immense gray boulder, lettered “ Cumberland, 1746.” From this stone the “ Butcher Duke ” commanded the field, on that April day when the last hope of the Stuarts was crushed. An eighth of a mile farther on, the horse stopped.

“ This is the ‘ Field of the Dead,’ ” said our young cavalier, half under his breath. He had not wanted to come, but now that he was here the scene and the hour took hold upon him as upon us. The poet has set his sign manual upon all things here in this Old World. It is quite probable that this young fellow did not know he was quoting ; but half the schoolboys in America have “ spoken ” —

We got out of the wagonette silently, and walked reverently across the field, still sown with ridges, perceptibly greener than the rest, where the dead were buried in trenches, to a rough gray stone near the outer wall on the left. It was on the very outskirts of the field, and on the other side of the crumbling, mossgrown barricade a few stunted trees and shrubs kept watch and ward.

The stone bore this inscription, rudely cut: —

WELL

OF THE DEAD. HERE THE CHIEF

OF THE CLAN MACGILLIVRAYS

FELL.

Farther down the field was another stone, marked thus : —

CLANS.

MACINTOSH.

MACLEAN.

MACLAUCHLAN.

MACGILLIVRAY.

HIGHLANDERS.

Others, still farther down, were inscribed, severally, “ Cameron,” “ Stewart of Appin,” “ Fraser.”

The stones were all of the roughest description. They looked as if they had been hewn out with the head of a battleaxe, and lettered as rudely. But they were so in keeping with the place, and with the strong, rough natures of the fiercely loyal clansmen who fell at Culloden, that they were more impressive than the most imposing of monuments. On the top of many of the stones kindly hands had laid sprays of their own pink heather. Two only had been overlooked, " Cameron ” and “ Stewart of Appin.” We placed our offering of heather on these also, and then crossed the road to the cairn on the opposite side.

I cannot give the dimensions of this great heap of stones, very slightly conical, if indeed it is conical at all, and flat on top. It is entirely devoid of ornament, this immense sombre cairn, built of the common rounded pebbles lying broadcast on the moor. On one side is an inscription, guarded by an iron grating. The vandal, like death, has all times and places for his own. It runs thus:—

“ Battle of Culloden was fought on this moor 16th April, 1746. The graves of the gallant Highlanders who fought for Scotland and Prince Charlie are marked by the names of their clans.”

“ By the names of their clans.” No separate glory, no distinctive honor, not even a record on a memorial stone, for the warriors who fell at Culloden.

The English are buried near the Cumberland stone. One mile farther on, a slab inscribed “ King’s Stables ” shows where the English army was quartered after the battle.

Right or wrong, good or bad, weak or wicked, by some strong fascination the unfortunate Stuarts hold the hearts of mankind. Bonny, sunny-haired Prince Charlie is too picturesque a figure to be speedily blotted from the page of history. Peace to his ashes, and long may the purple bells of the heather ring thensoft chimes above the dust of his unforgotten braves.

We lingered as long as we dared, and then drove on to Inverness. Just as we entered the town a burst of sunshine greeted us. The beautiful river Ness shone, and danced, and sparkled; rejuvenated birds, thinking spring had come again, poured floods of music from hedge and thicket; and by the time we reached the hotel not a cloud was to be seen.

Smiling, deft-handed Scotch lassies took our wet wraps to the kitchen to be dried. In a trice a fire blazed brightly on our hearth ; dinner was served, the dear home letters were brought us, and two happy women settled themselves for an evening of quiet content.

“ Saint Katharine,” said I, “ this has been a day to remember.”

Julia C. R. Dorr.