WE pass castle after castle, tradition after tradition, vouching for persecutions and the price of blood paid. Here are the historical surroundings of Queen Mary and her imprisonment, her escape from the dungeon; there the royal property acquired by the Earl of Rosebery; then again a square tower resting on the northwest angle of this pile is replete with history. A mouldering gateway here surmounted by a crown and the initials and year “M.R., 1561,” tradition claiming this as the birthplace of Cromwell’s mother; and so on, until one is dizzy with dates and towers, almost every inch bearing some part in the history of a country during troublesome times. But as Sir Walter Scott is authority for a great part of this history, I will refer you to him as a much more reliable source of information, and will only attempt an outdoor description of this beautiful country, whose landscape lacks none of the fervor, picturesqueness, and sincerity which are ascribed to it—an appropriate background for its unequalled history in those turbulent days.

We were well satiated by this time with royal institutions, including palaces, schools of learning, museums of science and art, botanical gardens, and the zoos, with the exception of one monument in Edinburgh,—Scott’s grand memorial,—one of the most beautiful on the handsomest street in the World,—Princess Street, Edinburgh,—which is unlike any other I had ever seen.

We took what is known as the “Scotch Flyer” from London to Edinburgh. Its schedule time in some places is seventy miles per hour. It was about a five-hundred-miles’ run, devoid of interest. As we neared Edinburgh the grade became very steep, requiring two engines to pull us up—a very long train and crowded. The conductor told us this was its chronic condition. The English, next to Americans, are the greatest gad-abouts in the world. It is hard to decide which does its work the quickest, the “Scotch Flyer” or Scotch whiskey; while the social evil is offensive enough in London and Paris, here it assumes a downright animal coarseness; the effects of Scotch whiskey in Edinburgh is alarmingly apparent. We saw more men and real young boys beastly drunk there than in any place on the continent, the police taking no heed of their noise, apparently so accustomed to it that it went as a matter of course. Saturday afternoon is a half-holiday in Edinburgh; the whole city seems to scatter or seek the country highways and environs. Everybody visits the great Forth Bridge, said to be the greatest and grandest bridge in the world.

The strait, where this wonderful bridge crosses the Forth at Queensferry, has from time immemorial been recognized as the chief natural route of communication between its northern and southern shores. It was known among the Romans as the “Passage Strait.” The inconvenience of being dependent in all kinds of weather upon boats for communication between the two sides of the coast had long been commented upon, and when any bold spirit talked of a bridge from one side to the other, he was looked upon as being highly visionary. The engineering problem involved in the condition at Queensferry was the most serious one. It was then proposed that a bridge formed upon the principle of the Tay Bridge be built; the design was by Sir Thomas Bouch, engineer of the ill-fated Tay Bridge. He proposed to hang his erection on piers 600 feet high and across the stream by two latticed girders of 16,000 feet each, held in position on the suspension principle. This plan involved a double bridge, one for each set of rails. When the Tay Bridge fell, there fell with it previously unshaken confidence in the great engineer, and the feeling against the Forth Suspension bridge became so pronounced that the Abandonment Act was the result. Those of us who are old enough (and I regret to chronicle that I have been on the planet long enough to entitle me to such knowledge) will never forget the sensation produced as they read of this long train with its human freight signalling the time of its departure when leaving the station on one side, but which never signalled its arrival on the other side; never a vestige recovered from that grasping, merciless monster, the North Sea. In 1882 it was decided that plans should be made on the cantilever principle; a steel cantilever bridge should be made—a principle as old as the science of engineering. It had been practically known to the Chinese, but never before had it been applied on so magnificent a scale. A feature of the Paris Exposition was a design for a bridge crossing the English Channel by seventy cantilever spans, offered by an eminent firm as an alternative to the Channel tunnel, at an estimated cost of £34,000,000 Sterling. This project, however, does not meet with the hearty approval of the Englishman, who wants neither done, having no desire to facilitate communication with the French.

Foreign engineers all favor this principle of the Forth Bridge, it is said, since the first publication of the design. Practically every big bridge throughout the world has been built on that principle. To form some opinion yourself, the total height of the structure from its base is fully 450 feet. Visitors can hardly appreciate its actual magnitude until they compare adjacent objects—ships, houses, human beings, etc. Its relative size is seen when in figures you compare it to all other chief erections in the world; higher than the domes of any of the great cathedrals of the world, or monuments of the old world. Its rail level would be as high above the sea as the castle esplanade was above Princess Street, the castle built on the highest overlooking bluff in Edinburgh, and the steel work of the bridge would soar two hundred feet higher. The bridge was formally inaugurated on the 4th of March, 1890, when the Prince of Wales, now the King of England, turned a tap clinching the last bolt; this declared the bridge open. Her Majesty was so much delighted with Sir John Fowler, chief engineer of this gigantic undertaking, and Mr. Benjamin Baker, his colleague in the engineering, that she created them Knights Commander of the Order of St. Michael and St. George. It has taken some time to speak of such a huge affair. We reached Queensferry by the daily coaches (or tally-hos) that run from Princess Street, carrying forty people on top.

The scenery en route is delightfully attractive and varied, and the interest is sustained throughout. In addition to the more commanding natural beauty of the scenery, the woods abound in picturesque vistas—Dalmeny Castle on one side, the seat of the Earl of Rosebery, and on the other side the seat of the Earl of Hopetoun; both are available to the public. But what interested us more than this tiresome pomp and display were the hundreds of beggars or mendicants that line or infest the public road, going through all sorts of antics, from simply standing on their heads in the mud in roadways to some very clever acrobatic feats; others singing and dancing for pennies that are thrown to them from the passing coaches. The most comical sight was a blind Highland fiddler and his bonnie lass (adorned in rags) fiddling, at the same time cursing some youngsters filled with Scotch whiskey, who were guying the poor souls beyond endurance. I have heard of all kinds of swearing, but never by note.

One need not move a step from Princess Street, Edinburgh, to be satisfied with his trip. It is the most beautiful street in the world. We stopped at Hotel Clarendon on Princess Street, just opposite the grand old castle, the scene of such bloody history. The scene from our window was unsurpassed, overlooking the gardens and grand promenade which form one side of this beautiful street, with the lofty and grand Scott Monument just beyond, and the Royal School of Design close by,—so pure in its Grecian architecture that one could imagine he was under the shade of the Parthenon. Holyrood Palace and Abbey, where the Queen’s Park Drive commences, is the finest drive in Europe. The other side of the street teems with commercial interests, as busy a thoroughfare as you see in any great metropolis.

Brilliant color, quick movement, and over-anxious faces are the general rule. Too bracing an air in these Scottish Highlands to admit of sluggish movement. I imagined we would step out of the whirl of modern life when we left London and came up here, where one might breathe easier; but it seems a headland so blessed of two elements—the cool air and the sea—that one is energized, and I longed to stay under its influence and enjoy the physical loveliness of this promontory. One of our favorite walks was a ramble among Salisbury Crags and over Arthur’s Seat. The view here of Edinburgh is grand. As you climb up to Arthur’s Seat you pass over a beautiful plateau of rich meadow-land; this Sabbath day literally alive with men and boys playing all sorts of gambling games, from the shaking of dice or of craps to ace-high. We wound up the hill by terraces, great lengths affording views over the steep wall of rock of the beautiful city below. The air is pure and exhilarating. The city, with its many historical domes, spires, castles, and turrets, is seen to advantage here. As you stand beneath the thick, strong walls, supporting for ages these grand old castles of such great antiquity, you can but wonder if they are capable of carrying these vaulted roofs for generations yet to come. As one climbed these broad, flagged terraces and lounged on the emerald green turf, so deep and inviting, one can scarcely realize that in the same spots, over these steep bluffs, both monks and soldiers climbed centuries ago, and they are still perfectly intact, while in the last two thousand years, on the coasts, temples and palaces of two generations have tumbled into the sea. Old and young have been sitting on these rocks all the while, high above change, worry, and decay, gossiping and loving. There are groups of rocks standing on the edge of precipices like mediÆval towers, reminding one a little of the “Garden of the Gods” in Colorado, but not so phenomenal. We emerged upon a wild, rocky slope, barren of vegetation except little tufts of grass, the rocks rising up to the sky behind, as we stood upon the jutting edge of a precipice.