Dunfermline—Ruins of the Abbey—Grave of Robert Bruce—Malcolm Canmore's Palace—William Henryson, the poet—William Dunbar—Stirling Castle—Views from its Summit—City of Stirling—George Buchanan and Dr. Arthur Johnston—Falkirk—Linlithgow—Story of the Capture of Linlithgow Castle—Spirit of War—Arrival in Edinburgh.

Bidding adieu to Lochleven, we journey slowly through a pleasant and highly cultivated region, till we reach the ancient town of Dunfermline, in which some of the old Scottish kings formerly held court, and which is yet adorned with the remains of a magnificent abbey. Robert Bruce was interred here, in complete armor, and much interest was excited, a few years ago, by the discovery of his skeleton. In the vicinity are the ruins of Malcolm Canmore's palace and stronghold, standing on the edge of a deep romantic glen, in which, more than three hundred years ago, the poet Henryson, a schoolmaster in Dunfermline, was wont to wander, singing his beautiful lays, in the quaint and difficult dialect of former times.

Henryson was contemporary with William Dunbar, a poet, says Sir Walter Scott, unrivalled by any that Scotland has ever produced. He flourished at the court of James IV. His poems are of all sorts, allegorical, moral and comic. The following lines on the brevity of human existence are a fair specimen of his style.

In another poem he takes a more cheerful view of life.

From Dunfermline, we cross the country in the direction of Stirling, and of course linger to view the famous battle-ground of Bannockburn, immortalized by the prowess of Scotland, and the poetry of Burns.

But we approach Stirling Castle, one of the oldest and most imposing strongholds in the country. How often have these old rocks rung again, "with blast of bugle free;" and how frequently has the ground at its base been soaked with human blood! The castle stands on a huge ledge of basaltic rock, rising rapidly from the plain, and overlooking the country far and near, and backed by the rising ground on which the city is built. Ascending to the summit we pass round it, by a narrow pathway cut in the sides of the mountain, and thence enjoy the most extensive and delightful views. How charmingly the Links of the Forth, as the serpentine windings of the river are called, adorn the rich vale, in which they love to linger, as if loth to depart. To the north and east are the Ochil hills, "vestured" in blue, and looking down upon fertile fields, umbrageous woods, and stately mansions. On the west lies the vale of Menteith, and far off the Highland mountains, lost in the mist. On another side are the pastoral hills of Campsie, and underneath our eye the town of Stirling, the Abbey Craig, and the ruins of Cambuskenneth Abbey. The Forth, with "isles of emerald," and white sails skimming its glassy surface, expands into the German Ocean; and Edinburgh Castle, just descried amid the haze, crowns the distant landscape. Stirling was a favorite residence of the Stuarts; but the castle is now employed only as a barracks for soldiery.

Leaving the castle we pass into the city, by High Street, adorned with several palaces of the old nobility, antique-looking edifices, of a solid structure. Here was the palace of the Regent, Earl of Mar, whose descendants were the keepers of Stirling Castle. Here too was the palace of Sir William Alexander, "the philosophical poet" of the court of James the Sixth, and tutor to Charles the First, who created him Earl of Stirling. But an object of still greater interest is the tower where George Buchanan, the historian of Scotland, and one of the first scholars of his age, lived and wrote. He was tutor to James the Sixth of Scotland, and First of England. He wrote a paraphrase of the Psalms in elegant Latin verse, of which he was a perfect master. Most of this work was composed in a monastery in Portugal, to which he had been confined by the Inquisition about the year 1550. It was continued in France, and finished in Scotland. His prose works, particularly his history of Scotland, are characterized by clearness and research. His celebrated contemporary, Dr. Arthur Johnston, was equally distinguished for the variety of his attainments, and his perfect command of the Latin tongue; so that the one has been called the Scottish Virgil, and the other the Scottish Ovid. The Latin version of the Psalms by Buchanan is still used in some of the Scottish schools. It is elegant and faithful, but somewhat formal and paraphrastic.

There are many objects of interest in Stirling, and the scenery around is rich and beautiful, and, moreover, associated in every part, with recollections of the olden time; but we cannot linger here. The stage-coach is waiting to take us to Falkirk, a town of great antiquity, having been the site of one of those military stations on the wall made by the Romans at their invasion of the country, known by the name of the Forts of Agricola. It was also the scene of one or two famous battles in the days of Wallace and Bruce. Being the principal town in the midst of a rich agricultural country, it is now the scene of immense fairs or trysts, as they are called, to which large droves of Highland cattle are brought annually for sale, and where an immense amount of business is transacted. But there is nothing here of sufficient interest to detain us; so we proceed in the rail-cars to Edinburgh. In passing, we get a glimpse of the castle and palace of Linlithgow; in the twefth century one of the most important burghs in Scotland, the residence of several of the kings of Scotland, and the birth-place of Queen Mary.

When Robert Bruce was lying in Torwood Castle, not far from Falkirk, a man by the name of Binnoch, a farmer in the neighborhood, who supplied the garrison at Linlithgow, then in possession of the English king, proposed to Bruce to take possession of the garrison by a stratagem, which he accomplished. This incident has been wrought into a lively form by Wilson, not Professor Wilson, but John Mackie Wilson, author of the Border Tales, of whom I shall have something to say by and by. The following is his account of the matter, somewhat condensed.

Having been introduced to Bruce at Torwood, Binnoch intimated that he had something of great importance to communicate, and inquired whether he might speak with confidence. Being assured that he might, he proceeded thus:

"Aweel sir, the business I cam' upon is just this. I supply the garrison, ye see sir, o' Lithgow wi' hay; now I've observed that they're a' wheen idle, careless fellows, mair ta'en up wi' their play than their duty."

Bruce's eye here kindled with a sudden fire, and his whole countenance became animated with an expression of fierce eagerness that strongly contrasted with its former placidity. He was now all attention to the communication of his humble visitor.

"What! the castle of Linlithgow, friend!" exclaimed Bruce, with a slight smile of mingled surprise and incredulity. "You take the castle of Linlithgow! Pray, my good fellow, how would you propose to do that?"

"Why sir, by a very simple process," replied Binnoch, undauntedly, "I wad put a dizen or fifteen stout weel armed, resolute fellows, in my cart, cover them owre wi' hay, and introduce them into the garrison as a load o' provender. If they were ance in, an' the cheils were themselves of the richt stuff, I'll wad my head to a pease bannock that the castle's ours in fifteen minutes."

"And would you undertake to do this, my good friend?" said Bruce, gravely, struck with the idea, and impressed with its practicability.

"Readily, and wi' a richt guid will, sir," replied Binnoch, "provided ye fin' me the men; but they maun be the very wale o' your flock; its no a job for faint hearts or nerveless arms."

"The men ye shall have, my brave fellow; and if ye succeed your country will be indebted to you. But it is a perilous undertaking; there will be hard fighting, and ye may lose your head by it. Have you thought of that?"

"I have, sir," replied Binnoch, firmly. "As to the fechtin', we are like to gie them as guid as we get. And for the hangin', the Scotsman is no deservin' o' the name that's no ready to brave death, in any form, for his country."

Bruce caught the enthusiasm of the speaker; a tear started into his eye, and seizing the hand of the humble patriot—

"My noble fellow," he said, "would to God all Scotsmen were like thee. Beneath that homely plaid of thine there beats a heart of which any knight in Christendom might be proud. Lose or win, this shall not be forgotten."

Having made the necessary arrangements, and agreed upon a sign, for communicating with each other, Binnoch took his departure from the castle of Torwood.

The next day the men selected by Bruce were at Binnoch's house, having been admitted through the preconcerted signal. They repaired to the barn, and were snugly packed away in the hay cart, armed with steel caps and short swords. Everything being in readiness, Binnoch hid a sword amongst the hay, for his own use, and in such a situation that he could easily seize it when wanted. He also provided himself with a poniard, which he concealed beneath his waistcoat. Thus prepared at all points, the intrepid peasant set forward with his load of daring hearts, and having arrived at the castle, he and his cart were immediately admitted. They proceeded onwards till they came to the centre of the court-yard, when Binnoch gave the preconcerted signal to his associates, which was conveyed in the words, spoken in a loud voice—"Forward, Greystail, forward!" as if addressing his horse, which he at the same time struck with his whip to complete the deception.

These words were no sooner uttered than the hay, with which the daring adventurers were covered, was seen to move, and the next instant it was thrown over upon the pavement, to the inexpressible amazement of the idlers who were looking on; and, to their still greater surprise, fifteen armed men leapt, with fearful shouts, into the court-yard, when, being instantly headed by Binnoch, the work of death began. Every man within their reach at the moment was cut down. The guard-room was assailed, and all in it put to death, and passing from apartment to apartment, they swept the garrison, and took possession of it. The attack had been so sudden, so unexpected, and so vigorous, that its unfortunate occupants, six times their number, had no time to rally or defend themselves, and thus fell an easy prey to the bold adventurers.

We have only to add that Binnoch was rewarded by Bruce, for this important service, with some valuable lands in the parish of Linlithgow; and that his descendants had for their arms a hay-wain, with the motto, virtute doloque.[160]

By the way, these two words, courage and stratagem, express the very spirit and essence of ancient war, and indeed of all war, a relic of barbarism, the most foul and horrible the world has ever seen. Defensible, perhaps, in cases of extremity, when it is the last and only means of protecting our homes and altars, but in all other cases a fearful atrocity, fit only for cannibals and demons!

But yonder are the peaceful towers of Edinburgh, bathed in the sombre light of evening. The very castle looks like an image of repose, as it silently looms up amid the smoke and hum of the busy city. Signs of peace and prosperity are every where around us, indicating, if we have not yet reached, that at least we are approaching that happy time when "men shall beat their swords into plough-shares, and their spears into pruning hooks."