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To-day we come to our last walk, which will take us past several curious and interesting places. There is no more imposing and majestic way for the traveller to approach or leave Edinburgh, than the Queensferry Road, which is our choice to-day. The broad, well-engineered road sweeps with an easy curve over the Dean Bridge, passes the handsome stone houses of Buckingham Terrace, and in a few moments more emerges into open country, without any of the intervening hovels which generally encumber the outskirts of a great town. We diverge from the main road at Comely Bank, and then turn due north towards Granton. To our left hand is the property of Craigleith, on which stands the massive pile of St. Cuthbert's Poorhouse. It is far over-topped and outshone by its neighbour on the opposite side of the road, Fettes College, founded in 1863 in accordance with the will of Sir William Fettes, Lord Provost of Edinburgh, to whom the estate of Comely Bank belonged. Bryce was the architect, and at some future period, when the surrounding plantations have grown up, it will look very well, but its solitary position, at the top of an exposed ridge, gives it a bare and comfortless appearance.

No old legends linger about either of these places, but about a mile and a half to the east of us stands a house whose history is too noticeable to overlook, though in the course of to-day's walk we do not actually pass it. This is Warriston House, which stands on a gentle eminence beyond the Botanical Gardens. It belonged once to the family of Kincaid, cadets of the Kincaids of that Ilk in Stirlingshire, and in 1600 it was the scene of a dreadful tragedy.

John Kincaid of Warriston was married to a beautiful woman, much younger than himself, Jean Livingston, the daughter of the Laird of Dunipace. Owing to some alleged ill-treatment, she conceived a deadly hatred of her husband, which was fomented and encouraged by her nurse. The lady was induced to tamper with a young man named Robert Weir, a servant of her father's at Dunipace, and at last she persuaded him to become her instrument. Early one morning, in July 1600, Weir came to Warriston, and being secretly admitted to the laird's chamber, he fell upon him and beat him to death with his fists. He then fled. The lady and the nurse remained at home, and seem to have taken no steps to evade the punishment of their crime. They were both seized, taken before the magistrates, and condemned to death. In the interval between the sentence and the execution, Lady Warriston, who was only twenty-one, was brought by the offices of a pious clergyman to a state of repentance and resignation to her fate. The case is reported in a curious old pamphlet called "Memorial of the Conversion of Jean Livingston (Lady Warriston), with an account of her carriage at her execution," which was reprinted by Charles Sharpe. She stated that on Weir assaulting her husband, she went to the hall, and waited till the deed was done. She thought she still heard the pitiful cries uttered by her husband while struggling with his murderer. Afterwards, by way of dissembling, she tried to weep, but not a tear could she shed. She could only regard her approaching death as a just punishment of her offence.

Her relations do not seem to have shown much grief at her fate, but for their own sakes they made interest to obtain that her execution should be as little public as possible. It was arranged that while the nurse was being burnt on the Castle-hill at four in the morning, and thus attracting the attention of any that should be about at that early hour, the lady should be taken to the Girth Cross, at the east end of the town, and should there be beheaded by the Maiden.

According to the contemporary pamphlet: "The whole way, as she went to the place of execution, she behaved herself so cheerfully, as if she had been going to a wedding and not to her death. When she came to the scaffold, and was carried up upon it, she looked up to the Maiden, with two longsome looks, for she had never seen it before. This I may say of her, to which all that saw her will bear record, that her only countenance moved, although she had not spoken a word. For there appeared such majesty in her countenance and visage, such a heavenly courage in her gesture, that many said, 'That woman is ravished with a higher spirit than man or woman.'" She then calmly resigned herself to her fate. A melancholy end for one so young! It shows the horror in which her deed was held at the time, that in the ballad of "The Laird of Warriston," the Enemy of Mankind is introduced as appearing to her, and tempting her to this awful crime. Four years later, her accomplice, Weir, was taken and broken on the wheel, a punishment hardly ever before inflicted in Scotland.[61]

We now return to our actual walk, and soon find ourselves facing the lodge-gates of Caroline Park, or Roystoun, as it was called before it became the property of John, Duke of Argyle.

Though many years have passed since I last saw Caroline Park, how vividly it rises before me, with its curious, steep-pitched roof, and the carved inscription below it, telling how George, Lord Tarbat, had erected this little cottage (tuguriolum) in 1685.

When you entered the door, you passed through an outer hall into the courtyard, round which the house was built. The flagstones which paved it were green and damp-stained; but a little path of well-worn bricks, with a wooden roof supported on pillars (to shield one from the weather), led straight across to the low, matted hall, with its further door opening on the sea-view, and its framed diagrams of yacht-flags and signals, which recalled the days of the Lufra and the Flower o' Yarrow. A door to the right led to the great staircase, which was bordered by the most beautiful iron trellis-work, hammered into flowers and arabesques, that it was ever my good fortune to see. Up-stairs, owing to the house being only one room thick, and being built in a complete square round the courtyard, all the rooms opened into one another, though by an ingenious arrangement of staircases it was possible to get to each suite separately. Heude, a pupil of Verrio, had painted the ceilings, and though the "Diana and Endymion" in the smaller drawing-room was perhaps the more exquisitely lovely, it was hard to decide between it and the "Aurora" in the larger room. What a beautiful room that great drawing-room was, as I remember it! with its panelled walls painted white, hung with portraits of the exiled Stuart kings, and over the chimney-piece and above the doors landscapes in grisaille let into the walls. There were a good many of these in the house. They were principally foreign scenes, but there was a curious view of Edinburgh, painted before the North Loch was drained and while the New Town was still unthought of, which is now preserved at Dalkeith.

When my aunt, Lady John Scott, lived here, a curious circumstance sometimes occurred in this room. The first time she remembered its happening, she was sitting alone about eleven o'clock one evening. Suddenly the window at the end of the room, close to the door opening into the dining-room, was violently burst open, and a cannon-ball (apparently) bounded in, falling heavily on the floor and rolling forwards. It rebounded three times, and seemed to come as far as the screen half-way up the room, and stop there. My aunt rang violently, but when the servants came nothing could be seen, the window was shut and uninjured, and everything as usual. Every effort was made to find out what had caused this noise, but in vain; and as there were no rooms above this part of the house, it was the more unaccountable. I remember, in January 1879, when we, as children, were spending a fortnight there alone with our German governess, that she heard the same sound one evening, and was so terrified, that she would never sit alone in that room at night again. This time the cannon-ball seemed to roll right up to where she was sitting by the fire. The two maid-servants who were always left in the house constantly heard it, but got used to it, and did not mind. Nothing was ever seen, and it could never be accounted for in any way.

To the east of the house, under the trees, where the first daffodils flowered each spring, was an ancient moss-grown well, out of which, tradition said, the "Green Ladye" rose at midnight, and rang the alarm bell in the courtyard. Many a time have I heard that bell toll mournfully, when every one in the house was in their beds, and there was not a breath of wind to sway it. On the same side of the house, but close to where the railway now runs through the park, lay formerly a large flat stone. The story went that above two hundred years ago, a foreign vessel came into the Forth, and drifted on to the low rocks and sand close to Caroline Park. The crew were stricken with the plague, and in a day or two the captain and the men were all found dead. A very deep pit was dug on this spot, and the crew were buried together in one large grave. The captain was buried alone on the top of the others, about three or four feet below the surface of the ground, and the large flat stone was laid above them all. When Lord and Lady John Scott were living at Caroline Park, they had a great wish to know if there was any truth in this wild legend, so they moved the stone and dug beneath it. A few feet down they came on the entire bones of one man, and a few feet farther they found a great mass of bones all thrown together into one deep grave. They put everything back carefully, as it had been before, and replaced the stone on the top. Before leaving Caroline Park that year to go to England, Lord John begged Mr. Howkins, the Granton engineer, to see that during the making of the railway (then in progress) neither grave nor stone should be touched. Unfortunately, none of his directions were attended to, and when he returned, he found the grave cut away, and the stone propped up against the park wall, so that of this curious spot, nothing is left but the empty tale.

There are beautiful old stone gate-pillars to the sea-entrance, with ducal coronets surmounting the carved finials; but the hammered iron gates, which corresponded with the staircases inside the house, have long been removed, and their places filled by common wooden doors. They were taken away early in this century by a well-known judge, and they now ornament the lodge of Gogar, where we saw them yesterday.

To the west of the place lay the garden, the most enchanting tangle of flowers, fruit-trees, and shady bowers. Everything in it seemed to grow to greater perfection, and to bloom earlier than elsewhere, it was so sheltered and so sunny. Peaches and apricots ripened on the walls, and the beds were full of every old-fashioned, sweet-scented flower. Beyond it rose the ruins of Granton Castle, over which strayed the Persian yellow rose and the Austrian briar, and veiled the mouldering walls with wreaths of golden petals. In the corner next the old fig-tree, a door opened into what we used to call the "opera-box." It had exactly its shape and form. You stepped in and found yourself overhanging the shore,—but instead of a painted scene, lay the wide panorama of the Forth, with the hills beyond fading into softer and softer purple; and for music, there was the ceaseless plash of the waves on the rocks far down below us.

The "opera-box" itself had been part of the outer buildings of the old castle. This once belonged to Sir Thomas Hope of Craighall, the famous lawyer of Charles I.'s time, who made it his principal residence. After his death in 1646, it passed through many different hands, including various members of the Hope family, till it was bought in 1740 by John, Duke of Argyle and Greenwich, who had acquired Roystoun the year before from Sir James Mackenzie, grandson of the Lord Tarbat who built the house. The Duke threw the two places together, and called them Caroline Park, out of compliment to his royal mistress, the queen of George II. At his death, the property passed, by the marriage of his daughter Caroline, to the ducal family of Buccleuch, who now possess it. The prosperity of the neighbouring port of Granton has proved the destruction of Caroline Park. Warehouses and other buildings press closely upon it, and the beautiful old house itself has been turned into the offices of a printing-ink manufactory.

Leaving it behind us, we turn along a road which leads westwards from the lodge, and, passing a little place called Granton House, we soon reach Muirhouse. Griffins surmount the gate-pillars which open on to a broad and fine avenue, at the end of which stand the ruins of the old royal hunting-lodge, and a finely wooded park slopes down to the sea. This barony was granted by King Robert Bruce to Sir William Oliphant of Aberdalgy. Previously it had been royal property. The last Oliphant that possessed Muirhouse, or the Murrows, as it was then called, was Sir James Oliphant of Newton (born in 1612), who in a drunken fit stabbed his own mother with a sword, so that she died. This dreadful event obliged him to fly into Ireland, where he died in great penury and wretchedness.[62] All his property was sold. Muirhouse now belongs to the Davidson family, who acquired it in 1776.

A little to the south-west of Muirhouse, we pass Drylaw, a place that once belonged to a younger branch of the Foresters of Corstorphine, and then come to the village of Davidson's Mains, or Muttonhole, hole, as it used to be called. The east gate of Barnton faces us, but we shall describe that place later, and, turning to the right along the park wall, we soon see the towers of Lauriston rising between us and the sea. The castle appears to have been built about the end of the 16th century, as over two of the windows we can still see the letters S. A. N. and D. E. M. They are the initials of Sir Archibald Napier and his second wife, Dame Elizabeth Mowbray. They acquired Lauriston from the Foresters in the latter half of the sixteenth century. One of the windows near the roof has a kind of stone shelf at its base, intended to hold a beacon, which could be seen simultaneously from the castles of Merchiston and Barnbougle, the former homes of its master and mistress. At Sir Archibald's death in 1608, Lauriston passed to his younger son, Sir Alexander. He has left a trace of his tenure in the Celestial Theme, which is cut on a stone nineteen inches square, and is still preserved here. It was probably calculated for him by his more celebrated brother, John Napier, the inventor of Logarithms, who was deeply versed in astrology. After his death, Lauriston passed away from the Napiers, and in 1683 came into the hands of the family with which its name is most closely associated. John Law, the great financier, succeeded his father here in 1688.[63]

The history of the famous Comptroller-General, whose fertile brain evolved the Mississippi Scheme, is too well-known to repeat here; but it is only just to his memory to say that he was no ordinary speculator. He believed as firmly in the reality of these golden dreams as the most enthusiastic of his followers; and his system appears to have been founded on a real intention to extend the commerce and improve the credit of France. It was against his wish, and in opposition to his advice, that the fatal edict was promulgated, which, by lowering the value of the bank-note, brought about the downfall of public credit; and in the crash that followed Law lost everything, including the large private fortune he had inherited from his father. The end of his life was a sad one, for he died at Venice in great poverty in 1729, at the comparatively early age of fifty-seven. It is a touching trait of his character, that, even in the height of his power and prosperity, his thoughts still fondly turned to his distant Lauriston. Archibald, Duke of Argyle, then Lord Islay, relates that, going to wait upon him by appointment, he found the antechambers filled with persons of the highest quality in France. Being by special order admitted to Law's private apartments, he found him writing what, from the number and the rank of those left to await his leisure, he took to be most important despatches. On saying this to his old friend, to his amusement he learnt that Law was only writing to his gardener at Lauriston, and giving him directions to plant cabbages in a particular spot. This was at a time when he stood at a giddy height, which few subjects have ever reached. He was the object of the adulation, almost the worship of the whole nation. After his death, and that of his only son, Lauriston Castle passed to his brother William and to his descendants, who were all in the French service.[64]

William Law's son was Baron de Lauriston and Governor of Pondicherry. His grandson was Napoleon's distinguished general, Alexander, Marquis de Lauriston (born 1768, died 1828). He served in most of Napoleon's campaigns, and was sent on important embassies to London and St. Petersburg. After the Restoration he reconciled himself to the royal family, and was given various posts at court, and finally was created MarÉchal de France in 1823. His son Auguste was an almost equally distinguished officer. When hardly more than a boy, he served in the Imperial campaigns from 1808-1814. He carried on the line of the family in France, where they still exist, and are known by their French title. Their Scottish home was sold early in this century to Mr. Allan, a banker in Edinburgh. It has since belonged to Lord Rutherfurd, and is now the property of Mr. Macknight Crawford.

A little farther west we see before us the woods which surround Cramond House, or Nether Cramond, as it was formerly called. This has always been a remarkable place. The early British fort on the Amon (Caer-Amon, hence Cramond) became later an important Roman military station. On the opposite side of the river, in the park of Dalmeny, there can still be seen the figure of an eagle, rudely carved on the Hunter's Craig, a rock close to the sea, which has remained there since the days of the Roman occupation. In the 12th century Robert Avenel, who had received these lands from David I., granted them to the bishopric of Dunkeld, and for many years this was the bishop's principal residence south of the Forth. Hence it was sometimes called Bishop's Cramond, to distinguish it from Cramond Regis (King's Cramond), which stood where Barnton stands now. A ruined tower close to the modern house of Cramond is all that is left of the bishop's palace. It is a small building about twenty-four feet square and forty feet high. About 1624 this property was acquired by the Inglis family, to whose descendant, Colonel Inglis Craigie Halket, it now belongs. The last of the direct line was Anne, Lady Torphichen, who spent all the latter years of her life here. She was very fond of the place, and kept it up beautifully till her death in 1849. Chopin, the famous Polish musician, once stayed with her at Cramond, and I have often heard his visit, his playing, and his delight in the woods of Dalmeny described by a relation of mine, who as a girl lived much with Lady Torphichen. In front of the house stands a very elaborate sundial, bearing thirty-three gnomons. One of the faces is dated 1732, and it bears the names of Sir Rob. Dickson, for whom it was made, and Ach. Handasyde, the maker. He was a native of Musselburgh, or "Conchi Polensis," as it is more classically termed on his tombstone in Inveresk churchyard. There is a legend that this dial was brought here from Lauriston Castle, where it originally stood.

A little farther up the Almond in a sheltered nook stands Braehead, which has been in the Howieson Crawfurd family since their ancestor received it from James V. That king, on one of his solitary, adventurous expeditions, was attacked on Cramond Bridge by some gipsies. A poor man who was threshing corn in a barn close by, hearing the scuffle, and seeing one man defending himself against four or five, went to the king's help, and, laying about him lustily with his flail, soon dispersed the assailants. He then took the king into the barn, and brought him a towel and water, with which to wash the blood from his face, and finally escorted him a little way towards Edinburgh, in case he should be again attacked. On the way, James asked him who and what he was. The labourer answered that his name was John Howieson, and that he was a bondsman on the farm of Braehead (which belonged to the king). James then asked him if there was any wish he particularly desired to have gratified; and Howieson confessed he should be the happiest man in Scotland, were he but proprietor of the farm on which he wrought as a labourer. He then asked the king in turn who he was; to which James replied, as usual, that he was the Goodman of Ballengeich, a poor man who had a small appointment about the palace; and he added that if Howieson would come to see him the following Sunday, he would endeavour to repay his opportune assistance.

Howieson accordingly presented himself at Holyrood the following Sunday, and inquired for the Goodman of Ballengeich. The king had given orders he should be admitted, and received him in the same disguise he had formerly worn. He then, preserving the character of an inferior officer of the household, conducted Howieson through the different apartments, and was amused by his wonder and his remarks. At length he offered to show him the king. "But how," asked the countryman, "am I to know his Grace from the nobles who will be all about him?" "Easily," replied his companion; "all the rest will be uncovered, the king alone will wear his hat or bonnet."

So saying, King James led him into a great hall, which was filled by the nobility and officers of the crown. Howieson was a little frightened, and drew close to his conductor, but was still unable to distinguish the king. "I told you you should know him by his wearing his hat," said his companion. Then said the man, "It must be either you or me, for all but us two are bareheaded." The king laughed heartily, and revealed himself, and then rewarded his deliverer with the farm of Braehead, which he gave him as a free gift, on condition that John Howieson or his successors should be ready to present a basin and ewer, for the king to wash his hands, whenever his Majesty should come to Holyrood Palace or should pass by the bridge of Cramond. Accordingly, in 1822, when George IV. came to Scotland, Howieson of Braehead appeared at Holyrood and offered his Majesty water from a silver ewer.[65]

The old bridge of Cramond is little used now. It stands a hundred yards lower down the water than the new bridge, over which the road runs to Queensferry. The woods of Dalmeny sweep down the river-side, but above the bridge Craigie Hall claims one bank, and Cammo the other. Cammo, or New Saughton, as it used to be called, belonged to the Watsons, and then passed by the marriage of the last of the family to the Earls of Morton. It was sold a few years ago. When the Queen paid her first visit to Scotland in 1842, the young heiress of Saughton rode out at the head of her tenantry to meet her and escort her to Edinburgh. Two years later she became Lady Aberdour, and was mother to the present Lord Morton.

We are now on the Queensferry Road once more, and turning eastwards, with our faces towards Edinburgh, we continue to skirt the wall of Barnton. This place, which now belongs to Sir James Gibson Maitland, is formed of two properties thrown together. The present house was originally Cramond Regis, where there had been a royal hunting-seat. The house was built in 1640 by Sir John Smith of Grotthill, who was Lord Provost of Edinburgh. He sold the place, and it passed through several hands before being bought in the last century by Mr. Ramsay, a banker in Edinburgh. He also bought Barnton. The site of the old house is near the lodge at Davidson's Mains, and not far from where the gardens now are. It belonged in 1507 to Sir Robert Barton, the master-skipper of the Great Michael, a famous ship, built by James V. He was afterwards Comptroller of the Exchequer, Lord High Treasurer (1529), and Master of the Mint. In 1580, Barnton was sold to James Elphinston, first Lord Balmerino, in whose family it continued till 1688. The fine pillar sundial that still exists here was put up by the father of the Lord Balmerino of the '45.[66] At the end of the last century, Barnton belonged to Wilhelmina, Lady Glenorchy, to whom it was left by her husband. She spent many years of her pious and blameless life at this place, but in 1786, shortly before her death, she sold it to Mr. Ramsay. He lived here while he was altering and improving the house of Cramond Regis, and when that was finished, the old house of Barnton was pulled down, and its name usurped by its younger rival.

Mr. Ramsay's grandson was the well-known M. F. H. He was fond of all kinds of sport, and with his friend, Captain Barclay of Urie, horsed and drove the "Defiance" coach to and from Aberdeen. Lanercost, the best horse he ever owned, keeps his memory green on the turf. His only son succeeded him, at whose death Barnton passed to his nearest relations, the Gibson Maitlands. They have preferred living at Sauchie, their own place in Stirlingshire, and Barnton has been let for many years.

We now find ourselves back at Davidson's Mains; but, instead of going straight home to Edinburgh by Blackhall, we turn abruptly to the right, along a quiet country road, which winds along the base of the Corstorphine Hills. About half a mile farther on, we pass the gate of Craigcrook, a pretty little place which seems sheltered from every harsh wind in the lap of these wooded heights. For many years it was the home of Francis, Lord Jeffrey, the critic, the "immortal Jeffrey" of Lord Byron's bitter lines,[67] who settled here in 1815. Over the outer gate of the courtyard there is a stone, with the date 1621, and a shield which bears traces of the arms of the Adamsons, early owners of Craigcrook. In the sixteenth century, William Adamson was one of the largest proprietors on this side of Edinburgh. His property extended from Craigleith to Cammo. He was slain, with his kinsman, Alexander Napier of Merchiston, at the battle of Pinkie in 1547. Craigcrook now forms part of the Strachan Mortification, the lands having been left for charitable purposes by Mr. Strachan, Writer to the Signet, who died in 1719.

As we turn again to the right, our attention is attracted by the romantic and fairy-like scene, which is only divided from us by a low wall. A miniature lake lies embosomed in the woods, and on its eastern side rise beetling crags, crowned with Scotch firs. Ivy, in some places, hangs down the face of the cliff, and here and there a dislodged block of stone has given foothold to broom and bramble bushes. Few winds can ruffle that little lake, it lies in so sheltered a spot, and on a sunny afternoon, it smilingly reflects each crevice and ivy-trail in the rocks above it. In the 16th century a quarry was worked here, but many, many years must have passed since the hand of man last profaned this lovely spot, and nature has swept all trace of his work away. It lies in the grounds of Ravelston, a pretty old place, which stands on an eminence to our left. The old house is a little to the west of the present one, and nearer the road. Over the entrance is the inscription, "G. F. Ne quid nimis, 1622. J. B." This is probably the date of its erection, and the initials are those of George Foulis, and Janet Bannatyne his wife. The Foulis owned Ravelston for many years. The last of the family took the name of Primrose from his grandmother, the heiress of Dunipace, and was the gallant Sir Archibald Primrose, who suffered for his king at Carlisle, in 1746.[68] His lands were forfeited, but Ravelston had been sold some time before, and had been acquired in 1726 by Mr. Keith, a relation of the Earl Marischal. His grandson, who built the present house, was knighted by George IV. on his visit to this country, and made Knight Marischal of Scotland. A near relationship subsisted between Sir Walter Scott and the Ravelston family, his grandmother, Mrs. Rutherford, and old Mrs. Keith having been sisters;[69] and in his letters and memoir we find constant references to Ravelston. It now belongs to Miss Murray Gartshore, whose father bought it from his nephew, Sir Patrick Keith Murray. The well-known song, "Hark the voice of joy and singing," was written by the late Mrs. Murray Gartshore, who sang beautifully, and wrote several very pretty things. There used to be a beautiful avenue of walnut-trees near the house, but they have all been either cut or blown down.

Ravelston brings us almost to the end of our pilgrimage. Either the road straight before us, or that to the right through Murrayfield, will quickly take us back to Edinburgh. Let us linger a few moments before we part, and, turning round, let us climb the steep path that leads over the shoulder of the hill to the village of Corstorphine. As breathless and exhausted we reach the top, we sink gratefully on the seat, which long has been known as "Rest and be thankful," and let our eyes and thoughts stray over the beautiful scene. Before us lies Edinburgh, with its castle and its spires,—beyond is the sea and distant Lammermuirs. Over all the golden light of evening is shining, and the fir-trees throw long shadows at our feet. From this spot we can see most of the places to which our weary steps have wandered in turn; and as we sit here in peace, may the recollections of the past, which I have striven to reawaken, touch each place, as it rises in your memory, with a ray of gold as bright as that which the setting sun throws o'er them now!

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