Part 21 (1/2)
There was something of the fairy tale in the fact that she had left her native town, poor, thirty odd years before, with her loved ones, to found a new home in the great Republic, and was to-day returning in her coach, to be allowed the privilege of linking her name with the annals of her beloved native town in one of the most enduring forms possible; for whatever agencies for good may rise or fall in the future, it seems certain that the Free Library is destined to stand and become a never-ceasing foundation of good to all the inhabitants. Well, the future historian of that ancient town will record that on this day, under bright suns.h.i.+ne, and amidst the plaudits of a.s.sembled thousands, the Queen Dowager laid the Memorial Stone of the building, an honor, compared with which, I was charged to tell the citizens, in the Queen Dowager's estimation, Queen Victoria has nothing in her power to bestow.
So say also the sons of the Queen Dowager. The ceremonies pa.s.sed off triumphantly. The procession, workingmen and address, banquet, and all the rest of it may be summed up in the remark of the Dunfermline press: ”The demonstration may be said to be unparalleled in the history of Dunfermline.”
I will not be tempted to say anything further about this unexpected upheaval except this: after we had stopped and saluted the Stars and Stripes, displayed upon the Abbey Tower in graceful compliment to my American friends (no foreign flag ever floated there before, said our friend, Mr. R----, keeper of the ruins), we pa.s.sed through the archway to the Bartizan, and at this moment came the shock of all that day to me. I was standing on the front seat of the coach with Provost Walls when I heard the first toll of the abbey bell. My knees sank from under me, the tears came rus.h.i.+ng before I knew it, and I turned round to tell the Provost that I must give in. For a moment I felt as if I were about to faint. Fortunately I saw that there was no crowd before us for a little distance. I had time to regain control, and biting my lips till they actually bled, I murmured to myself, ”No matter, keep cool, you must go on;” but never can there come to my ears on earth, nor enter so deep into my soul, a sound that shall haunt and subdue me with its sweet, gracious, melting power like that.
[Sidenote: _The Abbey Bell._]
By that curfew bell I had been laid in my little couch to sleep the sleep of childish innocence. Father and mother, sometimes the one, sometimes the other, had told me, as they bent lovingly over me night after night, what that bell said as it tolled. Many good words has that bell spoken to me through their translations. No wrong thing did I do through the day which that voice from all I knew of heaven and the great Father there did not tell me kindly about ere I sank to sleep, speaking the very words so plainly that I knew that the power that moved it had seen all and was not angry, never angry, never, but so very, _very_ sorry. Nor is that bell dumb to me to-day when I hear its voice. It still has its message, and now it sounded to welcome back the exiled mother and son under its precious care again.
The world has not within its power to devise, much less to bestow upon us, such a reward as that which the abbey bell gave when it tolled in our honor. But my brother Tom should have been there also; this was the thought that came. He, too, was beginning to know the wonders of that bell ere we were away to the newer land.
Rousseau wished to die to the strains of sweet music. Could I choose my accompaniment, I could wish to pa.s.s into the dim beyond with the tolling of the abbey bell sounding in my ears, telling me of the race that had been run, and calling me, as it had called the little white-haired child, for the last time--_to sleep_.
We spent two days in Dunfermline. The tourist who runs over from Edinburgh will find the Abbey and the Palace ruins well worthy a visit.
Take a day and see them, is my advice. Queen Margaret, King Robert the Bruce, and many other Kings and Queens are interred in the Abbey, for this was the capital of Scotland long ere Edinburgh rose to importance.
Who does not remember the famous ballad of Sir Patrick Spens:
”The King sits in Dunfermline toon, Drinking the bluid red wine; Oh where will I get a skelly skipper To sail this s.h.i.+p of mine.”
Dunfermline is now the princ.i.p.al seat of the damask manufacture.
Americans will be interested in knowing that at least two-thirds of all the table linen made in the eleven factories here are for republican use. While we were there the rage was for designs showing the American race-horse Iroquois leading all the fleet steeds of England; now it is said to be for ”Jumbo” patterns.
[Sidenote: _The New Kings._]
A visit to one of the leading factories cannot fail to be interesting to the sight-seer, and to such as may go I suggest that a good look be taken at the stalwart la.s.sies and good-looking young women who work there. Several thousand of them marched in the procession formed to greet us at the city line, and their comely appearance and the good taste shown in their dress surprised the coaching party very agreeably.
Indeed, our Poetaster improvised a verse which ill.u.s.trates the change which has come over the ancient capital since the days of Sir Patrick Spens, and gave it to us as we rolled along:
”The old Kings sat in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blood red wine; The new Kings are at better work, Weaving the damask fine.”
Quite correct, Davie. Does not Holy Writ declare that the diligent man shall stand _before_ Kings? And is it not time that the bibulous King should give place to the useful citizen--the world over!
Friday was a cloudy day, but some of our friends, who spent the early morning with us and saw us off, unanimously predicted that it would clear. They proved true weather prophets, for it did turn out to be a bright day. Pa.s.sing the residence of Colonel Myers, the American Consul, we drove in and gave that representative of the great Republic and his wife three farewell cheers.
KINROSS, Friday, July 28.
Kinross was the lunching-place. Mother was for the first and last time compelled to seek the inside for a few hours after leaving Dunfermline.
These farewells from those near and dear to you are among the cruelest ordeals one has to undergo in life. One of the most desirable arrangements held out to us in all that is said of heaven is to my mind that there shall be no parting there. h.e.l.l might be invested with a new horror by having them daily.
We had time while at Kinross to walk along Loch Leven and see the ruined castle upon the island, from which Douglas rescued Queen Mary. What a question this of Mary Queen of Scots is in Scotland! To intimate a doubt that she was not purity itself suffices to stir up a warm discussion.
Long after a ”point of divinity” ceases to be the best bone to snarl over, this Queen Mary question will probably still serve the purpose.
What matters it what she was? It is now a case of beauty in distress, and we cannot help sympathizing with a gentle, refined woman (even if her refinement was French veneering), surrounded by rude, coa.r.s.e men.
What is the use of ”argie bargieing” about it? Still, I suppose, we must have a bone of some kind, and this is certainly a more sensible one than the ”point of divinity,” which happily is going somewhat out of fas.h.i.+on.
To-day's talk on the coach was all of the demonstration at Dunfermline, and one after another incident was recalled. Bailie W---- was determined we should learn what real Scotch gooseberries are, and had put on the coach an immense basketful of them. ”We never can dispose of so many,”
was the verdict at Kinross; at Perth it was modified, and ere Pitlochrie was reached the verdict was reversed and more wished for. Our American friends had never known gooseberries before, friend Bailie, so they said.