New-York tribune., 1889-10-13

decay and a diminutive kirk, that constitut4
the village of Ford. My purpose here was I'd
view an estate, close by this village, now
owned by Henry Bruce esq, but many years
ago the domain of Alexander Campbell, tho
maternal ancestor Of my own children; and noS
in all Scotland could be found a more romantic
spot than the glen by the lOch-side that shelters
the melancholy, decaying, haunted fabric OF the
old house Of Ederline. Such poet as Edgar
Poe would have revelled in this place-and wen
he might There is a new and noble manslcn on
higher ground in the park, but the ancient house,
almost abandoned now, is thousand times Eors
characteristic and interesting than the new one
Both are approached through long, winding ave
nue., overhung with great trees that interhcs
their branches above it and make cathedral
aisle; but soon the pathway to the older house
turns aside into grove of chestnuts, birches and
yews, winding under vast, dark boughs that bend
like serpents completely TO the earth and then
ascend once more, and onward through sombrs
glades and through groves Of rhOdodendron TO ths
levels of L0ch Ederline and the front Of the man.
sion, now desolate and half in ruins 1t was
old house a hundred years ago. II is covered
with ivy and buried among the trees, and on its
surface and on the tree-trunl<s around it the
lichen and the yellow moss have gathered in rank
luxuriance. The waters of the lake ripple upon
rocky landing almost at its door. Here once
lived proud Campbell ever breathed IN
Scotland, and here his naughty spirit wrought out
for itself the doom of lonely age and broken
heart. His grave is on a little island In thu
lake-a family burial ground, such as may some
times be found on old and remote estates in the
Scotch Highands-where the tall trees wave above
it and the weeds growing thick upon its sur
face, while over it the rocks cav and clamor and
the idle winds sweep on, in needless in
difference that is sadder even than
neglect and disdsin. SO destiny vindi
Gates its inexorable edicts and the great law OF
retribution is fulfilled. A stranger sits in his
seat and rules in his hall, and of all the follow
ers that once waited on his lghteSt word there
remains but single one-aged, infrm, and nearing
the end Of the long journey-to scrape the moss
from his forgotten gravestone and TO think some
times Of his ancient greatness and splendor, for
ever past away We rowed around Loeb Ederline
and looked down into its black waters that IN
some parts have never been sounded and are
tabled to reach through to the other SIDE of ths
world, and, as our oars dipped and plashed, the
timid muir-fowl scurried into the bushes and
the white swans sailed away in naughty wrath,
while, warned by gathering storm-clouds, multi
tudes of old rocks that l1ag have haunted the
place came flying overhead, with many queru-
lous croak, toward their nests in Ederline grove.
And said, tits the dark tarn Of ober
The misty mid region Of Weir
Back to Loeb Awe station, and presently on
past the Falls of Cruachan and through the grim
Pass of Brander, down which the waters OF the
Awe rush in a sable food between jagged and
precipitous cliffs for miles and mileS-and soon
we see the bright waves OF Loch Etlvc smiling
under a sunset sky, and the many bleak, brown
I md rama al
TO Oban and the verge of the There will
be an hour for rest and thought 1t seems 50
wild and idle to write about these things! Llis
in Scotland is deeper richer stronger and sweetef
than any words could possibly be that any man
could possibly expend upon it. The place is the
natural home of imagination, romance and poetry.
Thought is grander here and passion is wilder ana
more eXuberant than on the velvet plains ana
among the chaste and stately ems OF the South'
The blood flows in a stormler torrent, ana 'hs
mind takes on something of the gloomy and savage
majesty Of these gaunt and barren and lonely Nils
Even Sir Walter Scott, speaking OF his own great
works (which are precious beyond words and muSi
always be loved and cherished by all readers who
know what literature Isl, said that all he had
done to polish up the braSses that already
were made. This is the soul Of excellence In Brit
ish literature and this, likewise, is the basis o.
stability in British civillzaton-that the country
Ovelier than the lOveliest poetry that ever wa.
written about it or could be written about IL
and that the land and the life possess an inherent
fascination for the inhabitants that nothing ela
could supply, and that no influence ever seri
ously disturb But this is a great theme, and ,
must not linger upon it. "Once more upon th
waters-yet once mOre!" Soon upon the storm
billows of Lorne | shall see these lovely shorq
fade in the distance Soon, merged again in th
strife and tumult of the commonplace world, J
shall murmur, with as deep a sorrow as the sac
strain itself expresses, the tender words of Scott
Glenorchy's proud mountains
Kichum and its towers,
''lenstrae and GlenlyOn
No longer ours.
w. w.