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sweetest and most approving smiles, and coming the nearest to the sensitive outworks of her impulsive heart.
Although of very different temperaments, the chief of the Guthries effectually wooed and won the beautiful and accomplished Lady of Brigton; and every preparation had been made for the fitting celebration of the approaching nuptials of the happy pair. Alas! the course of true love seldom, if ever, runs always smooth. Sir David, on his way to a distant tournament, rode up one fine summer morning to Brigton's hospitable gates, to bid his ladye-love a temporary adieu. Either from her impulsive mind having otherwise undergone a change, or stung with contempt at the pusilanimous conduct of her carpet lover, in preferring the childish sport of the tournament, and the smiles of the Queen of Beauty, to the manlier warfare of the battle-field, and the ringing shouts of well-earned victory, she cruelly taunted Sir David with his effeminate conduct, and indirectly charged him with lack of courage and patriotism in that the day of Scotland's sorest trial. Be that as it may, her censure had the immediate effect of changing the purposes of her lover, and so effectually, that instead of proceeding to the tournament, he buckled on his armour, and hastened to give proof of his courage and valour in the field of battle ; returning from the wars, however, only to find his affianced bride the wife of another !:
On a summer morning early,
His steed cap'risoned rarely.
The warder asking sternly :-
“I come from Castle Guthrie.
I would her see thus early,
And cannot longer tarry."
The Ladye looks from her lattice high,
Her lover gazing fondly-
Back hie to Castle Guthrie.
Your armour buckle fairly,
Then, having suffered sairly,
You ever fighting bravely,
Then, ho! for Castle Guthrie !"
His pride and love taxed sorely,
His spurs he won right bravely.
To claim bis bride, right fairly,
All hail to Castle Guthrie !
Of revelry tbus early ?"
Leer'd the warder very glibly.
To the wars now raging fiercely-
His own loved Castle Guthrie ! Centuries afterwards, however, the two houses were united in marriage, in the persons of the late laird of Guthrie, and Miss Anne Douglas; who, both living to a great age, died within a few weeks of each other, and might be said consequently, to have been buried in one grave : lovely in their lives, in their deaths they were not divided. The new Episcopal Church, Forfar, contains a fine stained
a glass window, put up at the expense of, and thus inscribed by, the present laird of Guthrie :
“In Honorem Dei, et Memoriam Joannis Guthrie, de Guthrie, Arm : Qui Obiit, 12 Nov. 1845. Ætatis svæ 82. Atqve in Memoriam Annæ Dovglas, Conjugis ejvs, Qvæ Obiit, 2 Dec. 1845. Ætatis svæ 75."
LEGEND OF THE FIRST CASTLE OF CLAMIS.
How rich with legends is our land !
How varied, and antagonistic to each other, are the impressions produced on differently constituted minds by the outward aspects of nature, or by the historical traditions of an ancient, classical land like our own! Some expatiate on the richness of the fields, their high state of cultivation, and the comparative produce they yield in return for the diligent labours of the scientific and skilful husbandman. Others exult in the splendid garniture of the straths and valleys, aglow with the golden tints of autumnal fruitage, without one passing thought as to the probable yield per acre of barley, oats, or wheat. Many, while gazing on the far-stretching forests, or on the heath and grass-covered hills, only calculate on the capabilities of the one for the building of so many ships, or speculate on the capacities of the other to rear and fatten so many sheep; while the poetical few luxuriate only in the loveliness of the waving woodlands, ringing out their joyous chimes to fill the soul with melody, or, in a wild transport of luxurious rapture, enjoy with a passionate delight the beauty of the landscape, in all its variety of hill, and dale, and breezy upland, alive with the bleeting of lambs, and vocal with the songs of children and of birds. Some regard with holy reverence the traditionary lore of our country, and are more engrossed with the mere romance of the legend than with its strict historical accuracy. Others, not content with ransacking musty, moth-eaten parchments and chronicles, and grubbing laboriously amongst the debris of decaying antiquarian relics, must needs throw doubts, if not direct discredit, on every startling and romantic incident which does not square with their prosaic ideas, or strictly harmonise with the dry and literal interpretation of history.
What is it that constitutes the grand difference between the scenery of the Western Hemisphere and that of our own beloved land ? Is it not the associations, historical and otherwise, that encompass the land at every point, like a starry atmosphere of refulgent, unfading glory? The prairies of America may be more vast; her forests may cover, in all their primeval grandeur, an immeasurably greater extent and variety of space; her mountains may soar to a loftier altitude, approaching nearer the gates of the Celestial City, and the throne of the Great Eternal ; her rivers may flow on in their stately course in mightier volume, and with greater majesty of power; her lakes may be more capacious, and her cataracts more ravishingly sublime. What of that? There is not a valley, forest, mountain, or glen ; there is not a river, a lake, a cascade, or a burn throughout the length and breadth of the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland but hath each its separate history-its tale of love, of war, romance, or song-connecting the present with the past in a mystic, weird-like chain, whose golden links stretch far away in traditionary indistinctness to the remote and fabulous ages of antiquity. Nay, there is not a moss-covered stone in the plain, a rugged cairn upon the hill, a willowed or birch-shaded streamlet in the glen, or a lonely tarn in the bosom of the mist-enshrouded mountain but tellus, in a dream, some wondrous legend of imaginative mystery or thrillingly-bewitching story of chase, foray, or daring, gallant deeds of wild, romantic chivalry.
And what of the old, grey ivy-mantled castles which stud the lovely glens, and perch, like the eyry of the eagle, on the rugged slopes of the rocky hills, or on the surf-beaten lofty cliffs by the ever-surging sea ? What of the mouldering ruins-still beautiful in their premature decay-of the abbeys, the monasteries, the ancient houses of God, which throw around their holy shrines a rainbow instructive radiance of the never-to-be-forgotten past? What of the still existing magnificent cathedrals, with their noble proportions of transept, nave, and pillared aisle; their delicate tracery of sculptured choir and frescoed dome; their internal garniture of matchless splendour, and their external surroundings of majestic tower and lofty spire ?
Each hath its intensely interesting associations; each hath its authentic, undying history. From the weird old castles, hoary with age—from the depths of their donjon keeps, from the heights of their battlemented towers—still come the rolling peals of martial music, the fitful strains of the minstrel harp, and the loud wassail roar of the midnight revel, all softly blent with the low-whispered roundelay issuing sweetly from the boudoirs of ladyes fair in the witching twilight of summer
From the mouldering abbeys, as well as from the existent cathedrals, arise alike the thunder-notes of the organ, and the softly-chanted songs of the white-robed choir. The aromatic incense still fragrantly perfumes the morning air, and the rolling anthems re-echo back, as of old, from the distant sky.
The associations ? They remain for ever! Gold will not buy them; time cannot destroy them; new places cannot bribe them. From the old they never can be separated.
Ye Goths and Vandals, do your worst ? Uproot each sacred vestige to faithful memory's eye most dear; raze, raze the well-remembered walls; waft, scatter rude to merciless, devastating blasts each palace hall and hospitable roof! Associations mock, defy your power; the heart's affections laugh your wrath to scorn! Ye cannot still the echoes of the