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Robert Louis Stevenson-Part29_Alexander H.Japp(1839-1905)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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THE TOP OF CAERKETTON CRAGS.

You may follow the high road - indeed there is a choice of two,



drawn at different levels - athwart the western skirts of the Braid

Hills, now tenanted, crown and sides of them, by golf; then to the



crossroads of Fairmilehead, whence the road dips down, to rise

again and circumvent the most easterly wing of the Pentlands. You



would like to pursue this route, were it only to look down on Bow

Bridge and recall how the last-century gauger used to put together



his flute and play "Over the hills and far away" as a signal to his

friend in the distillery below, now converted into a dairy farm, to



stow away his barrels. Better it is, however, to climb the stile

just past the poor-house gate, and follow the footpath along the



smoothly scooped banks of the Braid Burn to "Cockmylane" and to

Comiston. The wind has been busy all the morning spreading the



snow over a glittering world. The drifts are piled shoulder-high

in the lane as it approaches Comiston, and each old tree grouped



around the historicmansion is outlined in snow so virgin pure that

were the Ghost - "a lady in white, with the most beautiful clear



shoes on her feet" - to step out through the back gate, she would

be invisible, unless, indeed, she were between you and the ivy-



draped dovecot wall. Near by, at the corner of the Dreghorn Woods,

is the Hunters' Tryst, on the roof of which, when it was still a



wayside inn, the Devil was wont to dance on windy nights. In the

field through which you trudge knee-deep in drift rises the "Kay



Stane," looking to-day like a tall monolith of whitest marble.

Stevenson was mistaken when he said that it was from its top a



neighbouring laird, on pain of losing his lands, had to "wind a

blast of bugle horn" each time the King



VISITED HIS FOREST OF PENTLAND.

That honour belongs to another on the adjacent farm of Buckstane.



The ancient monument carries you further back, and there are Celtic

authorities that translate its name the "Stone of Victory." The



"Pechtland Hills" - their elder name - were once a refuge for the

Picts; and Caerketton - probably Caer-etin, the giant's strong-hold



- is one of them. Darkly its cliffs frown down upon you, while all

else is flashing white in the winter sunlight. For once, in this



last buttress thrown out into the plain of Lothian towards the

royal city, the outer folds of the Pentlands loses its boldly-



rounded curves, and drops an almost sheer descent of black rock to

the little glen below. In a wrinkle of the foothills Swanston farm



and hamlet are snugly tucked away. The spirit that breathes about

it in summer time is gentlypastoral. It is sheltered from the



rougher blasts; it is set about with trees and green hills. It was

with this aspect of the place that Stevenson, coming hither on



holiday, was best acquainted. The village green, whereon the

windows of the neat white cottages turn a kindly gaze under low



brows of thatch, is then a perfect place in which to rest, and,

watching the smoke rising and listening to "the leaves ruffling in



the breeze," to muse on men and things; especially on Sabbath

mornings, when the ploughman or shepherd, "perplext wi' leisure,"



it is time to set forth on the three-mile walk along the hill-

skirts to Colinton kirk. But Swanston in winter time must also



HAVE BEEN FAMILIAR TO STEVENSON.

Snow-wreathed Pentlands, the ribbed and furrowed front of



Caerketton, the low sun striking athwart the sloping fields of

white, the shadows creeping out from the hills, and the frosty



yellow fog drawing in from the Firth - must often have flashed back

on the thoughts of the exile of Samoa. Against this wintry



background the white farmhouse, old and crow-stepped, looks dingy

enough; the garden is heaped with the fantastic treasures of the



snow; and when you toil heavily up the waterside to the clump of

pines and beeches you find yourself in a fairy forest. One need



not search to-day for the pool where the lynx-eyed John Todd, "the

oldest herd on the Pentlands," watched from behind the low scrag of



wood the stranger collie come furtively to wash away the tell-tale

stains of lamb's blood. The effacing hand of the snow has



smothered it over. Higher you mount, mid leg-deep in drift, up the

steep and slippery hill-face, to the summit. Edinburgh has been



creeping nearer since Stevenson's musing fancy began to draw on the

memories of the climbs up "steep Caerketton." But this light gives






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