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the next length of wooden tunnel, I had one glimpse of a huge pine-forested ravine
upon my left, a foaming
The Kingdom of Fife (that royal province) may be observed by the curious on the map,
occupying a tongue of land between the firths of Forth and Tay. It may be continually
seen from many parts of Edinburgh (among the rest, from the windows of my father's
house) dying away into the distance and the easterly HAAR with one smoky seaside town
beyond another, or in winter printing on the gray heaven some glittering hill-tops. It
has no beauty to recommend it, being a low, sea-salted, wind-vexed promontory; trees
very rare, except (as common on the east coast) along the dens of rivers; the fields
well cultivated, I understand, but not lovely to the eye. It is of the coast I speak:
the interior may be the garden of Eden. History broods over that part of the world
like the easterly HAAR. Even on the map, its long row of Gaelic place- names bear
testimony to an old and settled race. Of these little towns, posted along the shore as
close as sedges, each with its bit of harbour, its old!
weather-beaten church or public building, its flavour of decayed prosperity and
decaying fish, not one but has its legend, quaint or tragic: Dunfermline, in whose
royal towers the king may be still observed (in the ballad) drinking the blood- red
wine; somnolent Inverkeithing, once the quarantine of Leith; Aberdour, hard by the
monastic islet of Inchcolm, hard by Donibristle where the "bonny face was spoiled";
Burntisland where, when Paul Jones was off the coast, the Reverend Mr. Shirra had a
table carried between tidemarks, and publicly prayed against the rover at the pitch of
his voice and his broad lowland dialect; Kinghorn, where Alexander "brak's neckbane"
and left Scotland to the English wars; Kirkcaldy, where the witches once prevailed
extremely and sank tall ships and honest mariners in the North Sea; Dysart, famous -
well famous at least to me for the Dutch ships that lay in its harbour, painted like
toys and with pots of flowers and cages of song-birds in the cab!
in windows, and for one particular Dutch skipper who would sit!
all day
in slippers on the break of the poop, smoking a long German pipe; Wemyss (pronounce
Weems) with its bat-haunted caves, where the Chevalier Johnstone, on his flight from
Culloden, passed a night of superstitious terrors; Leven, a bald, quite modern place,
sacred to summer visitors, whence there has gone but yesterday the tall figure and the
white locks of the last Englishman in Delhi, my uncle Dr. Balfour, who was still
walking his hospital rounds, while the troopers from Meerut clattered and cried "Deen
Deen" along the streets of the imperial city, and Willoughby mustered his handful of
heroes at the magazine, and the nameless brave one in the telegraph office was perhaps
already fingering his last despatch; and just a little beyond Leven, Largo Law and the
smoke of Largo town mounting about its feet, the town of Alexander Selkirk, better
known under the name of Robinson Crusoe. So on, the list might be pursued (only for
private reasons, which the reader will shortly have d!
f to guess) by St. Monance, and Pittenweem, and the two Anstruthers, and Cellardyke,
and Crail, where Primate Sharpe was once a humble and innocent country minister: on to
the heel of the land, to Fife Ness, overlooked by a sea-wood of matted elders and the
quaint old mansion of Balcomie, itself overlooking but the breach or the quiescence of
the deep - the Carr Rock beacon rising close in front, and as night draws in, the star
of the Inchcape reef springing up on the one hand, and the star of the May Island on
the other, and farther off yet a third and a greater on the craggy foreland of St.
Abb's. And but a little way round the corner of the land, imminent itself above the
sea, stands the gem of the province and the light of mediaeval Scotland, St. Andrews,
where the great Cardinal Beaton held garrison against the world, and the second of the
name and title perished (as you may read in Knox's jeering narrative) under the knives
of true-blue Protestants, and to this day (a!
fter so many centuries) the current voice of the professor i
