I should like to transform this little volume into a guide-book, and give you the history of all the houses we are passing, as we go through the old town, for almost every one has its history. There on your left is the house of John Knox, with its flight of steps, its overhanging stories, and, over the door, the inscription, "Love God above all, and your neighbour as yourself." Here is the house where Cromwell decided on the execution of Charles I.; there Hume and Smollett wrote history.
At the end of Canongate, the prolongation of High Street, we come out on a large open square. The palace of Holyrood is before us.
Standing in a hollow, and surrounded by high hills, the aspect of the palace is most sombre. From the moment you cross the threshold, a thousand sad thoughts assail you. You are in the home of Mary Stuart. Everything speaks to you of her. Her sweet, tragic face, her noble presence, her thoughtful brow--you see all again in these halls instinct with her souvenir. They haunt the place as they still haunt the memory of the Scotch. In spite of her bigotry, in spite of all the crimes historians have imputed to her, the Scotch cherish her memory, think only of her misfortunes and sufferings, and will not hear you speak of her with anything but respect. One may easily imagine the ascendency which this woman must have had over those who came in contact with her.
But let us go in, and first we must get our sixpences ready; for in this country, where _l'hospitalité se donne_, you must pay everywhere, and on entering too, for fear you may not be pleased when you come out: _to avoid misunderstandings_, as the Scotch put it.
On the first floor we enter the picture gallery. It is here that the Scotch peers are elected. The room contains portraits of the Scottish kings, from Fergus I. to James VII. At the end of it we find a door which leads to the apartments occupied by the unfortunate princess. Small windows throw a feeble light on the sombre tapestries; though the day is fine, it is difficult to distinguish the various objects of furniture. There is an air of mystery about the place. Poor Mary! After the gay French court, what a tomb must this palace have seemed! Between two windows is a little mirror that must often have reflected back the image of that beautiful countenance, stamped with sadness, the fair head that was one day to roll at the feet of the executioner. Close by, a portrait which must be a libel on so gracious an original. At the two extremities of the bedroom two little closets--I had almost said, cells--formed in the towers which overhang from the outside. The one on the left is the dressing-room; that on the right the supper-room. Near the latter a door leads to the secret staircase. You can reconstruct for yourself the scene of the murder of the favourite Italian secretary, who paid with his blood for the honour of having now and then cheered the heart of the queen with his songs. On the floor of the audience-room you are shown the stains of the unhappy Rizzio's blood. It was here, too, that Chastelard, grandson of Bayard, declared his love to his royal mistress, whom he had accompanied to Scotland on her departure from the French court. Poor Chastelard! he, too, payed with his life for the love which the enchantress had inspired in him, not for this first declaration, which was forgiven him, but for a graver offence, committed at Rossend Castle, of which I shall have occasion to speak presently.