|
 OBERT,
by the grace of God King of Scots, in the course of the strenuous years
when he was making good his claim to that exalted title (being as yet
recognised by the Pope and King Edward of England only as the rebel
Robert de Brus, sometime Earl of Carrick), did receive no little
encouragement and support from the burgesses of Aberdeen; whereof he
made due note at the time. Certain monarchs have been known to do the
like under similar stress of circumstances, yet have they failed to
consult their tablets after the fortune of war has put it in their power
to recompense such services. But Robert the Bruce had ever a warm heart
and a liberal hand. Moreover, the expulsion of English landowners
furnished him with ample means for rewarding his adherents; wherefore,
when the King had come to his own, the royal burgh of Bon Accord was
among the first to receive substantial recognition of help rendered in
time of need. Upon the burgesses and community was conferred a royal
charter, confirming them in possession of their burgh and infeftiiig
them, their heirs and successors for ever, as owners of the royal forest
of the Stocket, saving only to the Crown the timber growing in the said
forest and such beasts of the chase as might chance to be found therein.
Were good "King Hobbe"
(as Edward Long-shanks used in derision to nickname his doughty
opponent) permitted to revisit Aberdeen, it would be fine to watch his
puzzled countenance as his eyes roved in vain quest for some familiar
landmark. All, all is changed; only the river runs in its accustomed
course. As for the forest, so earnestly have the Aberdonians exercised
the right conferred in their charter of erecting "dwelling-houses and
other buildings," that one can but guess now where were its precincts.
Streets and terraces climb the braes where of old the stag couched and
the red fox prowled, a state of things whereof the memory lingers in the
name of Mr. Barclay's pretty residence, Raeden House—the lair of the
roe. It was once the property of Provost More, who built himself here a
country residence towards the end of the eighteenth century, and
enclosed with high walls of lasting granite, faced with brick, an ample
garden. House and garden are now sundered, the latter being occupied by
a market-gardener; and Mr. Barclay has filched from his pasture land the
flowerbeds which Miss Wilson has depicted in their autumn glow of
chrysanthemums. It is a charmingly tranquil retreat, for although the
tide of villas has flowed around it, and continues to flow, fine old
trees confer a venerable appearance upon the mansion, and completely
screen it in sequestered dignity from the world of trams and pillar
boxes outside.
It would be difficult to
contrive a climatic contrast more rapid and complete than I experienced
in leaving London on a dripping, smoke-laden evening in June, and
arriving next morning in brilliant sunshine at Aberdeen. The
all-prevailing granite of the northern city (Aberdeen possesses the only
granite-built cathedral in the world) sparkled clear and clean-cut in
the morning rays; neither streets nor houses bore any suggestion of the
grime and mud engrained upon those of London, and the drive out to
Raeden lay through suburbs wreathed in verdure and garden fronts gay
with Clematis montana, laburnum, hawthorn red and white, lilacs,
Weigelia and hybrid rhododendrons. True, there was a "snell" north wind;
but nothing could dim the brightness or stint the abundance of blossom
on tree and shrub and herb. |
