Historical fiction; Jacobite Rebellion, 1745-1746 -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
About a bow-shot from the end of the village appeared the enclosures,
proudly denominated the Parks of Tully-Veolan, being certain square
fields, surrounded and divided by stone walls five feet in height. In
the centre of the exterior barrier was the upper gate of the avenue,
opening under an archway, battlemented on the top, and adorned with two
large weather-beaten mutilated masses of upright stone, which, if the
tradition of the hamlet could be trusted, had once represented, at least
had been once designed to represent, two rampant Bears, the supporters
of the family of Bradwardine. This avenue was straight, and of moderate
length, running between a double row of very ancient horse-chestnuts,
planted alternately with sycamores, which rose to such huge height, and
flourished so luxuriantly, that their boughs completely over-arched the
broad road beneath. Beyond these venerable ranks, and running parallel
to them, were two high walls, of apparently the like antiquity,
overgrown with ivy, honeysuckle, and other climbing plants. The avenue
seemed very little trodden, and chiefly by foot-passengers; so that
being very broad, and enjoying a constant shade, it was clothed with
grass of a deep and rich verdure, excepting where a footpath, worn by
occasional passengers, tracked with a natural sweep the way from the
upper to the lower gate. This nether portal, like the former, opened in
front of a wall ornamented with some rude sculpture, with battlements on
the top, over which were seen, half-hidden by the trees of the avenue,
the high steep roofs and narrow gables of the mansion, with lines
indented into steps, and corners decorated with small turrets. One of
the folding leaves of the lower gate was open, and as the sun shone
full into the court behind, a long line of brilliancy was flung upon
the aperture up the dark and gloomy avenue. It was one of those effects
which a painter loves to represent, and mingled well with the struggling
light which found its way between the boughs of the shady arch that
vaulted the broad green alley.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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