Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 10
General
Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 10
Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction
[Footnote 12: It is still open, and of great breadth in various parts of
the line, and retains the name of the King's Cadgers' Road, because the
fish carriers from Crail travelled along it with fish from that royal
burgh to supply the king's table when resident at Falkland Palace].
The mode in which the ceremony of Queen Matilda's coronation was
performed is strikingly illustrative of the manners of the age. The
Bishops of St Andrews and Dunkeld, with the Abbot of Scone, attended to
officiate. The Bishop of St Andrews explained to her majesty the
respective oaths, which were to be taken first in Latin, and afterwards
in Norman French. They then conducted her to the regal chair or sacred
stone of Scone, which stood before the cross in the eastern division of
the chapel. Upon this she sat; the crown was placed on her head; she was
invested with the royal mantle, and the nobility kneeling in homage
threw their robes beneath her feet. A Highland bard or sennachy, clothed
in a scarlet mantle, with hair venerably white, then advanced from the
crowd, and bending before the throne, repeated in his native tongue the
genealogy of the youthful queen.
Many years pass. Maude is dead; and our fancy, under a spell, leads us
to Crail Church. The usual service has not yet commenced, and
consequently neither the king, his family, nor attendants, have entered
the church; but it is whispered that they may be looked for every
moment, as his majesty was scrupulously punctual at prayers.
There was soon a large congregation assembled, certainly not less than a
thousand persons, drawn hither by loyalty and curiosity, and in
compliment to the royal birth-day. A soft and solemn strain of music now
rose from the organ, and time is given, during the voluntary, to collect
the distracted thoughts, and to compose them into calmness and order
suitable to the occasion. There now ran a muffled whisper of "The King!
the King!" and a vista being opened in front, his majesty is seen quite
distinctly. He is a venerable old man, hoary and furrowed--no grandeur,
no majesty, no assumption of princely dignity. Shading his dim eyes with
one hand, he reverently knelt down, and inwardly breathed his composing
aspiration to the Throne of Grace. The other hand rested on the
shoulder of the fair-haired child who stood by his side, his little
grand-daughter, whom he had led in his hand to the place of worship.
All this had passed in a few seconds: and there was now a deep hush, for
the priests were in their places. The staring and whispering were
suspended; the service commenced, and the aged monarch, bareheaded, his
thin, trembling hands fervently clasped, his eyes uplifted as it were to
the place to which all his earnest thoughts were now directed, in the
attitude of intense, absorbing devotion--presented a picture of devotion
of a character so solemn and impressive, that anything more striking
could rarely be witnessed or imagined.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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