mis." In a
room above it King Malcolm II. of Scotland was murdered in 1034. The
castle positively teems with these agreeable traditions. The staircases
and their passages are stone-walled, stone-roofed, and stone-floored,
and their flags are worn into hollows by the feet which have trodden
them for so many centuries. Unusual features are the secret winding
staircases debouching in the most unexpected places, and a well in the
front hall, which doubtless played a very useful part during the many
sieges the castle sustained in the old days. The private chapel is a
beautiful little place of worship, with eighty painted panels of
Scriptural subjects by De Witt, the seventeenth-century Dutch artist,
and admirable stained glass. The Castle, too, is full of interesting
historical relics. It boasts the only remaining Fool's dress of motley
in the kingdom; Prince Charlie's watch and clothes are still preserved
there, for the Prince, surprised by the Hanoverian troops at Glamis,
had only time to jump on a horse and escape, leaving all his belongings
behind him. There is a wonderful collection of old family dresses of
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and above all there is the
very ancient silver-gilt cup, "The Lion of Glamis," which holds an
entire bottle of wine, and on great family occasions is still produced
and used as a loving-cup, circulating from hand to hand round the
table. Walter Scott in a note to Waverly states that it was the "Lion
of Glamis" cup which gave him the idea of the "Blessed Bear of
Bradwardine." In fact, there is no end to the objects of interest this
wonderful old castle contains, and the Lyon family have inhabited it
for six hundred years in direct line from father to son.

It is difficult for me to write impartially about Glamis, for it is as
familiar to me as my own home. I have been so much there, and have
received such kindness within its venerable walls, that it can never be
to me quite as other places are. I can see vast swelling stretches of
purple heather, with the dainty little harebells all a-quiver in the
strong breeze sweeping over the grouse-butts, as a brown mass of
whirling wings rushes past at the pace of an express train, causing one
probably to reflect how well-nigh impossible it is to "allow" too much
for driven grouse flying down-wind. I can picture equally vividly the
curling-pond in winter-time, tuneful with the merry chirrup of the
curling-stones as they skim over the ice