CHAPTER XI.

"Gae bring him in; we'll hear what he can say,Nane shall gae hungry by my house the day. [Exit Jenny.But for his telling fortunes, troth I fearHe kens nae mair o' that than my grey mare.Glaud.—Spae men![37]the truth o' a' their saws I doubt,For greater lears never ran thereout.[Jenny returns bringing in Sir William;—with them Patie.Symon.—Ye're welcome honest carle, here take a seat.Sir W.—I gie ye thanks, gudeman, I'se be no blate.[38]Glaud.—Come, t'ye[39]frien. How far came ye the day?Sir W.—I pledge ye, neibour, e'en but little way.Symon.—Ye're welcome here to stay a' night wi' me.And tak sic bed and board as we can gie.Sir W.—That's kind unsought.—Weel gin[40]ye hae a bairn.That ye like weel, an wad his fortune learn,I shall employ the farthest o' my skill,To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill.Symon(pointing to Patie).—Only that lad: alake! I hae nae maeEither to mak me joyfu' now or wae.Sir W.—Young man, let's see your hand; what gars[41]ye sneer?Patie.—Because your skill's but little worth, I fear.Sir W.—Ye cut before the point: but, Billy, bide,I'll wager there's a mouse-mark on your side.

"Gae bring him in; we'll hear what he can say,Nane shall gae hungry by my house the day. [Exit Jenny.But for his telling fortunes, troth I fearHe kens nae mair o' that than my grey mare.

Glaud.—Spae men![37]the truth o' a' their saws I doubt,For greater lears never ran thereout.

[Jenny returns bringing in Sir William;—with them Patie.

Symon.—Ye're welcome honest carle, here take a seat.

Sir W.—I gie ye thanks, gudeman, I'se be no blate.[38]

Glaud.—Come, t'ye[39]frien. How far came ye the day?

Sir W.—I pledge ye, neibour, e'en but little way.

Symon.—Ye're welcome here to stay a' night wi' me.And tak sic bed and board as we can gie.

Sir W.—That's kind unsought.—Weel gin[40]ye hae a bairn.That ye like weel, an wad his fortune learn,I shall employ the farthest o' my skill,To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill.

Symon(pointing to Patie).—Only that lad: alake! I hae nae maeEither to mak me joyfu' now or wae.

Sir W.—Young man, let's see your hand; what gars[41]ye sneer?

Patie.—Because your skill's but little worth, I fear.

Sir W.—Ye cut before the point: but, Billy, bide,I'll wager there's a mouse-mark on your side.

This being the case, all are astonished at the old man's knowledge, who goes on to predict that Patie, one of these days, will be a rich laird.

Elspa.—Hear, ye gudeman, what think ye now?Symon.—I dinna ken! Strange auld man, what art thou?Fair fa[42]your heart, it's guid to bode o' wealthCome, turn the timmer to laird Patie's health.(Patie's health goes round.)

Elspa.—Hear, ye gudeman, what think ye now?

Symon.—I dinna ken! Strange auld man, what art thou?Fair fa[42]your heart, it's guid to bode o' wealthCome, turn the timmer to laird Patie's health.

(Patie's health goes round.)

Old Symon, by the request of the spaeman, goes out to meet him, and they have much conversation together. At length—

"Sir William drops his masking beard,Symon transported seesThe welcome knight, wi' fond regard,An' grasps him round the knees."

They converse concerning Patie, who is actually Sir William's son and heir, and agree to make known his true position. This is accordingly done, and produces great excitement among the parties. Patie is glad and sorrowful at the same time, and Peggy sees nothing in it but disappointment and grief. A gulf has intervened between her and Patie, and she feels that she must give him up for ever. But Patie assures her of his constant affection, and the "puir thing" absolutely "greets for joy to hear his words sae kind."

Next morning—

"While Peggy laces up her bosom fairWi' a blue snood, Jenny binds up her hair;Glaud by his morning ingle, taks a beek,[43]The rising sun shines motty[44]thro' the reek,[45]A pipe his mouth, the lasses please his een,An' now and then his joke must intervene."

But all parties are sent for to Symon's house—

"To hear and help to redd[46]some odd debate'Tween Mause and Bauldy, 'bout some witchcraft spell,At Symon's house: the knight sits judge himsell."

All then are assembled—

"Sir William fills the twa armed chair,While Symon, Roger, Glaud, and Mause,Attend, and wi' loud laughter hearDaft Bauldy bluntly plead his cause:For now it's tell'd him that the taz[47]Was handled by revengeful Madge,Because he brak guid breeding's laws,And wi' his nonsense raised their rage.

Bauldy, however, confesses his wrong, and adds—

"But I had bestHaud in my tongue, for yonder comes theghaist[48]An' the young bonnywitch, whose rosy cheekSent me, without my wit, the de'il to seek."Sir William(looking at Peggy).—Whose daughter's she that wears the aurora gown,With face so fair, and locks o' lovely brown?How sparkling are her eyes? What's this I find,The girl brings all my sister to my mind.Such were the features once adorned a face,Which death so soon deprived of sweetest grace.Is this your daughter Glaud?Glaud.—Sir, she's my niece,An' yet she's not, but I shoud haud my peace.Sir Wil.—This is a contradiction. What d' ye mean?She is, and is not! pray thee, Glaud, explain.Glaud.—Because I doubt, if I shou'd mak' appear,What I hae kept a secret thirteen year—Mause.—You may reveal what I can fully clear.Sir Wil.—Speak soon; I'm all impatience.Patie.—Sae am I!For much I hope, an' hardly yet ken why.Glaud.—Then, since my master orders, I obey.Thisbonny foundling, ae' clear morn o' May,Close by the lea-side o' my door I found,A' sweet an' clean an' carefully hapt[49]'round,In infant weeds, o' rich and gentle make.What could they be, thought I, did thee forsake?Wha, worse than brutes, cou'd leave exposed to airSae much o' innocence sae sweetly fair,Sae helpless young? for she appeared to meOnly about twa towmands[50]auld to be.I took her in my arms; the bairnie smiled,Wi' sic a look, wad mak a savage mild.I hid the story: she has pass'd sinsyne[51]As a poor orphan, an' a niece o' mine:Nor do I rue my care about the wean,For she's weel worth the pains that I hae tane.Ye see she's bonny; I can swear she's guid,An' am right sure she's come o' gentle bluid,O' wham I kenna.[52]Naething I ken mair,Than what I to your honor now declare.Sir Wil.—This tale seems strange!Patie.—The tale delights my ear!Sir Wil.—Command your joys, young man, till truth appear.Mause.—That be my task. Now sir, bid a' be hush;Peggy may smile; thou hast nae cause to blush.Lang hae I wish'd to see this happy day,That I may safely to the truth gi'e way;That I may now Sir William Worthy name,The best and nearest friend that she can claim:He saw 't at first, an' wi' quick eye did traceHis sister's beauty in her daughter's face.Sir Wil.—Old woman, do not rave,—prove what you say,It's dangerous in affairs like this to play.Patie.—What reason, Sir, can an auld woman haveTo tell a lie when she's sae near her grave?But how or why, it should be truth I grantI every thing that looks like reason want.Omnes.—The story's odd! we wish we heard it out.Sir Wil.—Make haste, good woman, and resolve each doubt.[Mause goes forward, leading Peggy to Sir William.]Mause.—Sir, view me weel; has fifteen years sae plow'dA wrinkled face that you hae often viewed,That here I as an unknown stranger stand.Wha nursed her mother that now hauds my hand?Yet stronger proofs I'll gie, if you demand.Sir Wil.—Ha! honest nurse, where were my eyes before?I know thy faithfulness, and need no more;Yet from the lab'rinth to lead out my mind,Say, to expose her, who was so unkind?[Sir William embraces Peggy and makes her sit by him.]Yes surely thou'rt my niece; truth must prevail,But no more words till Mause relates the tale."

"But I had bestHaud in my tongue, for yonder comes theghaist[48]An' the young bonnywitch, whose rosy cheekSent me, without my wit, the de'il to seek."

Sir William(looking at Peggy).—Whose daughter's she that wears the aurora gown,With face so fair, and locks o' lovely brown?How sparkling are her eyes? What's this I find,The girl brings all my sister to my mind.Such were the features once adorned a face,Which death so soon deprived of sweetest grace.Is this your daughter Glaud?

Glaud.—Sir, she's my niece,An' yet she's not, but I shoud haud my peace.

Sir Wil.—This is a contradiction. What d' ye mean?She is, and is not! pray thee, Glaud, explain.

Glaud.—Because I doubt, if I shou'd mak' appear,What I hae kept a secret thirteen year—

Mause.—You may reveal what I can fully clear.

Sir Wil.—Speak soon; I'm all impatience.

Patie.—Sae am I!For much I hope, an' hardly yet ken why.

Glaud.—Then, since my master orders, I obey.Thisbonny foundling, ae' clear morn o' May,Close by the lea-side o' my door I found,A' sweet an' clean an' carefully hapt[49]'round,In infant weeds, o' rich and gentle make.What could they be, thought I, did thee forsake?Wha, worse than brutes, cou'd leave exposed to airSae much o' innocence sae sweetly fair,Sae helpless young? for she appeared to meOnly about twa towmands[50]auld to be.I took her in my arms; the bairnie smiled,Wi' sic a look, wad mak a savage mild.I hid the story: she has pass'd sinsyne[51]As a poor orphan, an' a niece o' mine:Nor do I rue my care about the wean,For she's weel worth the pains that I hae tane.Ye see she's bonny; I can swear she's guid,An' am right sure she's come o' gentle bluid,O' wham I kenna.[52]Naething I ken mair,Than what I to your honor now declare.

Sir Wil.—This tale seems strange!

Patie.—The tale delights my ear!

Sir Wil.—Command your joys, young man, till truth appear.

Mause.—That be my task. Now sir, bid a' be hush;Peggy may smile; thou hast nae cause to blush.Lang hae I wish'd to see this happy day,That I may safely to the truth gi'e way;That I may now Sir William Worthy name,The best and nearest friend that she can claim:He saw 't at first, an' wi' quick eye did traceHis sister's beauty in her daughter's face.

Sir Wil.—Old woman, do not rave,—prove what you say,It's dangerous in affairs like this to play.

Patie.—What reason, Sir, can an auld woman haveTo tell a lie when she's sae near her grave?But how or why, it should be truth I grantI every thing that looks like reason want.

Omnes.—The story's odd! we wish we heard it out.

Sir Wil.—Make haste, good woman, and resolve each doubt.

[Mause goes forward, leading Peggy to Sir William.]

Mause.—Sir, view me weel; has fifteen years sae plow'dA wrinkled face that you hae often viewed,That here I as an unknown stranger stand.Wha nursed her mother that now hauds my hand?Yet stronger proofs I'll gie, if you demand.

Sir Wil.—Ha! honest nurse, where were my eyes before?I know thy faithfulness, and need no more;Yet from the lab'rinth to lead out my mind,Say, to expose her, who was so unkind?

[Sir William embraces Peggy and makes her sit by him.]

Yes surely thou'rt my niece; truth must prevail,But no more words till Mause relates the tale."

Mause then relates how Peggy's life being threatened by a wicked aunt, who wished to take possession of her estate, she herself had stolen her away, in the dead of night, and travelled with her some fifty miles, and left her at Glaud's door; that she had taken a cottage in the vicinity, and had watched over the child ever since. All of course are delighted with this discovery. The betrothment of Patie and Peggy is sanctioned by Sir William; and even Bauldy

"the bewitch'd, has quite forgotFell Madge's taz, and pawky Madge's plot,"

and exclaims:

"I'm friends wi' Mause,—wi' very Madge I'm greed,Although they skelpit[53]me when woodly flied:[54]I'm now fu' blithe, an' frankly can forgiveTo join and sing, 'Lang may Sir William live.'"

Sir William bestows upon "faithful Symon," and "kind Glaud," and upon their heirs, "in endless fee," their "mailens," or farms, and takes old Mause into his family, in peace

"to close her days,With naught to do but sing her Maker's praise."

Glaud consents to give Jenny to Roger, who says;

"I ne'er was guid o' speaking a' my days,Or ever loo'd to make o'er great a fraise;[55]But for my master, father, an' my wife,I will employ the cares o' a' my life."

To which, Sir William adds, summing up the whole:

"My friends I'm satisfied you'll all behave,Each in his station as I'd wish or crave.Be ever virtuous, soon or late you'll findReward and satisfaction to your mind.The maze o' life sometimes looks dark and wild;And oft when hopes are highest, we're beguiled.Oft when we stand on brinks of dark despair,Some happy turn, with joy, dispels our care."

Thus ends the "Gentle Shepherd," which with all its faults, possesses an inimitable charm. In Scotland it is a sort of household poem. Every one, young and old, reads it with delight. Indeed,it is probably the most popular pastoral drama ever written. The common people, in the rural districts of Scotland, know it by heart. The Bible, the Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe and "the Gentle Shepherd" are read by them a thousand times more than any other book.

Biographical Sketch of Allan Ramsay—Lasswade—Ramble along the banks of the North Esk—Glenesk—A Character—Anecdote of Sir W. Scott—Hawthornden—Drummond the Poet—His Character and Genius—Sonnets—Chapel and Castle of Roslin—Barons of Roslin—Ballad of Rosabelle—Hunting Match between Robert Bruce and Sir William St. Clair.

Leaving Habbie's Howe, we will let Sandy drive us along the banks of the river, through Auchindinny, Roslin and Hawthornden, to the pretty village of Lasswade, where we will spend the night. Sandy can take the carriage back to Edinburgh, and to-morrow we will ramble on foot through the classic shades of Roslin and Hawthornden, visit Dalkeith and some other places, and return to Edinburgh by the railway. In the meantime I will give you some account of Allan Ramsay.

Allan was born on the 15th of October, 1686, in Crawford Muir, Lanarkshire, and died in the city of Edinburgh, in the year 1784. He was at first a wigmaker, and afterwards a bookseller. In 1726 he kept a little bookstore opposite Niddry's Wynd in the city of Edinburgh, whence he removed to another, somewhat more commodious at the east end of the Luckenbooths, having exchanged his old sign of Mercury for the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond of Hawthornden, whom he greatlyadmired. His early education was limited. He attended the village school at Leadhills, where, as he himself informs us, he acquired just learning enough to read Horace "faintly in the original." Of a vigorous constitution, and a cheerful temper, he spent his time happily in the country, till his fifteenth year, though his lot seems to have been a hard one.

"Wading through glens wi' chorking feet,Where neither plaid nor kilt could fend[56]the weet;Yet blithely would he bang out o'er the brae,And stend o'er burns as light as ony rae,Hoping the morn[57]might prove a better day."

He went to Edinburgh, a poor country boy, and gradually made his way to competence, and respectability. Whether he was particularly successful as a wigmaker we are not informed; but he found the trade of bookseller infinitely more congenial. Ensconced behind his counter, he could study, write poetry, chat with his customers, and publish his own lucubrations. His first principal poem was "Christ's Kirk on the Green," a continuation of King James's poem of the same name, a rough but graphic and humorous picture of rustic revelry. Its indelicacy is rather gross, but it has all the vigor and humor of Hogarth's pictures. His other poems, containing songs, fables, pastorals, complimentary verses (of which he has a very large number,) stories and epistles are quite numerous. They contain a large amount of trash, withhere and there some beautiful gems. He is mainly successful in Scottish verse. His imitations of the English poets are rather poor. "The Vision" is one of his ablest productions. The Genius of Scotland is painted "with a touch of the old heroic Muse:"

"Great daring darted frae his ee,A braid sword shaggled[58]at his knee,On his left arm a targe;A shining spear filled his right hand,Of stalwart make in bane and brawnd,Of just proportions large;A various rainbow colored plaidOwre his left spaul[59]he threw,Down his braid back, frae his white headThe silver wimplers[60]grew.Amazed, I gazedTo see, led at command,A stampant and rampantFierce lion in his hand."

But his most popular production is the "Gentle Shepherd" which appeared in 1725—and was received with enthusiasm, not only in Scotland, but in England and Ireland. It was much admired by Pope and Gay, the latter of whom, when on a visit to Scotland, with the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, used to lounge in Allan Ramsay's shop, and obtain from him explanations of the Scottish expressions that he might communicate them to Pope.

Allan uniformly had an eye to the "main chance." He sedulously courted the great, andmanaged to accumulate a good many pennies. "In the mingled spirit of prudence and poetry," he contrived

"To theek[61]the out and line the insideOf many a douce and witty pash,[62]And baith ways gathered in the cash."

He was foolish enough however to lay out his gains in the erection of a theatre which was prohibited by the magistrates, as an injury to good morals. So that Allan lost his cash and his pains together, and not only so, but his good temper. This exposed him to much obloquy, in part perhaps deserved. He was somewhat Jacobinical in his views, and hated the Presbyterian clergy, who were afraid of him, as "a half papist," and a some what licentious writer. Hence he lampooned them with great severity, in consequence of which he was pretty well lampooned in his turn.

After all Allan was a true poet, and by no means a bad man. He was honest, kind-hearted and cheerful. Some of his poetical strains indicate much elevation and tenderness of spirit.

In personal appearance he was somewhat peculiar. The following amusing description he has given of himself:

"Imprimis, then, for tallness, IAm five foot and four inches high,A black a viced[63]snod dapper fellow,Nor lean, nor overlaid wi' tallow;With phiz of a morocco cut,Resembling a late man of wit,Auld gabbet Spec[64]who was sae cunning,To be a dummie ten years running.Then for the fabric of my mind,'Tis mair to mirth than grief inclined:I rather choose to laugh at follyThan show dislike by melancholy;Well judging a sour heavy faceIs not the truest mark of grace.I hate a drunkard or a glutton,Yet I'm nae fae[65]to wine and mutton:Great tables ne'er engaged my wishesWhen crowded with o'er many dishes;A healthfu' stomach, sharply set,Prefers a back-say,[66]piping het,I never could imagine 't viciousOf a fair fame to be ambitious;Proud to be thought a comic poet,And let a judge of numbers know it,I court occasion thus to show it."

Allan never suffered his poetry to interfere with his business. Indeed he abandoned verse altogether in the latter part of his life, rightly judging that he might not equal his earlier productions, and feeling moreover that other and more serious engagements demanded his attention. The following epistle to Mr. Smibert, an eminent painter and intimate friend, dated Edinburgh, 10th May, 1736, is highly characteristic;

"My Dear old Friend:—Your health and happiness are everaneaddition to my satisfaction. God make your life ever easy and pleasant. Half a century of years have now row'd oe'r my brow, that begins now to belyart;[67]yet thanks to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep as sound as I did twenty yearssyne;[68]yes, I laugh heartily too, and find as many subjects to employ that faculty upon as ever; fools, fops and knaves, grow as rank as formerly, yet here and there are to be found good and worthy men, who areanehonor tohumanlife. We have small hopes of seeing you again in our world; then let us be virtuous and hope to meet in heaven. My goodauldwife is still my bedfellow; my son Allan has been pursuing your science since he was a dozen yearsauld—was with Mr. Hyffidg, at London, for some time, about two years ago—has been since at home, painting here like a Raphael—sets out for the seat of the beast, beyond the Alps, in a month hence—to be away about two years. I'msweer[69]to part with him, butcannastem the current which flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclination. I have three daughters, one of seventeen, one of sixteen, and one of twelve years of old, and norewayled dragle[70]among them, all fine girls. These six or seven years past I have not written a line of poetry. I e'en gave over in good time, before the coolness of fancy, that attends advanced years, should make me risk the reputation I had acquired.Frae twenty-five to five and forty,My muse was neithersweer[71]nordorty,[72]My Pegasus wad break hertether,[73]E'en at theshaggingof a feather;Andthrow[74]ideas scour likedrift,Streakinghis wings up to the lift;Then when my soul was in a low[75]That gart[76]my numbers safely row;[77]Buteild[78]and judgmentgin[79]to say,Let be yoursangsand learn to pray.I am, Sir, your friend and servant,Allan Ramsay."

"My Dear old Friend:—

Your health and happiness are everaneaddition to my satisfaction. God make your life ever easy and pleasant. Half a century of years have now row'd oe'r my brow, that begins now to belyart;[67]yet thanks to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep as sound as I did twenty yearssyne;[68]yes, I laugh heartily too, and find as many subjects to employ that faculty upon as ever; fools, fops and knaves, grow as rank as formerly, yet here and there are to be found good and worthy men, who areanehonor tohumanlife. We have small hopes of seeing you again in our world; then let us be virtuous and hope to meet in heaven. My goodauldwife is still my bedfellow; my son Allan has been pursuing your science since he was a dozen yearsauld—was with Mr. Hyffidg, at London, for some time, about two years ago—has been since at home, painting here like a Raphael—sets out for the seat of the beast, beyond the Alps, in a month hence—to be away about two years. I'msweer[69]to part with him, butcannastem the current which flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclination. I have three daughters, one of seventeen, one of sixteen, and one of twelve years of old, and norewayled dragle[70]among them, all fine girls. These six or seven years past I have not written a line of poetry. I e'en gave over in good time, before the coolness of fancy, that attends advanced years, should make me risk the reputation I had acquired.

Frae twenty-five to five and forty,My muse was neithersweer[71]nordorty,[72]My Pegasus wad break hertether,[73]E'en at theshaggingof a feather;Andthrow[74]ideas scour likedrift,Streakinghis wings up to the lift;Then when my soul was in a low[75]That gart[76]my numbers safely row;[77]Buteild[78]and judgmentgin[79]to say,Let be yoursangsand learn to pray.

I am, Sir, your friend and servant,Allan Ramsay."

In 1743 his circumstances were such as enabled him to build a small octagon shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which he named Ramsay Lodge, but which some of his witty friends compared to a goose pie. He told Lord Elibank one day of this ungracious comparison. "What," said the witty peer, "a goose pie! In good faith, Allan, now that I seeyouin it, I think the house is not ill named." He lived in this odd-looking edifice till the day of his death, enjoying the society of his friends, and cracking his jokes with perhaps greater quietness, but with as much gust and hilarity as ever. He was a man of genius, and has exerted great influence on the lighter literature of Scotland. He was an immense favorite with Burns, his equal in genius, his superior in depth of feeling, in tenderness and beauty of expression. But Burns doubtless owed something to the "wood notes wild," of his illustrious predecessor. Both have done much to illustrate and beautify their native land.

Next morning at early dawn we are rambling inand around the pretty village of Lasswade, which lies so sweetly on the left bank of the North Esk. The river runs in many charming sinuosities through the parish, now passing over a smooth ledge of rocks, then "wimpling" over shining pebbles, then gliding with a scarcely perceptible motion "among the green braes," now wetting the pendant branches of the birch and broom, anon sleeping in a deep pellucid pool, then leaping "o'er a linn," and then gushing with a hollow murmur, among the loose gray rocks. Nothing can be more beautiful and picturesque. Many pretty cottages and handsome villas adorn the neighborhood. De Quincy, the celebrated English "opium eater" lives here, and Sir Walter Scott at one time occupied a cottage in the vicinity. The following is a happy description from his pen, of the enchanting scenes through which the North and South Esk flow. It is taken from his ballad of the "Grey Brother."

Sweet are the paths—O passing sweet!By Esk's fair streams that run,O'er airy steep, through copsewood's deep,Impervious to the sun.There the rapt poet's step may rove,And yield the muse the day;There beauty led by timid love,May shun the tell-tale ray.From that fair dome[80]where suit is paid,By blast of bugle free,To Auchindinny's hazel glade,And haunted Woodhouselee.Who knows not Melville's beechy groove,And Roslin's rocky glen,Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,And classic Hawthornden.

Sweet are the paths—O passing sweet!By Esk's fair streams that run,O'er airy steep, through copsewood's deep,Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,And yield the muse the day;There beauty led by timid love,May shun the tell-tale ray.

From that fair dome[80]where suit is paid,By blast of bugle free,To Auchindinny's hazel glade,And haunted Woodhouselee.

Who knows not Melville's beechy groove,And Roslin's rocky glen,Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,And classic Hawthornden.

It is not surprising that multitudes from Edinburgh come to reside here in the summer time; for what with the varied scenery of rock and river, copsewood and fell, the pleasant associations of the present, and the thrilling memories of "Auld lang syne," no region can be more attractive and agreeable.

Sauntering along, we approach Glenesk, so called from the deep and charming glen, formed by the winding river. Yonder is an old man at work in his garden, who looks quite patriarchal, and I dare say knows a good deal of the neighborhood. Let us accost him.

"Good morning, sir!"

"Gude mornin' gentlemen!"

"You seem to be quite early in your garden this morning."

"Ou aye, we maun mak hay while the sun shines, ye ken, and this is a graund time for planting."

"You have lived in the neighborhood a considerable time, I presume."

"A' my days."

"Well, it's a beautiful country."

"Ou aye, it's weel eneuch. My faither before me lived in that bit housie out yonder amang the trees, and he used aften to say, gude auld man! that the lines had fallen to us in pleasant places, and that we had a goodly heritage. For my pairt, I like the country unco weel. The burn there is verra pleasant, its sae caller[81]like, wimpling amang the rocks and bushes. And what's mair to the pint, it has got a fouth[82]of fine fish in 't, though thae new fangled mills are frightening them awa."

"Trout, I suppose."

"Yes, sir, and fine anes too. Ah! mony's the day I hae paidlt in that burn, when a wee bit callant, catching the trout amang the stanes, when the water was low."

"Did you know any thing of Sir Walter Scott? He used to live near Lasswade, and I dare say often wandered this way to fish."

"Ken him! That I did fu' weel. And an honest freendly man he was. He cam up the burn every noo and then, sometimes wi' a fishing-rod, and sometimes wi' a staff in his han. He and I got weel acquaint after a time, for he was nane o' your upstarts, but an unco frank, freespoken kind of a man. Not that he talked sae muckle himsel, but he was aye askin about something or ither, andkept my tongue waggin' a' the time. Ah yes, Sir Walter was a canny man. He knew the hail kintra side, and used to spier a great many questions about the ways o' the auld folks. One day he cam alang the burn side, wi' anither gentleman. I happened to be working down there. His line got tangled in a stane, and he got me to fetch it out. He then coost it into the deep pule below, making the flee skim alang the top o' the water, as skeelfully as onything ye ever saw. When up louped a muckle spotted trout, and in a moment dragged the line to the other side, then spanked up the burn at an unco rate, running the line aff the reel, which birred like a spinnin' wheel. Sir Walter hobbled after it as weel as he could. He was lame, ye ken, but managed to move pretty quick. The trout plunged and flounced over the shallow water, got into another deep pule, and ran into the bank, in the hollow of twa big stanes that were lying there. Now, cried Sir Walter, I have you my boy; so he kept jerkin awa at him, and out he cam again, when Sir Walter gave him a wallop, and laid him flat amang the gowans. 'Twas a bonny sight, I tell you. The trout was nae less than a fit and a quarter lang, as thick as my arm, and spotted all o'er wi' shining spots, like a leopard. Sir Walter was unco pleased—rubbed his hans', and every now and then broke into a smile, as he cracked some joke about the trout. Hech! it was a guid sight for sair een—to see Sir Walter after the trout, and specially to see the trout walloping amang the gowans."

"But don't you think that it was rather cruel sport?"

"Cruel! why man, the fish kens naething ava, and out o' its ain element, it gets choked in a minute. And, for my pairt, I dinna see what fish is guid for, if not to be catch'd and eaten, specially the big anes! My gude auld faither used often to say to us, 'Boys, ye mauna be cruel to the dumb beasts, and when ye gang a fishing, be sure to let the wee fish gae.'"

"Your father was a worthy man, I dare say."

"That he was, I can assure you. He was respeckit by the hail kintra side. When auld and feeble, he wud sit before the door, on a divot seat, the hail simmer day, wi' a braid bonnet on his head, and a lang staff by his side, reading the Bible, or maybe 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or takin' wi' the neebors wha cam to see him."

"Did he belong to the established kirk?"

"Na, na, he was ane o' the auld Covenanters, and used to talk a deal about Cameron and McMillen, as unco powerfu' preachers. He thocht the present times were wonderfu' degenerate, that the solemn League and Covenant o' Scotland was amaist forgotten, and that the people now-a-days were a sort o' inferior race. But he was a gude man; unco pleasant to look upon, and unco pleasant to hear, when he talked o' the faithfulness o' Israel's God, and the comfort and blessedness of being his children. When he deed, he seemed to fa' asleep. A smile was on his pale face, and his han' lay upon his breast, as it were in token of resignation to the willo' heaven. He lies buried in the auld kirk-yard, o'er yonder, wi' the words on his head-stane at his ain request, 'Blessed are the deed that dee in the Lord.'"

"Are you too a Cameronian?"

"Why no, to tell ye the honest truth. The auld Cameronians are amaist a' gane; and I just gang o'er here to the free kirk, where, to my notion, we hae as guid sound preachin as ye'll meet wi' in the hail kintra side. I'm no sae gude a man as my faither; but I canna forget his counsels and his prayers."

"Have you any family, my friend?"

"Ou aye. A bit callant, and twa strapping lasses, one of whom is married."

"Well, that's a comfort."

"A great comfort, sir, in my auld days. Jeanie is weel married, and has bairns o' her ain. Marion wad a been married, but she was kind a skary, and so she stays at hame. The bit callant is no my ain, but a neebor's son that we adopted frae pity, seeing his mither is puir, and his faither was lost at sea."

"And your wife, is she well?"

"Well! Aye, that she is—in heaven! She's been gane these five years—(here the tears started in the old man's eyes.) We maun a' dee. (A brief pause.) But, as my gude auld faither used to say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

"Yes, my good old friend, the hope of a Christian, which you seem to cherish, is a source of infinite comfort. It sweetens the cares of life, and robs death of its sting. Good morning."

"Gude mornin; and the Lord bless you!"

Ascending the river a short distance, we come to Hawthornden, once the property and residence of the celebrated poet and historian, William Drummond, the friend of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson. The house, originally constructed with reference to strength, surmounts the very edge of a precipitous cliff, which rises above the river. Winding around it are charming walks, among the green foliage, which fringes the summit and sides of the rock, down to the very edge of the water. Wild tangled bushes, flowering shrubs, birches and oak trees, are mingled in most picturesque and delightful confusion; while the gray cliffs here and there, peep out from their sylvan garniture as if sunning themselves in the summer radiance. Below, the stream, impeded in its course by huge ledges of rocks, hurries unseen, but distinctly heard, amid the woods; further on, emerges into the light of day, and forms a broad clear pool, on the banks of which you may see some industrious fisherman plying his rod.

"The spot is wild, the banks are steep,With eglantine and hawthorn blossomed o'er,Lychnis and daffodils, and hare-bells blue.From lofty granite crags precipitous,The oak with scanty footing topples o'er,Tossing his limbs to heaven; and from the cleft,Fringing the dark brown, natural battlements,The hazel throws his silvery branches down:There starting into view, a castled cliff,Whose roof is lichen'd o'er, purple and green,O'erhangs thy wandering stream, romantic Esk,And rears its head among the ancient trees."

Standing in front of it you see certain artificialcaves, hollowed with immense labor, out of the solid rock. These communicate with each other, and contain a well of prodigious depth bored from the court-yard of the mansion. The caves are reported by tradition to have been a stronghold of the ancient Pictish kings, and three of them bear respectively the name of 'the king's Gallery, the king's Bed-chamber and the king's Guard-room.' They were doubtless hewn out, as places of refuge, during the terrible wars between the English and the Picts, or the English and the Scots. In the reign of David II, when the English had possession of Edinburgh, they and the neighboring caves of Gorton afforded shelter to the heroic Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie and his adventurous band.

Adjoining the house, and overlooking the stream, a kind of seat is cut in the face of the rock, called 'Cypress Grove,' where Drummond is reported to have sat, in the fine summer weather, and composed many of his poems. The magnificent woods in the vicinity suggested to Peter Pindar the caustic remark respecting Dr. Samuel Johnson, that he

"Went to Hawthornden's fair scene by night,Lest e'er a Scottish tree should wound the sight."

Crossing the river at a suitable place, we will saunter towards Roslin on the other side, and while doing so, will beguile the way by talking of Drummond, whose genius haunts every nook and corner of the shady dell.

William Drummond was born in 1585 and died in 1649. His father, John Drummond, was gentlemanusher to King James. He was hence educated in profound reverence for royalty and its prerogatives. Indeed his feelings upon this subject were entirely slavish; and it is said that his strong grief at the death of Charles the First hastened his death.

He was well versed in classic literature, and enjoyed the advantages of a refined and liberal education. Having studied civil law for four years in France, he succeeded in 1611 to an independent estate, and took up his residence in Hawthornden. Its cliffs, caves, and wooded dells were in harmony with his genius, and he spent many happy years in this beautiful retreat. His first publication was a volume of occasional poems, of various merit, to which succeeded a moral treatise, in prose, called "Cypress Grove," in allusion probably to the fairy nook on the face of the rock where he meditated and wrote, and a second poetical work entitled "Flowers of Zion." He also wrote the History of the Five James's, a production of no great merit, in which he urges, to an extravagant length, the doctrine of the absolute supremacy of kings. "The Cypress Grove" contains reflections upon death, written in a solemn and agreeable strain, and contains some fine passages. "This earth," says he, "is as a table book, and men are the notes; the first are washen out, that new may be written in. They who forewent us did leave room for us; and should we grieve to do the same to those who should come after us? Who, being suffered to see the exquisite rarities of an antiquary's cabinet, is grieved thatthe curtain be drawn, and to give place to new pilgrims? And when the Lord of the Universe hath shown us the amazing wonders of his various frame, should we think it hard, when he thinketh time, to dislodge? This is his unalterable and inevitable decree; as we had no part of our will in our entrance into this life, we should not presume to any in our leaving it; but soberly learn to will that which he wills, whose very will giveth being to all that it wills."

The death of a beautiful young lady, to whom he was betrothed, affected him deeply; and he sought relief to his wounded feelings in foreign travel. On returning, some years afterwards, he met a young lady by the name of Logan, bearing a strong resemblance to the former object of his affections; on account of which he solicited and obtained her hand in marriage.

Drummond was intimate with Drayton and Ben Jonson. The latter paid him a visit at Hawthornden, and they had much free conversation together. Drummond kept private notes of these conversations, which subsequently saw the light, and were found to be somewhat injurious to Jonson's memory. But Drummond himself had no hand in their publication.

As a poet Drummond belonged to the school of Spenser, though far inferior to the latter in strength of conception and splendor of imagination. His poems are distinguished for their singular harmony and sweetness of versification. They seem to partake of the character of the quiet romanticscenery amid which they were composed. His "Tears on the Death of Moeliades," (Prince Henry, son of James I.,) and his "River Forth Feasting," have been much admired. His sonnets, however, are his best productions. They flow with as much grace and beauty, (though not perhaps with the same variety,) as the romantic river which murmurs past his "wooded seat." His madrigals, complimentary verses, and other short pieces, abound in foolish conceits, and what is worse, in coarse and licentious language. But he was one of the best poets of the age, and only inferior to two or three of his great contemporaries.

The following sonnet—"To His Lute"—is very sweet. It was probably written after the death of the lady to whom he was betrothed;

Back to Index Next