"God bless the master of the house,The mistress also,And all the pretty babiesThat round the table go;"
"God bless the master of the house,The mistress also,And all the pretty babiesThat round the table go;"
the "first foot," on New Year's morning, when none must enter a house empty-handed; the "Hogmanay," or first Monday of the new year, when the whole boys and girls invaded the country-side, and levied from the peaceful inhabitants black-mail of cakes, and cheese, and ha'pence—
"Get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers,Dinna think that we are beggars;We are bairns come out to play,Rise up and gie 's our Hogmanay!"—
"Get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers,Dinna think that we are beggars;We are bairns come out to play,Rise up and gie 's our Hogmanay!"—
the "Halloween," whose rites of semi-diablerie have been immortalised by Burns; and the "Kirn," or Harvest Home, the wind-up of the season, the epitome of the lyric joyousness of the whole year. Hence it is that under an exterior, to strangers so reserved, austere, and frigid, they all cherish some romantic thought, or feeling,or dream: they are all inly imbued with an enthusiasm which surmounts every obstacle, and burns the deeper and faster the more it is repressed. Every one of us, calling up the history of our own little circle of cottage mates and schoolfellows, could recount numerous pregnant examples of this national characteristic. And hence, also, after wandering the wide world, and buffeting in all the whirlpools of life, cautiously waiting chances, cannily slipping in when the door opens, and struggling for distinction or wealth in all kinds of adventure, and under the breath of every clime—there are few, indeed, of our people, when twilight begins to gather over their path, but turn towards the light that comes from their old homes; and would fain pass a serene and meditative old age by the burnside where they "paidled" in their youth, and lay down their bones beside their fathers in the kirkyard of yon calm sequestered glen. Scott went down to the nether springs of the national character when he made his "Last Minstrel" sing—
"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,Though none should guide my feeble way;Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,Although it chill my wither'd cheek;Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"
"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,Though none should guide my feeble way;Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,Although it chill my wither'd cheek;Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"
Times have changed, it is true, even within the comparatively short space which has elapsed since the death of the Good Duke James of Roxburghe. Or rather, he was the last lingering representative of an age, of ideas, of a state of manners—lovely, but transitional—which had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one glistening spot. It was the transition from Mediæval Clanship to Modern Individualism—from that form of society where thousands clustered devotedly round the banner of one, their half-worshipped chief, tothe present fashion, where it is, "Every man for himself, and God for us all!" Yet the period of transition was a golden age. It was a golden age—I know it, for I lived in it. There was the old patriarchy—the feeling, undefinable to those who have not experienced the same state of life, as if gods walked upon earth; and with this patriarchal, overshadowing, protecting sway, derived from the old, there was blended the modern recognition of the rights and dignity of man—the humblest man—as an individual. Thrown, as we all now are, into the modern anarchy, hurly-burly, and caricaturism, when fathers are "old governors," and dukes are served solely for their wages and pickings, like Mr Prog, the sausage-vendor, and the gentle look of respect and courtesy has been exchanged for the puppy's stare through a quizzing-glass; is it not something to have lived in the more reverent primitive state, to have tasted its early vernal freshness, and basked in its sunshine of loyal homage, and beautiful and stately repose?
Yet far be it from me to croak as the "laudator temporis acti." Past, present, and future—all are divine—all are parts of a celestial scheme—none to be scorned, all to be loved and improved. But the past is under the sod; the future is behind the clouds; the present alone has its foot upon the green sward. In a higher sense than the epicure's, it is "our own." Let us, then, appreciate, exalt, and enjoy it. There are good and glorious signs in our present, amid much that is of earth earthy, and of self selfish. If man has become more isolated, more rigidly defined, and has been stript of most of his old pictorial haloes—he is also beginning to display a plain, honest, equal, fraternal yearning and sympathy, man to man. Our hard material age shews the buddings of a poetry of its own. Streams shall gushfrom the rock. If there were, in the days of loyal Clanhood, joyousness, and generous susceptibility, festive reliefs to labour, and reverence for greatness; why should not this be so even more, under the influence of common Brotherhood? "Charity never faileth!" Everything dies but charity and joy. Even in the general conflagration, these will be exhaled from earth, only to burst forth afresh in heaven—"a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God."