The city of Edinburgh--Views from Arthur's Seat--The Poems of
Richard Gall--"Farewell to Ayrshire"--"Arthur's Seat, a
Poem"--Extracts--Craigmillar Castle--The Forth, Roslin Castle and
the Pentland Hills--Liberty.
We will enter the city on the west side, as if we were coming from
Glasgow, pass through Prince's Street, with its elegant buildings and
fine promenades, skirting that enclosure of walks and shrubbery, just
under the frowning battlements of the Castle, and adorned with the
superb statue of Sir Walter Scott, rising rapidly to its completion;
then turn the corner at right-angles, cross the North Bridge, enter High
Street, and thence plunge down the hill into the old Canongate; and
without waiting to look at "the Heart of Midlothian," or even the
beautiful ruins of Holyrood House, at the foot of the hill, let us turn
to the right, and climb the rocky sides of "Arthur's Seat" with its
summit of verdure overlooking the city and the neighboring country. For
there the whole panorama of the city will spread itself before us,
surrounded with magnificent scenery, stretching far and wide from the
Pentland Hills on the one side to the Firth of Forth on the other, from
Stirling Castle on the west to the German Ocean on the east. Here we are
then, on the very highest point of the mountain, with the warm sunshine
around us, tempered as it is by the fresh "westlin wind," at once so
sweet and bland. Aye, aye! this is beautiful! What a landscape! How
varied and yet how harmonious! Not only beautiful exceedingly, but
ineffably grand and striking! Beneath us is the fine old city--new and
old at the same time, lying nearly square, with its lofty buildings and
elegant monuments, handsome parks and green shrubberies. To the left is
the older part of the city, rising gradually from the palace of Holyrood
at our feet, and crowned by the Castle, which is built upon a granite
rock, whose rough sides, terminating abruptly to the north and west,
hang over Prince's Street and the lower part of the city.
"There watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran gray in arms
And pierced with many a seamy scar:
The ponderous wall and massy bar,
Grim rising o'er the rugged rock;
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repelled the invader's shock."--Burns.
Before us and stretching away towards the Forth and the city of Leith is
"the new town," surmounted on this side by the Calton Hill, on which
stand the monuments of Dugald Stewart and Admiral Nelson, the unfinished
Parthenon, and the monument of Robert Burns,--beautiful and imposing
objects, reminding us of the Acropolis of Athens, and affording fine
relief to the long ranges of smooth and polished buildings beyond.
Behind us are the Pentland Hills with their verdant slopes and historic
recollections. To the right lie the city and bay of Leith, "the Piraeus"
of Edinburgh, the long winding shore in the direction of Portobello, and
"the dark blue deep" of the ocean, studded with white sails, glistening
in the summer radiance. To the north, at a distance of a few miles, you
see the majestic Firth of Forth, and beyond, "in cultur'd beauty," the
"Kingdom of Fife," with the distant range of the Ochil and Campsie
hills. From this point also you can see, at a distance of some three
miles, the gray ruins of Craigmillar Castle, famous in the annals of
Scotland, as the residence of Queen Mary, and the scene of those secret
machinations, which ended in the tragedy of Holyrood; Inch Keith with
its lofty lighthouse; the isle of May, once consecrated to St. Adrian,
and on which stands another "star of hope" to the mariner; and old
Inchcolm, famous for its ancient convent founded by St. Colomba, one of
the patron saints of Scotland. How gloriously, light and shade, land and
ocean, park and woodland, old castles and hoary ruins, frowning rocks
and smiling meadows mingle and blend in this rare and magnificent
landscape.
"Traced like a map the landscape lies
In cultur'd beauty stretching wide;
There Pentland's green acclivities,
There ocean, with its azure tide;
There Arthur's Seat, and gleaming through
Thy southern wing Dun Edin blue!
While in the orient, Lammer's daughters,
A distant giant range are seen,
North Berwick Law, with cone of green,
And Bass amid the waters." Delta.[5]
[Footnote 5: Supposed to be Dr. Moir.]
Here you can easily understand the reason why Edinburgh has been thought
to resemble the city of Athens. Mr. Stuart, author of the "Antiquities
of Athens," was the first to call attention to this fact, and his
opinion has often been confirmed since. Dr. Clarke remarks that the
neighborhood of Athens is just the Highlands of Scotland, enriched with
the splendid remains of art. Another acute observer states that the
distant view of Athens from the Aegean Sea is extremely like that of
Edinburgh from the Firth of Forth, "though," he adds, "certainly the
latter is considerably superior." "The resemblance," says J. G. Kohl,
the celebrated German traveller, "is indeed very striking. Athens, like
Edinburgh, was a city of hills and valleys, and its Ilissus was probably
not much larger than the Water of Leith. Athens, like Edinburgh, was an
inland town, and had its harbor, Piraeus, on the sea-coast. The mountains
near Edinburgh very much resemble those near Athens. I have little
doubt, however, that Athens is more honored by being compared to
Edinburgh, than Edinburgh to Athens; for it is probable that the scenery
and position of the Northern are more grand and striking in their
beauty, than those of the Southern Athens."
By the way there is a beautiful poem in the Scottish dialect, entitled
"Arthur's Seat," written by Richard Gall, a young man of great promise,
the friend and correspondent of Burns. He struggled with poverty, and
like Fergusson and Michael Bruce, was cut off prematurely, but not
before he had written some exquisite poems, in the style of Burns, whom
he greatly admired. He was contemporary with the unfortunate but gifted
Tannahill of Paisley, and possessed a kindred taste in song writing.[6]
His "Farewell to Ayrshire," commencing--
"Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
Bonnie Doon sae sweet at gloaming,
Fare thee weel before I gang--
Bonnie Doon where early roaming,
First I weaved the rustic sang"--
has been often printed, on account of its locality and associations, as
the composition of Burns. He is doubtless greatly inferior to Burns, and
not quite equal to Bruce or even Tannahill, but his verses possess great
sweetness, and contain some graphic and beautiful descriptions. This is
the case especially, with "Arthur's Seat," his longest and most
elaborate poem. As its sketches of scenery in and around Edinburgh, are
at once accurate and pleasing, and as it is entirely unknown in America,
we will take the liberty of quoting some of its finest passages.
[Footnote 6: Tannahill was a weaver in Paisley. He excelled in song
writing. Under the pressure of poverty and deep depression of spirits he
committed suicide.]
Gazing from Arthur's Seat, the poet invokes the genius of Burns--
"To sing ilk bonny bushy bower,
Adorned with many a wild-born flower;
Ilk burnie singing through the vale,
Where blooming hawthorns scent the gale;
And ilka sweet that nature yields,
In meadow wild or cultur'd fields;
The cultur'd fields where towering strang
The sturdy aik his shadows flang;
Where lonely Druids wont to rove,
The mystic tenants of the grove."
He aptly and strikingly interweaves historical and poetical allusions.
The following contains a fine contrast, and a striking description of
the ruins of Craigmillar Castle, in the vicinity of Edinburgh.
"Yes, ARTHUR, round thy velvet chair,
Ilk chequered picture blushes fair,
And mixed with nature's landscape green,
The varied works o' art are seen.
Here starts the splendid dome to view,
Mang sylvan haunts o' vernal hue;
There some auld lanely pile appears,
The mouldering wreck o' former years,
Whose tottering wa' nae mair can stand
Before fell Time's resistless hand;
Sic as Craigmillar's Castle gray,
That now fa's crumbling to decay,
A prey to ilka blast that blaws
An' whistles through its royal ha's--
Where mirth ance burst with joyfu' sound
And melting music rang around,
Ah! there dull gloomy silence reigns,
The mossy grass creeps o'er the stanes,
And howlets loud at e'enin's fa',
Rejoice upon the ruined wa'."
Craigmillar Castle naturally suggests the name of the beautiful and
unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who once resided within its lordly but
now forsaken halls. The poet therefore breaks out into the following
animated and pathetic strains, which, it has been said, will bear a
comparison with Mr. Burke's celebrated rhapsody on the unfortunate Queen
of France.
"There was a time when woman's charms
Could fire the warlike world of arms,
And breed sic wae to auld and young,
As Helen wept and Homer sung,
But Mary o' ilk stay bereft,
Misfortune's luckless child was left;
Nae guileless friend to stem her grief,
The bursting sigh her whole relief.--
O ye whose brave forefathers bled,
And oft the rage of battle led,
Wha rushing o'er the crimson field,
At Bannockburn made Edward yield;
Ye wha still led by glory's flame,
Make terror mix wi' Scotia's name--
Where slept your dauntless valor keen
When danger met your injured Queen?"
His descriptions of the Forth and the neighboring regions, of the
Pentland hills, and the scenery of the Esk, are strikingly beautiful.
"What varied scenes, what prospects dear
In chequer'd landscape still appear!
What rural sweets profusely thrang
The flowery Links of Forth alang,
O'er whose proud shivering surface blue
Fife's woods and spires begirt the view;
Where Ceres gilds the fertile plain
An' richly waves the yellow grain,
An' Lomond hill wi' misty showers,
Aft weets auld Falkland's royal towers,
Nor distant far, upon the ear
The popling Leven wimples clear,
Whose ruined pile and glassy lake
Shall live in sang for Mary's sake.[7]
* * * * *
Return fond muse frae haunts sae fair,
To Lothian's shore return ance mair,
And let thy lyre be sweetly strung,
For peerless Esk remains unsung.
Romantic stream, what sweets combine
To deck ilk bank and bower o' thine!
For now the sun, wi' cheerfu' rays
Glows soft o'er a' thy woody braes,
Where mony a native wild flower's seen,
Mang birks and briars, and ivy green,
An' a' the woodland chorists sing
Or gleesome flit on wanton wing,
Save where the lintie mournfully
Sabs sair 'aneath the rowan tree,
To see her nest and young ones a'
By thoughtless reaver borne awa.'
* * * * *
What saftening thoughts resistless start,
And pour their influence o'er the heart;
What mingling scenes around appear
To musing meditation dear,
When wae we tent fair grandeur fa'
By Roslin's ruined Castle wa'![8]
O what is pomp? and what is power?
The silly phantoms of an hour!
Sae loudly ance from Roslin's brow[9]
The martial trump of grandeur blew,
While steel-clad vassals wont to wait
Their chieftain at the portalled gate;
And maidens fair, in vestments gay,
Bestrewed wi' flowers the warrior's way.
But now, ah me! how changed the scene!
Nae trophied ha', nae towers remain;
Nae torches bleeze wi' gladsome light,
A guiding star in dead o' night;
Nae voice is heard, save tinkling rill,
That echoes from the distant hill."
[Footnote 7: The reference here is to the residence, or rather
imprisonment of Mary in Lochleven Castle.]
[Footnote 8: Roslin Castle, on the banks of the Esk, about seven miles
from Edinburgh.]
[Footnote 9: _Brow_, in Scotland, is often pronounced as if spelt
_brue_.]
How exquisite, and how entirely and peculiarly Scottish is the
following:
"Now tent the Pentlands westlin's seen,
O'erspread wi' flowery pastures green;
Where, stretching wide, the fleecy ewes[10]
Run bleating round the sunny knowes,
And mony a little silver rill
Steals gurgling down its mossy hill;
And vernal green is ilka tree
On bonny braes o' Woodhouselee."
[Footnote 10: _Ewes_, pronounced as if it were _yowes_.]
The genius of Scotland is one of freedom, of independent thought, and
unfettered action in matters civil and religious. This produced the
Reformation; this generated the recent secession from the 'Kirk;' this
characterizes the literature of the nation. We cannot, therefore,
refrain from making one more quotation, which breathes the lofty spirit
of freedom:
"Alas! sic objects to behold,
Brings back the glorious days of old,
When Scotia's daring gallant train,
That ever spurned a tyrant's chain,
For dearest independence bled,
And nobly filled their gory bed--
So o'er yon mountains stretching lang,
Their shields the sons of Freedom rang,
When Rome's ambition wild, burst forth,
An' roused the warriors of the north,
When CALGACH urged his dauntless train,
And freedom rush'd through ilka vein,
And close they met the haughty foe,
And laid fu' mony a tyrant low;
As fierce they fought, like freemen a',
Oh! glorious fought--yet fought to fa'!
They fell, and thou sweet LIBERTY,
Frae Grampia's blood-stained heights did flee,
And fixed thy seat remote, serene,
Mang Caledonia's mountains green.
Fair Maid! O may thy saftest smile
For ever cheer my native isle!"