Ramble through the Fields--Parish Schools--Recollections of Dominie
Meuross--The South Esk--Borthwick and Crichtoun Castles--Newbattle
Abbey--Dalkeith--Residence of the Duke of Buccleugh--"Scotland's
Skaith," by Hector Macneil--His Character and Writings--Extracts
from the "History of Will and Jean."
Recrossing the North Esk, we ramble through the country in a
north-easterly direction, passing through highly cultivated farms, with
large comfortable homesteads. The fields everywhere are filled with
laborers, hoeing, ploughing, and weeding, most of them cheerful as
larks, and making the woods ring with 'whistle and song.' That plain but
substantial edifice, under the shadow of the great oak tree hard by the
old church, is a parish school-house, in which perhaps are gathered some
fifty or sixty boys and girls, from all ranks of society, plying their
mental tasks, under the supervision of an intelligent schoolmaster.
Every morning in that school-house the Word of God is reverently read,
and earnest prayer offered, exerting upon all minds a healthful moral
influence, and producing impressions of a religious kind, which may last
forever. Any boy may be fitted for college, or for commercial pursuits,
in such a school, and the expense to the parent will be next to nothing.
What then must be the amount of good accomplished by the combined
influence of all the parish schools in Scotland, equally endowed, and
supplied with adequate teachers? Popular education has made great
advances in Scotland within a few years. The greatest zeal for learning
exists among the people, and they require no compulsive acts, as in
Germany, to induce them to send their children to school. Not to be able
to read and write is regarded, in Scotland, as a great disgrace; and
hence the poorest people are equally ready with the rich to avail
themselves of the benefits of instruction. Good teachers are uniformly
secured, because they receive an ample compensation, and none but
well-educated and truly moral men would be accepted. In this respect
their situation is greatly superior to that of parish schoolmasters in
Germany or in the United States. On this subject, Kohl, the German
traveller, mentions an amusing conversation which he had with the parish
schoolmaster at Muthil. Having stated to the latter that the situation
of Scottish teachers was far superior to that of teachers in his
country, he inquired what was the average pay of schoolmasters there.
"It varies a good deal," was the reply of Kohl. "Some have a hundred,
some a hundred and fifty, but many no more than fifty dollars."
"How many pounds go to a dollar?" asked he.
"Seven dollars go to a pound."
"What!" he exclaimed, springing up from his chair, "do you mean to tell
me that they pay a schoolmaster with _seven pounds_ a year?"
"Even so," was the reply, "seven pounds; but how much then do they get
with you?"
"I know no one who has less than from forty to fifty pounds in all
Scotland; but the average is seventy or eighty pounds; and many go as
high as a hundred and fifty pounds."
"What!" cried Kohl, springing up in his turn, "a hundred and fifty
pounds! that makes one thousand and fifty dollars. A _baron_ would be
satisfied in Germany with such a revenue as that; and do you mean to say
that there are schoolmasters who grumble at it?"
"Yes," said he; "but recollect how dear things are with us. Sugar costs
eighteenpence a pound; coffee two shillings; chocolate is still dearer,
and tea not much cheaper. And then how dear are good beef, and pork, and
plums, and puddings, and everything else!"
"I could not deny this," adds Kohl; "but I thought that our poor
schoolmasters were content if they had but bread."
In former times the parish schoolmasters did not receive so much as they
now do; but then they were clerks of the parish, frequently _precentors_
in the church, and received a multitude of little perquisites. Their
support has been made quite ample, having an average salary of a hundred
pounds, with a free house.
But the sight of that school-house brings back the days of "lang syne."
Well do I remember the old parish school--a long thatched building, at
the "Kirk of Shotts," where I received my preparation for college,
under the free and easy, but most efficient, administration of 'Dominie
Meuross,' famed through all the country for his great classical
attainments, his facetious disposition, his kind-heartedness, and his
love of the pure 'Glenlivet.' Those were not the days of temperance
societies, and the Dominie had so much to do with christenings and
weddings, parish difficulties, "roups" and law-suits, that he was
greatly tempted by the bottle. But he was a worthy man, and an
enthusiastic teacher, especially of the classics. Teaching A, B, C, was
rather a dull business to the Dominie; but oh, how _merrily_ he would
construe the Odes of Horace, what jokes he would crack over our lessons,
and what effulgent light he would cast upon the classic page! Yet
Dominie Meuross was a dignified man--no one more so. The boys, indeed,
enjoyed considerable latitude, especially at that end of the school
opposite the one in which the Dominie sat, and many facetious tricks
were played upon the duller boys, the "sumphs," as we used to call them.
But the Dominie had only to pull down his glasses from his forehead,
where they were usually perched, and direct a keen glance to "the other
end," instantly to bring us all to perfect order. Dear old man! he has
long ago "gone to the yird," but his memory is green as the grass which
waves upon his grave.
The school and the church, the light of learning, and the light of
religion, form the glory of Scotland. These have twined around her
rustic brow a wreath of fadeless glory. These have given her stability
and worth, beauty and renown.
But we have reached Dalhousie Castle, with its charming and romantic
grounds, situated on a branch of the South Esk, a stream similar to the
North Esk, and running in the same direction. These streams, after
passing through scenery the most picturesque and beautiful, and watering
a hundred spots consecrated by song and story, as if by a mutual
attraction, unite a little above Dalkeith, and fall near the old town of
Musselburgh into the Firth of Forth. Behind us, at the distance of a few
miles, are the celebrated ruins of Borthwick and Crichtoun castles, the
one on a branch of the South Esk, the other somewhat to the right, in
the vale of Tyne. It was into Borthwick Castle that Queen Mary retired
after the death of Darnley, and her unhappy marriage with Bothwell, and
from which she was obliged, a few days afterwards, to flee to Dunbar in
the guise of a page. Crichtoun Castle is beautifully described by Sir
Walter Scott, in Marmion, and as we cannot visit this interesting ruin,
take his description of it as the best substitute.
"That castle rises on a steep
Of the green vale of Tyne;
And far beneath, where slow they creep
From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where alders moist, and willows weep,
You hear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose;
Their various architecture shows
The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas' bands.
"Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
Thy turrets rude and tottered Keep,
Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced within thy fort,
Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honor or pretence,
Quartered in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence.
Nor wholly yet hath time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair;
Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,
Whose twisted knots with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruined stair.
Still rises unimpaired below,
The court-yard's graceful portico:
Above its cornice, row and row,
Of fair hewn facets richly show,
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And shuddering still may we explore,
Where oft whilom were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More;[84]
Or from thy grass-grown battlement.
May trace, in undulating line,
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne."
[Footnote 84: The prison vault.]
Proceeding along the stream, we pass Cockpen, reminding us of the Laird
of Cockpen and his amusing courtship, when
"Dumb-founder'd was he,
But nae word did he gae;
He mounted his mare,
And he rade cannilie.
But aften he thought,
As he gaed through the glen,
She's a fule to refuse
The Laird o' Cockpen."
We linger a few minutes by Newbattle Abbey, founded by David I., for a
community of Cistercian monks, brought hither from Melrose, but now the
residence of the Marquis of Lothian; and soon after reach the old "burgh
town" of Dalkeith, most delightfully situated between the two Esks, and
reminding us forcibly of "Mansie Waugh," the _pawkie tailor_ of
Dalkeith, whose amusing history we read in our boyhood. Dalkeith is a
considerable place, and has many elegant residences. In its immediate
vicinity is Dalkeith Palace, seat of the Duke of Buccleugh, standing on
an overhanging bank of the North Esk. Here too, in earlier times, lived
the Grahams, and the Douglases; and into this strong retreat, then
called the "Lion's den," retired the celebrated Regent Morton, who was
subsequently beheaded. We might enter the house, as this favor is often
granted to strangers, but we will not now; though it boasts the
possession of some fine old paintings, and some exquisite pieces of
furniture. But the grounds around it are infinitely more attractive,
adorned, as they are, with magnificent trees and shrubbery, and the
serpentine windings of the two Esks, whose waters unite in the park, a
little distance below the house. How placidly the stream glides through
the verdant meadows, and mirrors the green foliage of the overhanging
trees, or the branching horns of some deer, bent to drink its clear
waters! How softly and delicately the pencil rays of green and yellow
light glimmer through those shady retreats to the right. See the
startled deer bounding through the woods! How softly and lovingly sleeps
the sunshine on that wide pool at the bottom of the green slope, adorned
with flowers and honeysuckles! And see, through that shady vista the
open sky in the distance, "so darkly, deeply, beautifully blue." The
birds too, mavis, lintie, and bulfinch, are caroling among the trees, as
if their little hearts were filled with boundless joy.
The cottage of "Jeanie Gairlace," supposed to be conferred upon her by
the Duchess of Buccleugh, is placed by Macneil, the author of
"Scotland's Skaith," in this beautiful vicinity. As we have yet to wait
some time for the rail cars that are to take us to Edinburgh, let us sit
down on this rustic seat, and I will give you some account of Macneil,
and his touching poem of "Will and Jean."
Hector Macneil was born in 1746, and died in 1818. He was brought up to
mercantile pursuits, but did not succeed in business. He cultivated in
secret his passion for the muses, and published at intervals several
poetical effusions, among which were "The Harp, a Legendary Poem,"--"The
Links of the Forth, or a Parting Peep at the Carse of Sterling," and
"Scotland's Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean," his most natural
and successful production. Though not successful in lyrical effusions,
or in song writing, he is the author, we believe, of that exquisite
ballad, "Bonny Wee Mary o' Castlecary." He also wrote some prose tales,
in which he laments the effects of modern changes and improvements. In
the latter years of his life, he resided in comparative comfort, at
Edinburgh, enjoying the congenial society of its refined and literary
circles.
"Scotland's Skaith (curse) or the History of Will and Jean," is intended
to depict the ruinous effects of intemperance, and the possibility of
reform, with the happiness thence resulting. A happy couple, in humble
life are gradually drawn into the vortex of intemperance, and at last
are reduced to the deepest extremities. The husband enlists as a
soldier, and the wife is compelled, with her children, to beg her bread.
In the commencement of the poem Willie is represented as passing a
rustic alehouse, whose attractions prove too much for him. The situation
of the alehouse, and the commencement of Willie's career as a drunkard,
are admirably described. The rhythm of the poem is peculiarly harmonious
and lively.
In a howm[85] whose bonnie burnie,
Whimpering rowed its crystal flood,
Near the road where travellers turn aye,
Neat and bield[86] a cot house stood.
White the wa's, wi' roof new theckit,[87]
Window broads[88] just painted red;
Lown[89] 'mang trees and braes it reekit,[90]
Hafflins[91] seen and hafflins hid.
Up the gavel[92] end thick spreading,
Crap the clasping ivy green,
Back owre firs the high craigs cleadin,[93]
Raised around a cosey screen.
Down below a flowery meadow;
Joined the burnies rambling line,
Here it was that Howe the widow
That same day set up her sign.
Brattling[94] down the brae, and near its
Bottom, Will first marvelling sees
'Porter, ale, and British spirits,'
Painted bright between twa trees.
'Godsake Tam! here's walth for drinking!
Wha can this new-comer be?'
'Hout,' quo Tam, 'there's drouth in thinking--
Let's in Will, and syne[95] we'll see.'
[Footnote 85: Hollow, or glen.]
[Footnote 86: Sheltered.]
[Footnote 87: Thatched.]
[Footnote 88: Boards.]
[Footnote 89: Serene and lonely.]
[Footnote 90: Smoked.]
[Footnote 91: Half.]
[Footnote 92: Gable.]
[Footnote 93: Clothing.]
[Footnote 94: Rattling, or running.]
[Footnote 95: Then.]
The two thoughtless friends have "a jolly meeting," and do not break up
till "'tween twa and three" next morning. A weekly club is set up at the
alehouse, a newspaper is procured, and things move on bravely. Willie
becomes a "pot-house politician," and a hard drinker, the consequence of
which is that he speedily goes to ruin. His wife also, to drown her
sorrows, takes to drinking. The contrast between their past and present
condition is touchingly described by the poet.
Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace?
Wha in neeboring town or farm?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm.
When he first saw Jeanie Miller,
Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?
Thousands had mair braws and siller.[96]
But war ony half so fair?
See them now! how chang'd wi' drinking!
A' their youthfu' beauty gane!
Davered,[97] doited,[98] dazed[99] and blinking--
Worn to perfect skin and bane.
In the cauld month o' November,
(Claise,[100] and cash, and credit out,)
Cowering o'er a dying ember,
Wi' ilk face as white's a clout.[101]
Bond and bill, and debts a' stoppit,
Ilka sheaf selt[102] on the bent;[103]
Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit,[104]
Now to pay the laird his rent.
No anither night to lodge here--
No a friend their cause to plead!
He's ta'en[105] on to be a sodger,
She wi' weans[106] to beg her bread!
[Footnote 96: Fine clothing and money.]
[Footnote 97: Bewildered.]
[Footnote 98: Foolish.]
[Footnote 99: Stupid.]
[Footnote 100: Clothes.]
[Footnote 101: Cloth.]
[Footnote 102: Sold.]
[Footnote 103: Stubble field.]
[Footnote 104: Sold at auction.]
[Footnote 105: Engaged.]
[Footnote 106: Children.]
Fortunately, Jeanie attracts the attention of the Duchess of Buccleugh,
and obtains from her a pretty cottage, rent free, and such aid and
protection as her circumstances demand. Willie loses a leg in battle,
and returns a changed man, with a pension from government. Finding his
wife and family, he is received to their embrace. The soldier's return,
and the situation of the cottage are beautifully depicted.
Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin',
Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth;
On a cart or in a wagon,
Hirplin[107] aye towards the north.
Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly,[108]
Pondering on his thraward[109] fate,
In the bonny month o' July,
Willie, heedless, tent[110] his gate.[111]
Saft the southland breeze was blowing,
Sweetly sughed[112] the green oak wood;
Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing,
Strack the ear with thundering thud.
Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating;
Linties chirped on ilka tree;
Frae the west the sun near setting,
Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie.[113]
Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny!
Craigs and water, woods and glen!
Roslin's banks unpeered by ony,
Save the Muses' Hawthornden!
Ilka sound and charm delighting,
Will (though hardly fit to gang,)[114]
Wandered on through scenes inviting,
Listening to the mavis' sang.
Faint at length, the day fast closing,
On a fragrant strawberry steep,
Esk's sweet dream to rest composing,
Wearied nature drapt asleep.
'Soldier, rise!--the dews o' e'ening,
Gathering fa' wi' deadly skaith!--
Wounded soldier! if complaining,
Sleep na here, and catch your death.'
[Footnote 107: Limping.]
[Footnote 108: Carefully.]
[Footnote 109: Untoward.]
[Footnote 110: Lost.]
[Footnote 111: Way.]
[Footnote 112: Sighed.]
[Footnote 113: High.]
[Footnote 114: Walk.]
Accepting an invitation to take shelter in a neighboring cottage,
slowfully and painfully he followed his guide.
Silent stept he on, poor fellow!
Listening to his guide before,
O'er green knowe, and flowery hollow,
Till they reached the cot-house door.
Laigh[115] it was, yet sweet and humble:
Decked wi' honeysuckle round;
Clear below Esk's waters rumble,
Deep glens murmuring back the sound.
Melville's towers sae white and stately,
Dim by gloaming glint[116] to view;
Through Lasswade's dark woods keek[117] sweetly,
Skies sae red and lift sae blue.
Entering now in transport mingle,
Mother fond, and happy wean,[118]
Smiling round a canty[119] ingle,
Bleezing on a clean hearth-stane.
'Soldier, welcome! Come, be cheery!
Here ye'se[120] rest, and tak' your bed--
Faint, waes me! ye seem and weary,
Pale's your cheek, sae lately red!'
'Changed I am,' sighed Willie till[121] her;
'Changed nae doubt, as changed[122] can be;
Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller
Naught o' Willie Gairlace see?'
Hae ye mark'd the dews o' morning,
Glittering in the sunny ray,
Quickly fa' when, without warning,
Rough blasts came and shook the spray?
Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing,
Drap when pierced by death mair fleet?
Then see Jean, wi' color deeing,[123]
Senseless drap at Willie's feet.
After three lang years' affliction,
A' their waes now hush'd to rest,
Jean ance mair, in fond affection,
Clasps her Willie to her breast.
[Footnote 115: Low.]
[Footnote 116: Gleam.]
[Footnote 117: Peep.]
[Footnote 118: Child.]
[Footnote 119: Merry.]
[Footnote 120: You shall.]
[Footnote 121: To.]
[Footnote 122: As much as possible.]
[Footnote 123: Dying.]
But hark! the first bell rings for the cars; so let us be off, and get
our places. The sun has slipped down behind the trees yonder, and it
will be gloaming, if not ''tween and supper time,' before we get to
Edinburgh.
All is right, and off we go, whirring through the quiet and beautiful
scenery of these highly cultivated regions. We pass through "Samson's
ribs," that is, the granite rocks of Duddingston, by means of a tunnel,
glide along the base of Arthur's Seat, on whose summit linger the last
rays of evening; and land at the upper end of the city, well prepared to
relish a Scottish supper of substantial edibles, and after that, "tired
nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep."