The Genius of Scotland Part 2

has been often printed, on account of its locality and a.s.sociations, 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 pa.s.sages.

[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 st.u.r.dy 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 gra.s.s 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 gla.s.sy lake Shall live in sang for Mary's sake.[7]

Return fond muse frae haunts sae fair, To Lothian's sh.o.r.e 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 va.s.sals 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 p.r.o.nounced 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_, p.r.o.nounced 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 n.o.bly 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!"

CHAPTER III.

Walk to the Castle--The old Wynds and their Occupants--Regalia of Scotland--Storming of the Castle--Views from its Summit--Heriot's Hospital--Other Hospitals--St. Giles's Cathedral--Changes--The Spirit of Protestantism.

Let us now descend into the city. We will not linger long in old Holyrood Palace, interesting as it is, nor dwell upon "the stains" of Rizzio's blood in Queen Mary's room, as these have been described a thousand times, and are familiar to every one. Neither will we spend time in gazing upon the spot where once stood that quaint old gaol, called "The Heart of Midlothian," made cla.s.sic by the pen of Scott, in the beautiful story of Jeanie Deans. Neither will we visit the old "Parliament House" and the "Advocates' Library;" but we will pa.s.s right up through High Street, amid those colossal buildings, rising, on either side, to the height of six, seven, and even eight and ten stories, swarming with inhabitants; and dive into one or two of those close, dark wynds, where reside, in countless mult.i.tudes, the poorest and most vicious of the people. Here, it must be confessed, are some strange sights and appalling noises. Yet it is not quite so bad as some have represented it. All large cities have their poor and vicious inhabitants, and although those of the Scottish metropolis are tolerably dirty and vastly degraded, they bear no comparison to the lazzaroni of Naples and the beggars of Rome. Some of the streets and wynds are narrow enough and vile enough, but they contain, after all, many worthy people, who own a Bible, and read it too; and were you only to become thoroughly acquainted with them, you would be surprised to find how much of honesty and kindly affection still dwell in their hearts. In ancient times the houses in these very "closes" or "wynds"

were inhabited by the n.o.bility and gentry. Hence Grey's Close, Morrison's Close, Stewart's Close, &c. They built their houses in these narrow streets in order to be more secure from the attacks of their enemies, and to be the better able to defend the princ.i.p.al thoroughfares into which they opened. In Blythe's Close may be seen the remains of the palace of the Queen Regent, Mary of Guise. In another stand the old houses of the Earls of Gosford and Moray. One of the largest old palaces is now inhabited by beggars and rats.

It would be a great improvement if these miserable dwellings could be removed, and replaced by better streets and houses; a still greater one, if the people could only be induced to abandon the use of whiskey, for then they would abandon their hovels as a matter of course. Their besetting sin is the love of strong drink, though this has been gradually diminishing for the last few years throughout Scotland. It is to be hoped that the pious and moral portion of the community will unite in a strong effort to reclaim this degraded cla.s.s of their fellow-townsmen, and that the time will speedily come when the only reproach which rests upon their fair fame shall be wholly obliterated.

But let us leave this region, the only unpleasant one in the whole of this magnificent city, and ascend to the old Castle, where we shall see the Regalia of Scotland, preserved in a little room at the top of the Castle. These regalia consist of the crown of Robert Bruce the hero of Bannockburn, the sceptre of James the Fifth, a sword presented by Pope Julius the Second to James the Sixth, and other articles of inferior note. It is somewhat singular that the Regalia should have lain concealed from 1745 to the year 1818. At the time of the Union in 1707 between England and Scotland, they were walled up by some Scottish patriots, in order to prevent their being removed to London.

What recollections of the stormy but glorious history of Scotland cl.u.s.ter around the mind, while gazing at that antique-looking crown which adorned the head of the Bruces and the ill-fated Mary. The freedom and prosperity now enjoyed by the nation had a gloomy and tempestuous birth. Their very religion, placid and beautiful now, was cradled amid the war of elements and the shock of battle. But, thanks to G.o.d, it is all the purer and stronger for its rough and tempestuous youth.

Draw near to the edge of that battlement, and look down over the frowning rock. Would it be possible, think you, to storm the Castle from that side? One would suppose it beyond the power of man. It has been done, however, and the circ.u.mstance ill.u.s.trates the spirit of hardihood and enterprise which has ever distinguished the people of Scotland. In the year 1313, when the Castle was in the possession of the English, Randolph, Earl of Moray, was one day surveying the gigantic rock, when he was accosted by one of his men at arms with the question, "Do you think it impracticable, my lord?" Randolph turned his eyes upon the speaker, a man a little past the prime of life, but of a firm well-knit figure, and bearing in his keen eye and open forehead marks of intrepidity which had already gained him distinction in the Scottish army. "Do you mean the rock, Francis?" said the Earl; "perhaps not, if we could borrow the wings of our gallant hawks."[11]

[Footnote 11: We give the version of Leitch Ritchie, who has thrown the facts into the form of a dialogue, and given a false name to the hero; otherwise the narration is entirely authentic.]

"There are wings," replied Francis, with a thoughtful smile, "as strong, as buoyant, and as daring. My father was keeper of yonder fortress."

"What of that? You speak in riddles."

"I was then young, reckless, high-hearted: I was screwed up in that convent-like castle; my sweetheart was in the plain below"--

"Well, what then?"

"'Sdeath, my lord, can you not imagine that I speak of the wings of love? Every night I descended that steep at the witching hour, and every morning before the dawn I crept back to my barracks. I constructed a light twelve-foot ladder, by means of which I was able to pa.s.s the places that are perpendicular; and so well, at length, did I become acquainted with the route, that in the darkest and stormiest night, I found my way as easily as when the moonlight enabled me to see my love in the distance waiting for me at the cottage door."

"You are a daring, desperate, n.o.ble fellow, Francis! However, your motive is now gone; your mistress"--

"She is dead; say no more; but another has taken her place."

"Ay, ay, it's the soldier's way. Women will die or even grow old; and what are we to do? Come, who is your mistress now?"

"MY COUNTRY! What I have done for love, I can do again for honor; and what I can accomplish, you, n.o.ble Randolph, and many of our comrades can do far better. Give me thirty picked men, and a twelve-foot ladder, and the fortress is our own!"

"The Earl of Moray, whatever his real thoughts of the enterprise might have been, was not the man to refuse such a challenge. A ladder was provided, and thirty men chosen from the troops; and in the middle of a dark night, the party, commanded by Randolph himself, and guided by William Francis, set forth on their desperate enterprise.