Ride into the Country—The Skylark—Poems on the Skylark by Shelley and the 'Ettrick Shepherd'—Newhall—'The Gentle Shepherd'—Localities and Outlines of the Story—Its Popularity in Scotland.

'Tis a beautiful morning in early June. The sun is peeping over Arthur's Seat, and glancing from the turrets of the old Castle. The carriage is ready, and Sandy the driver is cracking his whip with impatience. So, take your place, and let us be off. Passing 'Bruntsfield Links' we plunge into the very heart of the country, so rich and varied, with park and woodland scenery, handsome villas, and sweet acclivities. Yonder is Merchiston Castle, the birth-place of the celebrated Napier, the inventor of Logarithms. A little further on, we reach the smiling village of Morningside, and pass some pretty country residences, with pleasant grounds and picturesque views. We enter a narrow and thickly wooded dell, through which tinkles a small rivulet, called the Braid Burn. At the bottom we come to the Braid Hermitage, as sweet a sylvan retreat as ever greeted the eye of the rural wanderer. Those rocky heights above us are the Braid Hills, from which can be enjoyed some of the most splendid views in Scotland. Leaving the carriage a few minutes we ascend that lofty eminence, and gaze, with delight upon the vast and beautiful landscape, including the city of Edinburgh, the Firth of Forth, with its "emerald islands," and the winding shores of Fife in the distance. Blackford hill, a little to the north of us is the spot mentioned in "Marmion:"

Descending from the hill we resume our journey, musing on the days of old, when "shrill fife and martial drum" awakened the echoes of these peaceful vales, now resounding with the melody of birds. How delightful the gushing music of those sky-larks, which descends upon us from "heaven's gates," like a shower of "embodied gladness." Why, it seems as if a hundred of them were soaring "i' the lift," and singing with a joyous energy, akin to that of the blessed spirits in heaven. To me, the lark is the noblest of all birds, the most pure and spirit-like of all aerial songsters. In Scotland, too, she seems to sing the sweetest and strongest. Others may praise the nightingale, if they please, and my own heart has often thrilled, to hear, at the "witching time of night," her wild and melancholy strain from some English copsewood, or Italian grove. But nothing so rich and beautiful, so spirit-like and divine ever greeted my ear as the glad singing of the heaven-aspiring lark. It seemed as if the very spirit of song had taken wings, and were ascending to God, in a flood of melody. But listen to the following strains written by Shelley under the inspiration of the sky-lark's song:

Inferior to this, but still very beautiful, more natural, and more especially Scottish, are the following lines to the Skylark by the "Ettrick Shepherd:"

Filled with these pleasant images, we pursue our journey, and wind along the edge of the Pentland Hills, with their thrilling memories of "Auld-lang-syne;" pass the "bonnie braes" of Woodhouselee, and reach old Glencorse Church, "bosomed high 'mong tufted trees;" cross "a bonnie burn," called "Logan Water," and get a glimpse of "House of Muir," in the vicinity of which the old Scottish Covenanters met with a terrible slaughter, from General Dalzell of Binns, the "bluidy Dalzell," as the Scots call him to this day. Passing through the humble village of Silver Burn, we reach Newhall, once the residence of Dr. Pennycuick, a poet and an antiquary, and subsequently of the Forbes family highly distinguished for their talents and virtues. Disposing of our carriage, let us ramble, at our "own sweet will," amid those beautiful grounds. The mansion of Newhall, once a battlemented castle of the Crichtoun family, stands on the left bank of the North Esk, within a curvature of the stream, under the shadow of the Pentland Hills. On either side is a deep ravine, terminating in the glen of the Esk, one of the most romantic spots in Scotland. Passing round on the eastern side, we gaze down into the ravine, overhung by the remains of a small round tower, and densely shaded with tangled trees. A dark rill gurgles at the bottom, here and there leaping into beautiful cascades, and flinging its glittering spray among the dark woods. Passing to the other side, we come to what was formerly the site of an old prison and chapel, encircled by a pleasant walk. The ravine beneath is filled with trees and shrubbery, but has no stream. From this point the eye glances up through the wooded glen, echoing with the songs of the mavis and the linnet, and over to a mineral well, sheltered by copsewood and pines.

But Newhall, and the grounds around it, derive their chief interest from their connection with the well-known pastoral poem of "Allan Ramsay." The very air seems redolent with the poetry of "The Gentle Shepherd." Leaving the house, we reach a little "haugh," or low sheltered spot, where the Esk and the rivulets from the Harbour Craig mingle their waters. At the side of the stream are some romantic gray crags, directly fronting the south, and looking up a turn in the glen. These, adorned with green birches, shrubs, and copsewood, and shading the limpid stream which makes a curve, and then glides underneath their overhanging cliffs, form "a shady bield," completely protected from observation. In this spot is laid the first act of "The Gentle Shepherd."

Ascending the vale, and just behind the house, we come to a considerable holm or green, with the babbling burn, now gentler in its movement, winding sweetly among the white pebbles. At the head of this quiet retreat, on the edge of the burn, are the ruins of an ancient washing-house, protected by an aged thorn. It was here that the "twa lasses" proposed to wash their "claes," unseen by their lovers.

A little further up the burn we come to a hollow, a little beyond what is called "Mary's Bower," where the Esk divides it in the middle, and forms a linn or cascade, called the "How Burn;" a small enclosure above is called the "Braehead Park;" and this hollow beneath the cascade with its bathing pool and little green, its rocks and birches, its wild shrubs and natural flowers, and general air of sequestered and romantic beauty, in every respect corresponds with the poet's exquisite description of the spot called "Habbie's Howe."

Ascending yet further, at a place called the "Carlops," (a contraction of "Carline's Loups," so called, in consequence of a witch or carline having been seen leaping, at night, from one rock to another,) two tall rocks shoot up on either side. Near this, by the side of that old ash tree, stood Mause's Cottage.

With these localities in our mind, let us sit down on this "gowan'd brae," and run over the story of "The Gentle Shepherd," one of the most graphic pictures of Scottish manners, and one of the sweetest pastorals in any language.

Patie or Patrick, a humble shepherd-lad, born and bred in the region we have entered, about the middle of the seventeenth century, was a handsome fellow, and remarkably distinguished for his good temper and rustic accomplishments. He was of a gay-hearted cheerful disposition, and made the woods and hills ring again with his mirthful songs. Moreover, he was sensible and well-informed. His mind, indeed, was superior to his station; still he was contented and happy.

Symon Scott, a worthy man and a wealthy farmer, with whom Patie had lived from his childhood, was a tenant of Sir William Preston's, owner of the neighboring lands, who, to save his head, he having taken part with the royalists, had fled his native country, and was living abroad, no one knew where.

Patie loved Peggy Forsyth, a "neebor lassie," of excellent character and great beauty, who fully requited his attachment. This girl was the reputed niece of Glaude Anderson, a comfortable farmer, and a tenant of Sir William's. He had found her one summer morning, at his door, carefully wrapped in swaddling clothes. Being a warm-hearted man, he had adopted the little stranger as his own relative.

The interviews and conversations of the lovers, and their friends, Roger and Jenny, who after some embarrassments from Jenny's independence, are found to be warmly attached to each other are related by the dramatist with great beauty and simplicity. The reader sees them at early morn, or amid the shadows of the gloaming, wandering by the "bonnie burnie's side," and with hearts of innocence, giving themselves up to the full enjoyment of nature's beauties and their own sweet affections. Glaude and Symon are fine specimens of the honest and hospitable farmers of Scotland. The house of the former is such as one often sees in the rural districts:

The character and fate of Bauldy are graphically described. He is a wealthy but vulgar minded farmer, attached to Peggy, and resolved, if possible, to withdraw her affections from Patie and secure them for himself. For this purpose he has recourse to Mause, a sensible and worthy old woman, but reputed a witch, from her superiority to the common people. Mause agrees to assist him, but secretly resolves to expose his ignorance and punish his effrontery. The following is Bauldy's account of the matter:

Tidings had arrived that Sir William, who had now been absent several years, might be expected home, as the king was restored and the royal party was now predominant.

This tidings created the liveliest sensations of joy among Sir William's tenantry, as he was much beloved for his kindness and generosity of disposition. Old Symon Scott and Glaude Anderson were especially delighted, and resolved, each of them, to celebrate the event with a feast. Symon however had already begun to make preparations for a banquet, to which he invited Glaude and all the old and young people of the neighborhood:

While they are engaged Sir William appears among the young people on the green, in the garb of a fortune teller. Jenny runs into the house and tells her father, who, particularly good-natured and hospitable at such an hour, replies:—

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.

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

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—

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

All then are assembled—

Bauldy, however, confesses his wrong, and adds—

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

and exclaims:

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

Glaud consents to give Jenny to Roger, who says;

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

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.

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