Biographical Sketch of Allan Ramsay—Lasswade—Ramble along the banks of the North Esk—Glenesk—A Character—Anecdote of Sir W. Scott—Hawthornden—Drummond the Poet—His Character and Genius—Sonnets—Chapel and Castle of Roslin—Barons of Roslin—Ballad of Rosabelle—Hunting Match between Robert Bruce and Sir William St. Clair.

Leaving Habbie's Howe, we will let Sandy drive us along the banks of the river, through Auchindinny, Roslin and Hawthornden, to the pretty village of Lasswade, where we will spend the night. Sandy can take the carriage back to Edinburgh, and to-morrow we will ramble on foot through the classic shades of Roslin and Hawthornden, visit Dalkeith and some other places, and return to Edinburgh by the railway. In the meantime I will give you some account of Allan Ramsay.

Allan was born on the 15th of October, 1686, in Crawford Muir, Lanarkshire, and died in the city of Edinburgh, in the year 1784. He was at first a wigmaker, and afterwards a bookseller. In 1726 he kept a little bookstore opposite Niddry's Wynd in the city of Edinburgh, whence he removed to another, somewhat more commodious at the east end of the Luckenbooths, having exchanged his old sign of Mercury for the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond of Hawthornden, whom he greatly admired. His early education was limited. He attended the village school at Leadhills, where, as he himself informs us, he acquired just learning enough to read Horace "faintly in the original." Of a vigorous constitution, and a cheerful temper, he spent his time happily in the country, till his fifteenth year, though his lot seems to have been a hard one.

He went to Edinburgh, a poor country boy, and gradually made his way to competence, and respectability. Whether he was particularly successful as a wigmaker we are not informed; but he found the trade of bookseller infinitely more congenial. Ensconced behind his counter, he could study, write poetry, chat with his customers, and publish his own lucubrations. His first principal poem was "Christ's Kirk on the Green," a continuation of King James's poem of the same name, a rough but graphic and humorous picture of rustic revelry. Its indelicacy is rather gross, but it has all the vigor and humor of Hogarth's pictures. His other poems, containing songs, fables, pastorals, complimentary verses (of which he has a very large number,) stories and epistles are quite numerous. They contain a large amount of trash, with here and there some beautiful gems. He is mainly successful in Scottish verse. His imitations of the English poets are rather poor. "The Vision" is one of his ablest productions. The Genius of Scotland is painted "with a touch of the old heroic Muse:"

But his most popular production is the "Gentle Shepherd" which appeared in 1725—and was received with enthusiasm, not only in Scotland, but in England and Ireland. It was much admired by Pope and Gay, the latter of whom, when on a visit to Scotland, with the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, used to lounge in Allan Ramsay's shop, and obtain from him explanations of the Scottish expressions that he might communicate them to Pope.

Allan uniformly had an eye to the "main chance." He sedulously courted the great, and managed to accumulate a good many pennies. "In the mingled spirit of prudence and poetry," he contrived

He was foolish enough however to lay out his gains in the erection of a theatre which was prohibited by the magistrates, as an injury to good morals. So that Allan lost his cash and his pains together, and not only so, but his good temper. This exposed him to much obloquy, in part perhaps deserved. He was somewhat Jacobinical in his views, and hated the Presbyterian clergy, who were afraid of him, as "a half papist," and a some what licentious writer. Hence he lampooned them with great severity, in consequence of which he was pretty well lampooned in his turn.

After all Allan was a true poet, and by no means a bad man. He was honest, kind-hearted and cheerful. Some of his poetical strains indicate much elevation and tenderness of spirit.

In personal appearance he was somewhat peculiar. The following amusing description he has given of himself:

Allan never suffered his poetry to interfere with his business. Indeed he abandoned verse altogether in the latter part of his life, rightly judging that he might not equal his earlier productions, and feeling moreover that other and more serious engagements demanded his attention. The following epistle to Mr. Smibert, an eminent painter and intimate friend, dated Edinburgh, 10th May, 1736, is highly characteristic;

"My Dear old Friend:—

Your health and happiness are ever ane addition to my satisfaction. God make your life ever easy and pleasant. Half a century of years have now row'd oe'r my brow, that begins now to be lyart;[67] yet thanks to my Author, I eat, drink, and sleep as sound as I did twenty years syne;[68] yes, I laugh heartily too, and find as many subjects to employ that faculty upon as ever; fools, fops and knaves, grow as rank as formerly, yet here and there are to be found good and worthy men, who are ane honor to human life. We have small hopes of seeing you again in our world; then let us be virtuous and hope to meet in heaven. My good auld wife is still my bedfellow; my son Allan has been pursuing your science since he was a dozen years auld—was with Mr. Hyffidg, at London, for some time, about two years ago—has been since at home, painting here like a Raphael—sets out for the seat of the beast, beyond the Alps, in a month hence—to be away about two years. I'm sweer[69] to part with him, but canna stem the current which flows from the advice of his patrons and his own inclination. I have three daughters, one of seventeen, one of sixteen, and one of twelve years of old, and no rewayled dragle[70] among them, all fine girls. These six or seven years past I have not written a line of poetry. I e'en gave over in good time, before the coolness of fancy, that attends advanced years, should make me risk the reputation I had acquired.

Frae twenty-five to five and forty,
My muse was neither sweer[71] nor dorty,[72]
My Pegasus wad break her tether,[73]
E'en at the shagging of a feather;
And throw[74] ideas scour like drift,
Streaking his wings up to the lift;
Then when my soul was in a low[75]
That gart[76] my numbers safely row;[77]
But eild[78] and judgment gin[79] to say,
Let be your sangs and learn to pray.

I am, Sir, your friend and servant,
Allan Ramsay."

In 1743 his circumstances were such as enabled him to build a small octagon shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which he named Ramsay Lodge, but which some of his witty friends compared to a goose pie. He told Lord Elibank one day of this ungracious comparison. "What," said the witty peer, "a goose pie! In good faith, Allan, now that I see you in it, I think the house is not ill named." He lived in this odd-looking edifice till the day of his death, enjoying the society of his friends, and cracking his jokes with perhaps greater quietness, but with as much gust and hilarity as ever. He was a man of genius, and has exerted great influence on the lighter literature of Scotland. He was an immense favorite with Burns, his equal in genius, his superior in depth of feeling, in tenderness and beauty of expression. But Burns doubtless owed something to the "wood notes wild," of his illustrious predecessor. Both have done much to illustrate and beautify their native land.

Next morning at early dawn we are rambling in and around the pretty village of Lasswade, which lies so sweetly on the left bank of the North Esk. The river runs in many charming sinuosities through the parish, now passing over a smooth ledge of rocks, then "wimpling" over shining pebbles, then gliding with a scarcely perceptible motion "among the green braes," now wetting the pendant branches of the birch and broom, anon sleeping in a deep pellucid pool, then leaping "o'er a linn," and then gushing with a hollow murmur, among the loose gray rocks. Nothing can be more beautiful and picturesque. Many pretty cottages and handsome villas adorn the neighborhood. De Quincy, the celebrated English "opium eater" lives here, and Sir Walter Scott at one time occupied a cottage in the vicinity. The following is a happy description from his pen, of the enchanting scenes through which the North and South Esk flow. It is taken from his ballad of the "Grey Brother."

It is not surprising that multitudes from Edinburgh come to reside here in the summer time; for what with the varied scenery of rock and river, copsewood and fell, the pleasant associations of the present, and the thrilling memories of "Auld lang syne," no region can be more attractive and agreeable.

Sauntering along, we approach Glenesk, so called from the deep and charming glen, formed by the winding river. Yonder is an old man at work in his garden, who looks quite patriarchal, and I dare say knows a good deal of the neighborhood. Let us accost him.

"Good morning, sir!"

"Gude mornin' gentlemen!"

"You seem to be quite early in your garden this morning."

"Ou aye, we maun mak hay while the sun shines, ye ken, and this is a graund time for planting."

"You have lived in the neighborhood a considerable time, I presume."

"A' my days."

"Well, it's a beautiful country."

"Ou aye, it's weel eneuch. My faither before me lived in that bit housie out yonder amang the trees, and he used aften to say, gude auld man! that the lines had fallen to us in pleasant places, and that we had a goodly heritage. For my pairt, I like the country unco weel. The burn there is verra pleasant, its sae caller[81] like, wimpling amang the rocks and bushes. And what's mair to the pint, it has got a fouth[82] of fine fish in 't, though thae new fangled mills are frightening them awa."

"Trout, I suppose."

"Yes, sir, and fine anes too. Ah! mony's the day I hae paidlt in that burn, when a wee bit callant, catching the trout amang the stanes, when the water was low."

"Did you know any thing of Sir Walter Scott? He used to live near Lasswade, and I dare say often wandered this way to fish."

"Ken him! That I did fu' weel. And an honest freendly man he was. He cam up the burn every noo and then, sometimes wi' a fishing-rod, and sometimes wi' a staff in his han. He and I got weel acquaint after a time, for he was nane o' your upstarts, but an unco frank, freespoken kind of a man. Not that he talked sae muckle himsel, but he was aye askin about something or ither, and kept my tongue waggin' a' the time. Ah yes, Sir Walter was a canny man. He knew the hail kintra side, and used to spier a great many questions about the ways o' the auld folks. One day he cam alang the burn side, wi' anither gentleman. I happened to be working down there. His line got tangled in a stane, and he got me to fetch it out. He then coost it into the deep pule below, making the flee skim alang the top o' the water, as skeelfully as onything ye ever saw. When up louped a muckle spotted trout, and in a moment dragged the line to the other side, then spanked up the burn at an unco rate, running the line aff the reel, which birred like a spinnin' wheel. Sir Walter hobbled after it as weel as he could. He was lame, ye ken, but managed to move pretty quick. The trout plunged and flounced over the shallow water, got into another deep pule, and ran into the bank, in the hollow of twa big stanes that were lying there. Now, cried Sir Walter, I have you my boy; so he kept jerkin awa at him, and out he cam again, when Sir Walter gave him a wallop, and laid him flat amang the gowans. 'Twas a bonny sight, I tell you. The trout was nae less than a fit and a quarter lang, as thick as my arm, and spotted all o'er wi' shining spots, like a leopard. Sir Walter was unco pleased—rubbed his hans', and every now and then broke into a smile, as he cracked some joke about the trout. Hech! it was a guid sight for sair een—to see Sir Walter after the trout, and specially to see the trout walloping amang the gowans."

"But don't you think that it was rather cruel sport?"

"Cruel! why man, the fish kens naething ava, and out o' its ain element, it gets choked in a minute. And, for my pairt, I dinna see what fish is guid for, if not to be catch'd and eaten, specially the big anes! My gude auld faither used often to say to us, 'Boys, ye mauna be cruel to the dumb beasts, and when ye gang a fishing, be sure to let the wee fish gae.'"

"Your father was a worthy man, I dare say."

"That he was, I can assure you. He was respeckit by the hail kintra side. When auld and feeble, he wud sit before the door, on a divot seat, the hail simmer day, wi' a braid bonnet on his head, and a lang staff by his side, reading the Bible, or maybe 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or takin' wi' the neebors wha cam to see him."

"Did he belong to the established kirk?"

"Na, na, he was ane o' the auld Covenanters, and used to talk a deal about Cameron and McMillen, as unco powerfu' preachers. He thocht the present times were wonderfu' degenerate, that the solemn League and Covenant o' Scotland was amaist forgotten, and that the people now-a-days were a sort o' inferior race. But he was a gude man; unco pleasant to look upon, and unco pleasant to hear, when he talked o' the faithfulness o' Israel's God, and the comfort and blessedness of being his children. When he deed, he seemed to fa' asleep. A smile was on his pale face, and his han' lay upon his breast, as it were in token of resignation to the will o' heaven. He lies buried in the auld kirk-yard, o'er yonder, wi' the words on his head-stane at his ain request, 'Blessed are the deed that dee in the Lord.'"

"Are you too a Cameronian?"

"Why no, to tell ye the honest truth. The auld Cameronians are amaist a' gane; and I just gang o'er here to the free kirk, where, to my notion, we hae as guid sound preachin as ye'll meet wi' in the hail kintra side. I'm no sae gude a man as my faither; but I canna forget his counsels and his prayers."

"Have you any family, my friend?"

"Ou aye. A bit callant, and twa strapping lasses, one of whom is married."

"Well, that's a comfort."

"A great comfort, sir, in my auld days. Jeanie is weel married, and has bairns o' her ain. Marion wad a been married, but she was kind a skary, and so she stays at hame. The bit callant is no my ain, but a neebor's son that we adopted frae pity, seeing his mither is puir, and his faither was lost at sea."

"And your wife, is she well?"

"Well! Aye, that she is—in heaven! She's been gane these five years—(here the tears started in the old man's eyes.) We maun a' dee. (A brief pause.) But, as my gude auld faither used to say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

"Yes, my good old friend, the hope of a Christian, which you seem to cherish, is a source of infinite comfort. It sweetens the cares of life, and robs death of its sting. Good morning."

"Gude mornin; and the Lord bless you!"

Ascending the river a short distance, we come to Hawthornden, once the property and residence of the celebrated poet and historian, William Drummond, the friend of Shakspeare and Ben Jonson. The house, originally constructed with reference to strength, surmounts the very edge of a precipitous cliff, which rises above the river. Winding around it are charming walks, among the green foliage, which fringes the summit and sides of the rock, down to the very edge of the water. Wild tangled bushes, flowering shrubs, birches and oak trees, are mingled in most picturesque and delightful confusion; while the gray cliffs here and there, peep out from their sylvan garniture as if sunning themselves in the summer radiance. Below, the stream, impeded in its course by huge ledges of rocks, hurries unseen, but distinctly heard, amid the woods; further on, emerges into the light of day, and forms a broad clear pool, on the banks of which you may see some industrious fisherman plying his rod.

Standing in front of it you see certain artificial caves, hollowed with immense labor, out of the solid rock. These communicate with each other, and contain a well of prodigious depth bored from the court-yard of the mansion. The caves are reported by tradition to have been a stronghold of the ancient Pictish kings, and three of them bear respectively the name of 'the king's Gallery, the king's Bed-chamber and the king's Guard-room.' They were doubtless hewn out, as places of refuge, during the terrible wars between the English and the Picts, or the English and the Scots. In the reign of David II, when the English had possession of Edinburgh, they and the neighboring caves of Gorton afforded shelter to the heroic Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie and his adventurous band.

Adjoining the house, and overlooking the stream, a kind of seat is cut in the face of the rock, called 'Cypress Grove,' where Drummond is reported to have sat, in the fine summer weather, and composed many of his poems. The magnificent woods in the vicinity suggested to Peter Pindar the caustic remark respecting Dr. Samuel Johnson, that he

Crossing the river at a suitable place, we will saunter towards Roslin on the other side, and while doing so, will beguile the way by talking of Drummond, whose genius haunts every nook and corner of the shady dell.

William Drummond was born in 1585 and died in 1649. His father, John Drummond, was gentleman usher to King James. He was hence educated in profound reverence for royalty and its prerogatives. Indeed his feelings upon this subject were entirely slavish; and it is said that his strong grief at the death of Charles the First hastened his death.

He was well versed in classic literature, and enjoyed the advantages of a refined and liberal education. Having studied civil law for four years in France, he succeeded in 1611 to an independent estate, and took up his residence in Hawthornden. Its cliffs, caves, and wooded dells were in harmony with his genius, and he spent many happy years in this beautiful retreat. His first publication was a volume of occasional poems, of various merit, to which succeeded a moral treatise, in prose, called "Cypress Grove," in allusion probably to the fairy nook on the face of the rock where he meditated and wrote, and a second poetical work entitled "Flowers of Zion." He also wrote the History of the Five James's, a production of no great merit, in which he urges, to an extravagant length, the doctrine of the absolute supremacy of kings. "The Cypress Grove" contains reflections upon death, written in a solemn and agreeable strain, and contains some fine passages. "This earth," says he, "is as a table book, and men are the notes; the first are washen out, that new may be written in. They who forewent us did leave room for us; and should we grieve to do the same to those who should come after us? Who, being suffered to see the exquisite rarities of an antiquary's cabinet, is grieved that the curtain be drawn, and to give place to new pilgrims? And when the Lord of the Universe hath shown us the amazing wonders of his various frame, should we think it hard, when he thinketh time, to dislodge? This is his unalterable and inevitable decree; as we had no part of our will in our entrance into this life, we should not presume to any in our leaving it; but soberly learn to will that which he wills, whose very will giveth being to all that it wills."

The death of a beautiful young lady, to whom he was betrothed, affected him deeply; and he sought relief to his wounded feelings in foreign travel. On returning, some years afterwards, he met a young lady by the name of Logan, bearing a strong resemblance to the former object of his affections; on account of which he solicited and obtained her hand in marriage.

Drummond was intimate with Drayton and Ben Jonson. The latter paid him a visit at Hawthornden, and they had much free conversation together. Drummond kept private notes of these conversations, which subsequently saw the light, and were found to be somewhat injurious to Jonson's memory. But Drummond himself had no hand in their publication.

As a poet Drummond belonged to the school of Spenser, though far inferior to the latter in strength of conception and splendor of imagination. His poems are distinguished for their singular harmony and sweetness of versification. They seem to partake of the character of the quiet romantic scenery amid which they were composed. His "Tears on the Death of Moeliades," (Prince Henry, son of James I.,) and his "River Forth Feasting," have been much admired. His sonnets, however, are his best productions. They flow with as much grace and beauty, (though not perhaps with the same variety,) as the romantic river which murmurs past his "wooded seat." His madrigals, complimentary verses, and other short pieces, abound in foolish conceits, and what is worse, in coarse and licentious language. But he was one of the best poets of the age, and only inferior to two or three of his great contemporaries.

The following sonnet—"To His Lute"—is very sweet. It was probably written after the death of the lady to whom he was betrothed;

His sonnet "In Praise of a Solitary Life" was written, we can well imagine, in his summer bower on the banks of the Esk. It is peculiarly harmonious:

The following, "To a Nightingale," is still more beautiful:

But we have entered the vale of Roslin, and there, in its beauty, stands the Chapel of Roslin, one of the most exquisite architectural ruins in Scotland. It was founded in 1484, or even earlier than that, by the Earl of Caithness and Orkney. The whole Chapel is profusely decorated with the most delicate sculpture both within and without. The roof, the capitals, key-stones and architraves, are all overlaid with sculpture, representing foliage and flowers, grotesque figures, sacred history and texts of Scripture. The fine fluted column called the "Apprentice's Pillar," so named from a tradition which no one believes, and which therefore we do not repeat, is exceedingly beautiful, being ornamented with wreaths of foliage and flowers twining around it in spiral columns. So perfect are these alto relievos, that the author of a pamphlet describing them, says that he can liken them to nothing but Brussels lace.

How solemn a thing it is in this chequered light, to wander amid these sounding aisles and ancient monuments! In the vaults beneath lie the Barons of Roslin, all of whom, till the time of James the Seventh, were buried without a coffin, in complete armor. This circumstance, and the vulgar belief that on the night preceding the death of any of these barons, the chapel appeared in flames, has been finely described by Walter Scott, in his touching ballad of Rosabelle.

We now pass over a bridge of great height, spanning a deep cut in the solid rock, and reach Roslin Castle, with its triple tier of vaults, standing upon a peninsular rock overhanging the romantic glen of the Esk. This castle was, for ages, the seat of the St. Clairs, or Sinclairs, descended from William de Sancto Clare, the son of Waldernus de Clare, who came to England with William the Conqueror, and fought at the battle of Hastings. The enumeration of their titles, says Sir Walter Scott, would take away the breath of a herald. Among others, they were Princes of the Orcades, Dukes of Oldenburgh, Lord Admirals of the Scottish Seas, Grand Justiciaries of the kingdom, Wardens of the border, Earls of Caithness, titularies of more than fifty baronies, patrons and Grand Masters of Masonry in Scotland, &c. &c.

Of the grandeur and opulence of the family, some conception may be derived from the following description, given in a manuscript in the "Advocate's Library," of the state maintained by William St. Clare, founder of the chapel.—"About that time (1440) the town of Roslin, being next to Edinburgh and Haddington in East Lothian, became very populous by the great concourse of all ranks and degrees of visitors that resorted to this Prince, at his palace of the Castle of Roslin; for he kept a great court, and was royally served at his own table, in vessels of gold and silver, Lord Dirleton being his master of the household, Lord Borthwick his cup-bearer, and Lord Fleming his carver, &c. He had his halls and other apartments richly adorned with embroidered hangings. He flourished in the reigns of James the First and Second. His princess, Elizabeth Douglass, was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, whereof fifty-three were daughters of noblemen, all clothed in velvets and silks, with their chains of gold and other ornaments, and was attended by two hundred riding gentlemen in all her journeys; and if it happened to be dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings were at the foot of Blackfriars' Wynd, eighty lighted torches were carried before her."

The old castle is almost entirely gone, and the present structure is a comparatively modern one. It belongs to the Earl of Rosslyn, descended from a collateral branch of the St. Clair family.

It is interesting to think of the magnificent old barons who kept state in the mouldering castles which everywhere adorn the Scottish landscape. Some of them were noble specimens of humanity, but the greater proportion of them were but splendid barbarians. They led a sort of rude animal life, and were distinguished chiefly for their towering pride and ungovernable passion. The following story of a hunting match between King Robert Bruce and Sir William St. Clair, throws an interesting light on the spirit of the age and the history of the St. Clair family. "The king had been repeatedly baulked by a fleet white deer which he had started in his hunt among the Pentland Hills; and having asked an assembled body of his nobles whether any dogs in their possession could seize the game that had escaped the royal hounds, Sir William St. Clair promptly offered to pledge his head that two favorite dogs of his called 'Help and Hold,' would kill the deer before she crossed the March burn. The king instantly accepted the knight's bold and reckless offer, and promised himself to give the forest of Pentland Moor in guerdon of success. A few slow hounds having been let loose to beat up the deer, and the king having taken post on the best vantage-ground for commanding a view of the chase, Sir William stationed himself in the fittest position for slipping his dogs, and in the true style of a Romanist, who asks a blessing upon a sin, and supposes the giver of the blessing to be a creature, earnestly prayed to St. Katherine to give the life of the deer to his dogs. Away now came the raised deer, and away in full chase went Sir William on a fleet-footed steed; and hind and hunter arrived neck and neck at the critical March burn. Sir William threw himself in a desperate fling from his horse into the stream; 'Hold,' just at this crisis of fate, stopped the deer in the brook, and 'Help' the next instant came up, drove back the chase, and killed her on the winning side of the stream. The king, who had witnessed the nicely poised result, came speedily down from his vantage-ground, embraced Sir William, and granted him, in free forestry, the lands of Logan House, Kirkton, and Carncraig. Sir William, in gratitude for the fancied interference of St. Katherine in his favor, built the chapel of St. Katherine in the Hopes. The tomb of the wildly adventurous knight who was so canine in his nature as to reckon his life not too high a pledge for the fleetness and fierceness of his dogs, is still to be seen in Roslin chapel; and it very properly represents the sculpture of his armed person to be attended by a greyhound, as a joint claimant of the honor and fame of his exploits."

In the neighboring moor of Roslin is the scene of a great battle, in 1302, in which the Scottish army gained, in one day, three successive victories, a circumstance touchingly referred to by Delta, Dr. Moir of Musselburgh, author of 'Casa Wappy,' 'Wee Willie,' and many other exquisite contributions to Blackwood's Magazine.

How delightful, as we wander amid these hoary ruins and leafy bowers, so still and beautiful under the rich light of a summer noon, to think that the old stormy times of feudal warfare have passed away forever, and that peace, with balmy wing, is brooding over this and other Christian lands.

But in this everyday life, the wants of nature must be met. Let us hie then to the village inn, just beyond the chapel. With our keen appetites, a snug dinner there will relish better than the most splendid banquet of the St. Clairs.