Pentland
Hills by Robert Louis Stevenson
On
three sides of Edinburgh, the country slopes downward from
the city, here to the sea, there to the fat farms of Haddington,
there to the mineral fields of Linlithgow. On the south alone,
it keeps rising until it not only out-tops the Castle but
looks down on Arthur's Seat. The character of the neighbourhood
is pretty strongly marked by a scarcity of hedges; by many
stone walls of varying height; by a fair amount of timber,
some of it well grown, but apt to be of a bushy, northern
profile and poor in foliage; by here and there a little river,
Esk or Leith or Almond, busily journeying in the bottom of
its glen; and from almost every point, by a peep of the sea
or the hills. There is no lack of variety, and yet most of
the elements are common to all parts; and the southern district
is alone distinguished by considerable summits and a wide
view.
From
Boroughmuirhead, where the Scottish army encamped before Flodden,
the road descends a long hill, at the bottom of which and
just as it is preparing to mount upon the other side, it passes
a toll-bar and issues at once into the open country. Even
as I write these words, they are being antiquated in the progress
of events, and the chisels are tinkling on a new row of houses.
The builders have at length adventured beyond the toll which
held them in respect so long, and proceed to career in these
fresh pastures like a herd of colts turned loose. As Lord
Beaconsfield proposed to hang an architect by way of stimulation,
a man, looking on these doomed meads, imagines a similar example
to deter the builders; for it seems as if it must come to
an open fight at last to preserve a corner of green country
unbedevilled. And here, appropriately enough, there stood
in old days a crow-haunted gibbet, with two bodies hanged
in chains. I used to be shown, when a child, a flat stone
in the roadway to which the gibbet had been fixed. People
of a willing fancy were persuaded, and sought to persuade
others, that this stone was never dry. And no wonder, they
would add, for the two men had only stolen fourpence between
them.
For
about two miles the road climbs upwards, a long hot walk in
summer time. You reach the summit at a place where four ways
meet, beside the toll of Fairmilehead. The spot is breezy
and agreeable both in name and aspect. The hills are close
by across a valley: Kirk Yetton, with its long, upright scars
visible as far as Fife, and Allermuir the tallest on this
side with wood and tilled field running high upon their borders,
and haunches all moulded into innumerable glens and shelvings
and variegated with heather and fern. The air comes briskly
and sweetly off the hills, pure from the elevation and rustically
scented by the upland plants; and even at the toll, you may
hear the curlew calling on its mate. At certain seasons, when
the gulls desert their surfy forelands, the birds of sea and
mountain hunt and scream together in the same field by Fairmilehead.
The winged, wild things intermix their wheelings, the sea-birds
skim the tree-tops and fish among the furrows of the plough.
These little craft of air are at home in all the world, so
long as they cruise in their own element; and, like sailors,
ask but food and water from the shores they coast.
Below,
over a stream, the road passes Bow Bridge, now a dairy-farm,
but once a distillery of whisky. It chanced, some time in
the past century, that the distiller was on terms of good-fellowship
with the visiting officer of excise. The latter was of an
easy, friendly disposition, and a master of convivial arts.
Now and again, he had to walk out of Edinburgh to measure
the distiller's stock; and although it was agreeable to find
his business lead him in a friend's direction, it was unfortunate
that the friend should be a loser by his visits. Accordingly,
when he got about the level of Fairmilehead, the gauger would
take his flute, without which he never travelled, from his
pocket, fit it together, and set manfully to playing, as if
for his own delectation and inspired by the beauty of the
scene. His favourite air, it seems, was 'Over the hills and
far away.' At the first note, the distiller pricked his ears.
A flute at Fairmilehead? and playing 'Over the hills and far
away?' This must be his friendly enemy, the gauger. Instantly
horses were harnessed, and sundry barrels of whisky were got
upon a cart, driven at a gallop round Hill End, and buried
in the mossy glen behind Kirk Yetton. In the same breath,
you may be sure, a fat fowl was put to the fire, and the whitest
napery prepared for the back parlour. A little after, the
gauger, having had his fill of music for the moment, came
strolling down with the most innocent air imaginable, and
found the good people at Bow Bridge taken entirely unawares
by his arrival, but none the less glad to see him. The distiller's
liquor and the gauger's flute would combine to speed the moments
of digestion; and when both were somewhat mellow, they would
wind up the evening with 'Over the hills and far away' to
an accompaniment of knowing glances. And at least, there is
a smuggling story, with original and half-idyllic features.
A
little further, the road to the right passes an upright stone
in a field. The country people call it General Kay's monument.
According to them, an officer of that name had perished there
in battle at some indistinct period before the beginning of
history. The date is reassuring; for I think cautious writers
are silent on the General's exploits. But the stone is connected
with one of those remarkable tenures of land which linger
on into the modern world from Feudalism. Whenever the reigning
sovereign passes by, a certain landed proprietor is held bound
to climb on to the top, trumpet in hand, and sound a flourish
according to the measure of his knowledge in that art. Happily
for a respectable family, crowned heads have no great business
in the Pentland Hills. But the story lends a character of
comicality to the stone; and the passer-by will sometimes
chuckle to himself.
The
district is dear to the superstitious. Hard by, at the back-gate
of Comiston, a belated carter beheld a lady in white, 'with
the most beautiful, clear shoes upon her feet,' who looked
upon him in a very ghastly manner and then vanished; and just
in front is the Hunters' Tryst, once a roadside inn, and not
so long ago haunted by the devil in person. Satan led the
inhabitants a pitiful existence. He shook the four corners
of the building with lamentable outcries, beat at the doors
and windows, overthrew crockery in the dead hours of the morning,
and danced unholy dances on the roof. Every kind of spiritual
disinfectant was put in requisition; chosen ministers were
summoned out of Edinburgh and prayed by the hour; pious neighbours
sat up all night making a noise of psalmody; but Satan minded
them no more than the wind about the hill-tops; and it was
only after years of persecution, that he left the Hunters'
Tryst in peace to occupy himself with the remainder of mankind.
What with General Kay, and the white lady, and this singular
visitation, the neighbourhood offers great facilities to the
makers of sun-myths; and without exactly casting in one's
lot with that disenchanting school of writers, one cannot
help hearing a good deal of the winter wind in the last story.
'That nicht,' says Burns, in one of his happiest moments,-
'THAT
NICHT A CHILD MIGHT UNDERSTAND THE DEIL HAD BUSINESS ON HIS
HAND.'
And
if people sit up all night in lone places on the hills, with
Bibles and tremulous psalms, they will be apt to hear some
of the most fiendish noises in the world; the wind will beat
on doors and dance upon roofs for them, and make the hills
howl around their cottage with a clamour like the judgment-day.
The
road goes down through another valley, and then finally begins
to scale the main slope of the Pentlands. A bouquet of old
trees stands round a white farmhouse; and from a neighbouring
dell, you can see smoke rising and leaves ruffling in the
breeze. Straight above, the hills climb a thousand feet into
the air. The neighbourhood, about the time of lambs, is clamorous
with the bleating of flocks; and you will be awakened, in
the grey of early summer mornings, by the barking of a dog
or the voice of a shepherd shouting to the echoes. This, with
the hamlet lying behind unseen, is Swanston.
The
place in the dell is immediately connected with the city.
Long ago, this sheltered field was purchased by the Edinburgh
magistrates for the sake of the springs that rise or gather
there. After they had built their water-house and laid their
pipes, it occurred to them that the place was suitable for
junketing. Once entertained, with jovial magistrates and public
funds, the idea led speedily to accomplishment; and Edinburgh
could soon boast of a municipal Pleasure House. The dell was
turned into a garden; and on the knoll that shelters it from
the plain and the sea winds, they built a cottage looking
to the hills. They brought crockets and gargoyles from old
St. Giles's which they were then restoring, and disposed them
on the gables and over the door and about the garden; and
the quarry which had supplied them with building material,
they draped with clematis and carpeted with beds of roses.
So much for the pleasure of the eye; for creature comfort,
they made a capacious cellar in the hillside and fitted it
with bins of the hewn stone. In process of time, the trees
grew higher and gave shade to the cottage, and the evergreens
sprang up and turned the dell into a thicket. There, purple
magistrates relaxed themselves from the pursuit of municipal
ambition; cocked hats paraded soberly about the garden and
in and out among the hollies; authoritative canes drew ciphering
upon the path; and at night, from high upon the hills, a shepherd
saw lighted windows through the foliage and heard the voice
of city dignitaries raised in song.
The
farm is older. It was first a grange of Whitekirk Abbey, tilled
and inhabited by rosy friars. Thence, after the Reformation,
it passed into the hands of a true-blue Protestant family.
During the covenanting troubles, when a night conventicle
was held upon the Pentlands, the farm doors stood hospitably
open till the morning; the dresser was laden with cheese and
bannocks, milk and brandy; and the worshippers kept slipping
down from the hill between two exercises, as couples visit
the supper-room between two dances of a modern ball. In the
Forty-Five, some foraging Highlanders from Prince Charlie's
army fell upon Swanston in the dawn. The great-grandfather
of the late farmer was then a little child; him they awakened
by plucking the blankets from his bed, and he remembered,
when he was an old man, their truculent looks and uncouth
speech. The churn stood full of cream in the dairy, and with
this they made their brose in high delight. 'It was braw brose,'
said one of them. At last they made off, laden like camels
with their booty; and Swanston Farm has lain out of the way
of history from that time forward. I do not know what may
be yet in store for it. On dark days, when the mist runs low
upon the hill, the house has a gloomy air as if suitable for
private tragedy. But in hot July, you can fancy nothing more
perfect than the garden, laid out in alleys and arbours and
bright, old-fashioned flower- plots, and ending in a miniature
ravine, all trellis-work and moss and tinkling waterfall,
and housed from the sun under fathoms of broad foliage.
The
hamlet behind is one of the least considerable of hamlets,
and consists of a few cottages on a green beside a burn. Some
of them (a strange thing in Scotland) are models of internal
neatness; the beds adorned with patchwork, the shelves arrayed
with willow- pattern plates, the floors and tables bright
with scrubbing or pipe-clay, and the very kettle polished
like silver. It is the sign of a contented old age in country
places, where there is little matter for gossip and no street
sights. Housework becomes an art; and at evening, when the
cottage interior shines and twinkles in the glow of the fire,
the housewife folds her hands and contemplates her finished
picture; the snow and the wind may do their worst, she has
made herself a pleasant corner in the world. The city might
be a thousand miles away, and yet it was from close by that
Mr. Bough painted the distant view of Edinburgh which has
been engraved for this collection; and you have only to look
at the etching, * to see how near it is at hand. But hills
and hill people are not easily sophisticated; and if you walk
out here on a summer Sunday, it is as like as not the shepherd
may set his dogs upon you. But keep an unmoved countenance;
they look formidable at the charge, but their hearts are in
the right place, and they will only bark and sprawl about
you on the grass, unmindful of their master's excitations.
Kirk
Yetton forms the north-eastern angle of the range; thence,
the Pentlands trend off to south and west. From the summit
you look over a great expanse of champaign sloping to the
sea, and behold a large variety of distant hills. There are
the hills of Fife, the hills of Peebles, the Lammermoors and
the Ochils, more or less mountainous in outline, more or less
blue with distance. Of the Pentlands themselves, you see a
field of wild heathery peaks with a pond gleaming in the midst;
and to that side the view is as desolate as if you were looking
into Galloway or Applecross. To turn to the other is like
a piece of travel. Far out in the lowlands Edinburgh shows
herself, making a great smoke on clear days and spreading
her suburbs about her for miles; the Castle rises darkly in
the midst, and close by, Arthur's Seat makes a bold figure
in the landscape. All around, cultivated fields, and woods,
and smoking villages, and white country roads, diversify the
uneven surface of the land. Trains crawl slowly abroad upon
the railway lines; little ships are tacking in the Firth;
the shadow of a mountainous cloud, as large as a parish, travels
before the wind; the wind itself ruffles the wood and standing
corn, and sends pulses of varying colour across the landscape.
So you sit, like Jupiter upon Olympus, and look down from
afar upon men's life. The city is as silent as a city of the
dead: from all its humming thoroughfares, not a voice, not
a footfall, reaches you upon the hill. The sea-surf, the cries
of ploughmen, the streams and the mill-wheels, the birds and
the wind, keep up an animated concert through the plain; from
farm to farm, dogs and crowing cocks contend together in defiance;
and yet from this Olympian station, except for the whispering
rumour of a train, the world has fallen into a dead silence,
and the business of town and country grown voiceless in your
ears. A crying hill-bird, the bleat of a sheep, a wind singing
in the dry grass, seem not so much to interrupt, as to accompany,
the stillness; but to the spiritual ear, the whole scene makes
a music at once human and rural, and discourses pleasant reflections
on the destiny of man. The spiry habitable city, ships, the
divided fields, and browsing herds, and the straight highways,
tell visibly of man's active and comfortable ways; and you
may be never so laggard and never so unimpressionable, but
there is something in the view that spirits up your blood
and puts you in the vein for cheerful labour.
Immediately
below is Fairmilehead, a spot of roof and a smoking chimney,
where two roads, no thicker than packthread, intersect beside
a hanging wood. If you are fanciful, you will be reminded
of the gauger in the story. And the thought of this old exciseman,
who once lipped and fingered on his pipe and uttered clear
notes from it in the mountain air, and the words of the song
he affected, carry your mind 'Over the hills and far away'
to distant countries; and you have a vision of Edinburgh not,
as you see her, in the midst of a little neighbourhood, but
as a boss upon the round world with all Europe and the deep
sea for her surroundings. For every place is a centre to the
earth, whence highways radiate or ships set sail for foreign
ports; the limit of a parish is not more imaginary than the
frontier of an empire; and as a man sitting at home in his
cabinet and swiftly writing books, so a city sends abroad
an influence and a portrait of herself. There is no Edinburgh
emigrant, far or near, from China to Peru, but he or she carries
some lively pictures of the mind, some sunset behind the Castle
cliffs, some snow scene, some maze of city lamps, indelible
in the memory and delightful to study in the intervals of
toil. For any such, if this book fall in their way, here are
a few more home pictures. It would be pleasant, if they should
recognise a house where they had dwelt, or a walk that they
had taken.
