We have been much
gratified by the perusal of some well-written and interesting
articles on Irish rivers, which have appeared in the numbers of our
able contemporary, the Dublin University Magazine. It has occurred
to us that we might, now and then, say a few words about our
Scottish rivers. We are ready to admit that we owe the idea to our
much-respected brother, and to thank him for having inspired us with
it; but, at the same time, we are fully disposed to exercise that
discretion which we both wish and require to maintain within the
regions of our own particular domain, and to do the matter entirely
after our own taste and fancy. We, who have served in our younger
days, cannot forget the military lessons which our much-lamented
friend, old Major Ramsbottom, used to take every opportunity of
impressing or us, under the firm conviction which the good and brave
man held, that we had been born to die a Field-Marshal. “When you
are about to fight the enemy, my boy,” said he, “whether it may be
with a small or a large force, never bring the elite of your troops
prominently forward at first. Begin with the rapscallions— if,
indeed, any such fellows are ever to be found in any British
army—and then, by afterwards supporting them with your more choice
corps "Parmee, you will annihilate the enemy, without any serious
loss to yourself.” Peace to the manes of the brave and kind-hearted
Major! His doating affection for us was such, and his augury of our
future military fame was so wonderful, that, if he had had any
control over us, we never should have got leave to have quitted the
service as we did; and all his life afterwards he solemnly declared
that, if we had only stuck to the red coat, the ran of the great
Duke of Wellington never would hare risen above the horizon, for
that its beams would have been utterly quenched beneath the superior
splendour of our military career.
But the reader may well ask what has Major Ramsbottom, or our
undeveloped military fame, to do with the Scottish rivers? Gentlest
of friends, we shall explain and endeavour to satisfy you in regard
to this in a moment. It is quite true we are not about to fight
against an enemy, but we are going to bring out the gallant array of
our Scottish streams. If Ireland has her Shannon, have we not our
Clyde?—and are there not “salmons in both?” But if you, dear sir,
think that we are to begin with the king of our Scottish streams and
estuaries, you are doing that which it is extremely foolish in so
wise a man, as we took you to be, to do—that is, you are reckoning
without your host. We mean to apply that most sensible advice given
to us by our kind old friend Ramsbottom in regard to our military
career, to that which we now occasionally follow in the literary
line ; and although we shall not— and, indeed, cannot—go so low as
to march our rapscallions to the front, seeing that we do not
possess any such fellows among the whole of the aqueous divinities
of Scotland, yet we shall not send any of our more powerful forces
into the field until we shall have been enabled to afford an
opportunity to some of our humbler, and less generally known,
streams to exhibit themselves. But, indeed, this, as you must be
aware, is not only the tactique of the tented field, but it is
equally pursued in bringing forward both opera-dancers and singers,
et hoc genus omne. With such views as these strongly impressed upon
our mind, we shall begin with the little stream that chances to be
our nearest neighbour, upon the principle that, by so doing, we are,
at least, doing a neighbourly act.
This stream, then, to which we would now especially direct our
reader’s attention, is the Jordan. Nay, start not! We have no need
to send out to Syria to import for our purpose the sacred Scriptural
river which our earliest religious associations have taught us so
long and so devotedly to reverence. We possess a Jordan of our own,
and we mean to give you some account of it. W e admit that, by the
vulgar, it is sometimes called the Pow; but that being a mere
corruption of the word pool, is found to be frequently applied to
such portions of rivers as, being very deep and tranquil, chance to
come within the daily observation of those peasants who live near
them on their banks. Vf e farther admit that the stream is not even
navigable by boats, and that, unlike both the rivers alluded to by
Flaellen, as already quoted, there are no salmons in it; and that,
indeed, whilst it might be considered by Americans or by East
Indians hardly to deserve the name of a river, it might, perhaps, be
looked upon, by the inhabitants of the banks of the Mississippi or
the Ganges, as little better than a brook. But still it is not, on
that account, to be altogether overlooked as insignificant. It is
not always the fattest and biggest man who is the greatest hero.
They know that Horatio Lord Nelson was little, and Arthur Duke of
Wellington himself is no giant; and small as our little Jordan is,
we trust that we shall be able to show, before we are done with it,
that, if we had been as great a poet as Spenser, we might have spun
as many verses on its banks as he ever did on those of his Mulla, or
Molle. It is to the size, the form, and the purity of the pearls to
which one’s attention is called, and not to the thread that strings
them together.
Small as is the stream of oar Jordan, and short as is its course,
the ascertainment of the exact position of its source has been
productive of much contradictory speculation. We need not tell our
readers that a company composed entirely of scientific men is always
apt to be the most stupid party imaginable. The reason of this is
obvious: all are ready to instruct, but, unfortunately, no one is
thereto be informed, for every one knows all that any of the others
can speak about. Every mouth, therefore, is busily engaged in
swallowing the delicate solids and fluids that may be provided for
them by their host; and, beyond some half-muttered observations on
the respective merits of the various eatables and drinkables,
replied to, as it may be, by a grunt of assent, or a snort of
denial, we have heard just as much science from a parcel of pigs
over a trough, as from such a party of philosophers. Now, gentle
reader, I dare say you begin to think that the thread of our stream
is so very small that we have lost it altogether. But have patience,
and you will find that we are quite right after all. We had, on one
occasion, collected together about a round dozen of these sages of
the Modern Athens to dine, for the purpose of making them known to a
stranger friend of ours, a noble Lord, who was naturally enough
possessed by a huge desire to make the acquaintance of, and to
converse with, men of whose gigantic minds he had. already had some
knowledge through the perusal of their writings. “I should much
wish,” said he to us, “to witness the playful struggle of minds so
mighty, in regard to truths so vast.” In vain did he, and in vain
did we, look for even a glimpse of science, always saving and
excepting some slight gastronomic mutterings. We tried all manner of
ways of lugging in science head and shoulders, apropos de bottes,
and tabled it so broadly before them, that it was impossible for
them to blink it. But it was all in vain. We might just as well have
put down a sirloin of beef to the horses in a stable, and have
expected them to carve and to eat it. At last, in utter despair, we
bethought ourselves of a stratagem to make them, at least, speak
which we brought to bear in this manner:—
“It is a strange thing,” said we, “that although the little stream
of the Jordan runs through our grounds here, and within less than
half a mile of this house, that no one can tell us where its source
is.”
If we had thrown a parboiled potato into a poultry yard, we could
not have produced a greater sensation, excitement, commotion, and
noise among the army of fowls of all kinds, than this simple
statement did among our philosophic friends,
"Ho!” cried one gentleman, “every one can tell you that. It rises in
the Pentland hills, just above Bonaly.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” shouted another immediately; “why, you are giving it a
course as long as that of the Nile!”
"Where do you say it rises then?” demanded the first gentleman, a
little pettishly.
"Somewhere about the Hunter’s Tryst,” replied he, “although I am not
absolutely certain of the precise spot.”
“Phoo, phoo! you are quite wrong,” said another. “You forget that
you have the burn of Braid between you and the Hunter’s Tryst; and
unless you carry your Jordan, across that in an aqueduct, how could
you bring it to this side of it, where its course is?”
In an instant, the two first disputants had each his section of
supporters, the dozen of philosophers being about equally divided in
support of the two theories that had been started of the rise and
course of this truly important stream. The combat of words waxed
loud and vociferous. We are old enough to have witnessed some of
those battles which were fought in support of the opposite opinions
of the Huttonians and the Wernerians, or the Plutonists and the
Neptunists, as they were called, but on none of those occasions did
we ever listen to so long, so stormy, or so uproarious a debate as
was begotten by this apple of discord which we had thus flung among
them; and then, after a three hours' discussion, which, judging from
the numerous bottles of claret which they emptied, could by no means
be called a dry one, and just as the tempest of argument seemed to
have exhausted itself, and appeared to be about to sink into a calm,
one of the party happened to make the following remark:—
“Well, de lana caprina agitur; but after all, I think I ought to
know the whole course of the little stream till it enters and passes
through Duddingstone Loch, and then ”
"Duddingstone Loch!” cried one of the others, interrupting him, “I
know that part of it well, and it has nothing to do with
Duddingstone Loch more than it has to do with Lake Ontario. It runs
along through the flat ground at some half-a-quarter of a mile to
the south of the Loch, and receives the little stream which the Loch
discharges.”
This gentleman was, in fact, quite right; but there was no
convincing those who assumed the opposite side of the question. The
new argument raged as hotly as the old one had done. We ordered
broiled bones and devilled gizzards, with hot water and ardent
spirits, as fitting food and drink for disputants so angrily
excited, and the result was, that it was far beyond midnight before
the discussion was brought to a close; and as neither party in
either of the questions would yield one jot of opinion to the other,
the partisans on both sides remained as undecided as to the truth as
they were when they were first started. Thus it was that we at least
succeeded in bringing out for our friend all the characters of the
different individuals he had been invited to meet, though, indeed,
he benefited but little by the deep science with which each of them
individually was filled. After they were all gone, however, he
retired, declaring that he had never been more thoroughly amused in
all his life, and thus we had some reason to congratulate ourselves
on our ingenuity.
We sincerely hope that the two chief disputants in regard to the
question as to where our little Jordan rises may be beyond hearing,
while we whisper that both of them were egregiously wrong. Each,
indeed, seemed to be much more bent on, and more successful in,
upsetting the theory of his opponent, than in establishing his own.
The fact is, that both its early branches have their origin in a
beautiful hill that rises picturesquely to the south-westward of
Edinburgh, called the Graighouse Hill. A ramble over and about this
hill on a fine day will yield very great enjoyment to the lover of
nature. In the bottom, at its western extremity, are the remains of
an ancient castle or tower, now much encumbered by the modern
buildings of a farm. But the ruin is full of interest, both in
regard to its position and the numerous associations with the olden
time which it awakens ; and we cannot peep into those queer
dilapidated apartments without reflecting on that curious state of
society and civilization, if it could be so called, which existed at
the time when men, aye, and women too, were caged up in such
voluntary prisons of defence, in which they concealed themselves
like ruthless spiders, ready to issue out, when occasion offered,
for the purpose of preying on their fellow-creatures. At the
northern base of the hill the ground falls towards it from all
directions, and forms a beautiful agricultural dale, whence the face
of the hill itself rises in high steep difis, intermixed with
slopes, entirely covered with tall and thriving wood, and everywhere
enriched with a profusion of ivy. Here you might sit for hours in
perfect and uninterrupted solitude, save and except on such
occasions as you may be pleased to come accompanied by that beloved
one to whom you may have plighted your troth, and for whom your
fingers are employed in culling a nosegay from among the wildlings
of the glen. But if really and entirely alone, and that your soul is
properly constituted for such high converse, you might here hold
holy communion with that omnipotent and beneficent Being, without
whose mighty fiat the smallest floweret among those around you would
have had no existence, who fills and animates all space, to whom the
grateful though inaudible hymns of your heart might acceptably rise
amidst the general chorus of the worshipping feathered songsters.
And then, if you feel disposed to clamber up the face of the steeps
over your head, what a magnificent extent of prospect unfolds itself
to your eyes from the brow of the bill—the great and rich plain of
Corstorphine stretching westward from Edinburgh—its antique church
and pretty village—the lovely Corstorphine hills with their woods,
villas, and pleasure-grounds—the city, with its grand castle, and
some of its more recently built hospitals, advanced on prominent
sites, and standing like palaces in the country—the bills around
Edinburgh, and the distant sea—and the whole scene animated by the
rash of the distant train across the eye, leaving its long stream of
white smoke behind it, annihilating, as it were, the space between
the two great cities which the railway connects; or by the more
laboriously toiling pace of the horses dragging the boats and
lighters on the nearer canal, which winds through the landscape, and
gleams here and there in the sunshine, with an effect which we have
hardly, if ever, noticed in any other artificial work of the kind.
The source of the principal branch of our river Jordan is extremely
mysterious, for it rushes suddenly out, in all the vigour of
well-grown youth, from a subterranean opening, where its birth and
earlier nurture have been concealed. This is immediately at the
southern base of the hill, and thence it runs, skirting it, and so
eastward 'through a long natural valley in the agricultural fields.
It then turns northwards, and, in its gentle course down the hill,
it imitates the Rhine and many other great rivers, by playfully
diving underground for a considerable space, after which it
re-appears and holds on its way rejoicing, tall it joins the other
branch which we are now about to describe.
This rises under the north-eastern angle of the hill, and just below
that part of it where its slopes are found to be laid oat in
richly-cultivated enclosures, bounded by belts of noble timber,
amidst the ancient avenues of which the fine old, many-gabled
Scottish mansion of Craighouse is embosomed, together with its
old-fashioned dovecot This was one of the possessions belonging to a
historically well-known man, Sir William Dick of Braid, Knight—not
Baronet, as he is erroneously called in some of the books, and upon
which false statement a baronet’s title has been borne by certain
persons for some generations. His history is curious, and although
we cannot pretend to give it at length in an article such as this,
we may hastily sketch, for the reader’s information, that he was
Lord Provost of Edinburgh in the days of Charles I., and that he was
a merchant, so very wealthy, that his effects in money, and in
landed estates, which he possessed extensively hereabouts, amounted,
as we, his descendant, have documents to prove, to no less a gross
sum than £226,000 sterling, being nearly equal to £2,000,000 of
money at the present day. He had the power of coining money—we mean
not only .metaphorically, but in reality—for we are possessed of a
very pretty copper coin of his, with the insignia of Commerce on one
side, surrounded by the motto, “Fortuna Comes Virtutiand on the
obverse a house, with his name in the legend surrounding it “
Williame Dick of Braid.” After this statement, would any reader, who
has not already been made acquainted with the facts, suppose it
possible that this man, so wallowing in wealth, could have died in
what was at that time the King’s Bench? And yet, such is the great
uncertainty of all human affairs, that this is literally true.
During the civil wars he was plucked by both the contending parties
by forced loans. No less than £180,000 sterling of hard cash was
taken from him in this way; and when he went to London, with his
wife and five sons and two daughters, for the purpose of trying to
recover it from the Parliament and the Government, he was arrested
for some small debts incurred for the lodging and support of himself
and family whilst there; and the residue of his funds being locked
up in landed property, and in bonds and other investments which
could not be immediately turned into money, he was thrown into
prison, where he died 19th December, 1655. We are in possession of a
very curious document, the bill for his funeral, paid by his
daughter-in-law, Janet M‘Math, of the family of M'Math, in
Dumfries-shire, who was the wife of William of Grange, his third
son. Not only do we owe to this lady's wealthy private exchequer and
excellent heart the possession of this very curious discharged
account, and many others of a similar description, but that piece of
land on the Jordan also, which, like this property of Craighouse,
and the ether properties of Braid, Briggs, and Blackford which were
settled on the other sons, would have been swallowed up by the
mortgages upon it, if this guardian angel, for whose memory we have
an especial and grateful respect, had not interfered with that
concentration of wealth which descended on her from her father, from
her sisters, and likewise from her first husband, Thomas Bannatine,
whose memory she records in the following lines on his tombstone in
the Greyfriars Churchyard of this city:—
“Ilodie mihl, Cras tibi.
Vita quid horainis Flos, umbra et fumus, arista;
Ilia malls longs est; ilia bonis brevis est."
To-day is mine, to-morrow yours may be ;
Each mortal man should mind that he must die.
What is man’s life?—a shade, a smoak, a flower—
Short to the good, to the bad doth long endure.
If thou list, that passeth by,
Know, who in this tomb doth ly;
Thomas Bannatine, abroad
And at home who served God.
Though no children he possest,
Yet the Lord with means him blest.
He on them did well dispose,
Long ere death his eyes did close.
For the poor his helping hand,
And his friends his kindness fand;
And on his dear bedfellow,
Janet M'Math, he did bestow.
Out of his lovely affection,
A fit and goodly portion.
Thankful she herself to prove,
For a sign of mutual love,
Did no pains nor charges spare
To set up this fabrick rare;
As Artemise, that noble dame,
To her dear Mausolus’ name.
He died 16th July, 1635, of his age 65,
Know the multitude of those that are to be damned, the paucity of
those that are to be saved, and the vanity of transitory things.
Oh! that men were wise to (Understand evil committed) good things
omitted, and the loss of time.
Foresee the danger of death, the last judgment, and eternal
punishment.”
Getting now into the richly-cultivated plain, this branch of our
little stream moves onwards through the arable fields, which exhibit
in autumn the heaviest crops of wheat, and it is soon afterwards
joined by the more important branch already described. A great
stretch of many acres of ground, on its northern bank, is devoted to
the humane purposes of the Royal Edinburgh Lunatic Asylum, an
institution which is now under the best management; so much so, that
it is believed that it may be placed in favourable comparison with
any other of a similar description in the kingdom. There are two
most extensive buildings on the premises, and there are above four
hundred inmates in it, of which rather the larger proportion are
males. If we were to inquire into the history of every one of these
unfortunates, we might be enabled to spin a tale from each case,
many of them of more exciting interest than those which are
generated by the dreams of fancy. Let us attend to some of “the
causes of insanity in those admitted,” which are set down in the
table with that title in the last report from the managers; and we
find. Anxiety on account of friends going abroad. Bad treatment by
stepmothers. Domestic misfortunes. Desertion by husbands and wives.
Disappointed affections. Disappointments. Enlistment of sons.
Fright. False accusation. Grief at the loss of relatives. Pecuniary
losses and misfortunes. Political agitation. Poverty. Religious
enthusiasm. Vanity. What a catalogue! and by the touching of these
keys, what a complicated reticulation of chords of feeling might be
awakened; and how strange and various must have been the
combinations of events that in reality gave action to them! Here
would be work for a life-time of writing. But we shall only notice
the happy change that has taken place in the practice in such places
generally, and especially as it is exemplified in that of this
asylum, and the humane manner in which this worst of ills that flesh
is heir to is now treated ; for it is, in fact, a bodily disease,
which must be cured or treated on the same principles as other
maladies. But in regard to moral treatment, we learn from Dr.
Mackinnon’s Report, that kindness, occupation, and freedom from all
unnecessary restraints, have been found highly efficacious. To the
larger proportion of the inmates, a degree of liberty, little
differing from that enjoyed by the sane, may be accorded with safety
and advantage. They may daily extend their exercises beyond the
enclosures, visit frequently the homes of their affections, and
become spectators of whatever of interest or instruction is going on
in the world without. Their honour may be appealed to, and their
conduct, in certain circumstances, depended on, in a degree which
scarcely, if at all, leaves them behind mankind generally. The
effect of this treatment is, that many of them have considered the
asylum as a second home, and, after having ceased to require its
care, they continue to visit it from time to time, to renew the
friendships which have been formed within its walls. What a contrast
does this form to the dreadful and mysteriously concealed torments
which, until of late years, were practised in all madhouses, though
more cruelly, perhaps, in some than in others, and which furnished
Godwin, and other such fiction writers, with horrors infinitely more
terribly harrowing than anything that even such imaginations as
their’s could have begotten.
In that department of the asylum which is devoted to the poorer and
uneducated patients, schools have been established, which have an
average of about sixty scholars, divided into three classes—two of
males, and one of females. It is a strange and unexpected truth, to
find that some patients have actually been taught to read who could
not do so before they came here, although it does not appear so
wonderful that Improvement in reading might here take place. Writing
has been taught with a considerable degree of success, and a few
have made progress in arithmetic; but the grand object of these
schools is to afford an occupation to some of the inmates who are
not otherwise employed. This object has been attained in a very
interesting manner; for the teachers have chiefly been patients,
who, according to their abilities, have taken a principal, or a
secondary part, in it. The schoolmaster has thus been found to be at
home, and usefully, so, and an increased degree of mental exertion
has thus been produced, both in the teachers and scholars.
One of the most interesting circumstances of the whole establishment
is the introduction of a printing press, by which not only the
various schedules and lists used in the asylum are printed, but the
reports also. But this is not all; a periodical paper has been got
up, which is called The Momingside Mirror, which is printed by this
press, and has proved a valuable means of affording occupation to
some of the inmates, and amusement to all. It has now reached its
frith number, and bids fair to continue and flourish, and most
cordially do we, as a brother, wish it success. In contributing to
this, some have been roused to exertion who were before listless and
indolent. Contributions from two other asylums have appeared in its
pages, as well as some from individuals who were once, but who are
no longer, inmates of this institution. A bazaar for women’s work
has been a great source of interest to the female inmates, as they
look forward to its proceeds enabling them to acquire some article
of permanent interest and utility, which may be regarded by them
with some degree of pride, as a monument of their labour.
A weekly meeting of the inmates is held, at which the entertainment
is either a concert or a ball, according to circumstances. On some
recent occasions a spontaneous attempt has been made, on the part of
the inmates, to introduce something like dramatic representations,
in the form of a rustic comedy; and preparations are now making for
an amusement of the same kind of a more perfect description, with
the addition of the accessories of scenery and costume. The writer
of the Report considers that, in some cases, an additional moral
remedy may be supplied, from the belief that a melancholic could
scarcely personate a merry part, even but for a time. Without losing
some of his despondency. But, strange to say, the history of almost
all comic actors teaches us the reverse of this. When the famous
Carlini as performing every night so as to keep crowded houses in
continual roar, a miserable man, malade imaginedre, and altogether
drowned in melancholy, called one morning on an eminent physician to
consult him about his case. The doctor felt his pulse, and took
every means, by questions and otherwise, to discover some hidden
source of disease, all without effect; and being quite satisfied in
his own mind as to how the matter was—“My good sir,” said he, “you
have little bodily ailment that I can discover. Your illness is in
the mind. You want amusement. The best prescription I can give you
is to go every night to see Carlini. He will make you laugh in spite
of yourself; and he will very soon set you all right.** “Alas,
doctor!” cried the patient, in a tone of voice, and with an action
that exhibited the very depth of despair—“Alas, doctor, I am Carlini!”
After washing the walls of the Morningside asylum, our little river
Jordan crosses the Peebles road under an arch; and then, whilst the
sloping country on its left bank is entirely covered with the
handsome villas, gardens, and shrubberies of Morningside, Goshen,
and Canaan, and where once stood the ancient chapel of St. Roque, it
has on its right bank a pretty considerable extent of cultivated
plain, which gradually rises southwards towards the edge of the
glen, and the pretty hills of Braid. Our little stream then trots
gently onward through rich arable fields that slope down towards it
on either side, the view being confined on all hands, and being
closely bounded towards the south by the abrupt face and green
picturesque top of Blackford Hill. Blackford Hill! —what a place for
linnets ’ nests and primroses in the lovely springtime of the year!
How delightful to sit among its farzy knolls, with the sun beating
hot upon them, and exhaling the sweet perfume from the yellow
flowers! How pleasing to watch the little golden-crested wrens, as
they hang on the thorny boughs, perking np their little bills, and
spreading abroad their golden coronets to receive the bright rays!
Here one might sit for a long day of summer, and hear no other sound
but that of the bee brushing its filmy wings among the flowers of
the wild thyme. We profess ourselves to he of that class of people
who are easily satisfied in regard to our belief as to particular
localities as connected with historical characters or events. We
bowed with the most extreme reverence both at the tombs of Cicero
and of Virgil; and we should be anything ba obliged to the
offensively accurate and unpoetical gentleman, who should tell us
that he could convince ns, by the most unquestionable evidence, that
the one was an old windmill, and the other a place expressly
constructed for cooling Falernian. But we go farther than all this.
We delight in believing that Bailie Nicol Jarvie actually lived; and
many a wander have we had through the Saltmarket of Glasgow, vainly
endeavouring to discover that worthy magistrate's residence; and,
forgetful of times in the midst of our reveries, we have totfi more
tteu once deceived by fancying that we saw Matty herself looking out
from one of the upper windows. We rejoice, we say, in believing that
all Walter Scott’s characters were historical realities; and we
therefore believe that Marmion, during his ride from Chrichton
Castle on his mission to James IV., previous to the march of that
monarch with his army to the fatal field of Flodden, certainly
halted his fiery charger on the green brow of that beautiful
Blackford Hill, and gazed with wonder and admiration over the
wide-spread host that covered the Borough-moor below. And why do we
believe all this? Why, because our own Sir Walter has told us so;
for thus sayeth he:—
“Marmion, from the crown
Of Blackford, saw that martial scone
Upon the bent so brown :
Thousand pavilions, white as snow,
Spread all the Borough-moor below,
Upland, and dale, and down ;
A thousand did I say?—I ween,
Thousands on thousands there were seen.
That chequered all the heath between
The streamlet and the town;
In crossing ranks extending far,
Forming a camp irregular ;
Oft giving way where still there stood
Some reliques of the old oak wood,
That darkly huge did intervene,
And tamed th& glaring white with green ;
In these extended lines there lay
A martial kingdom’s vast array.”
We must here earnestly entreat our readers to remark, to what poor
shifts poets are sometimes driven in the construction of their
verses, as exemplified in this quotation, where we find the dignity
of our river Jordan so much compromised ; for, in order to get the
proper number of feet into Jiis line, he has unscrupulously
diminished the number of those both of the depth and breadth of the
river—
“The streamed and the town.”
Without the insertion of this “let” the line would have hobbled; but
having satisfied ourselves, and, we trust, our readers, with this
explanation, which we hold to be sufficient for re-establishing the
dignity of our stream, we are contented to lot it pass without
farther animadversion.
To those who are more scrupulous than we are in regard to belief in
such apocryphal characters, we should offer the recommendation to
turn up the pages of the various Scottish, and other historians, who
have detailed the circumstances of this vast armament; and we must
beg of them to observe, that it is not every river, or stream, or
streamlet, in the world that has so much cause to vaunt of the
importance of its historical association. How different, indeed,
must the scene have then been from what it now is, in regard to the
mere appearance of its surface, as well as from the countless hosts
which then animated it! It presented, in many parts, wild woodland
scenery, the timber being chiefly gigantic oaks, and, if we may
believe tradition, there were large chestnuts likewise; but this
last fact we are disposed to think somewhat doubtful. Now its
surface covered over with villas and gardens, or with enclosures,
chiefly of rich pasture, with intervening hedgerows in many parts,
which are beginning to give way to an extension of the villas, with
their surrounding patches of pleasure-grounds. One large space is
occupied by the Great Southern Cemetery, which is now laying out m
the most beautiful manner, with shrub-berries and walks, everything
being done that refined taste in architecture or gardening can
accomplish, to remove those dank and chilling associations, which
have, hitherto, made us behold with shuddering disgust that grave
which ought to be so full of attraction for the weary Christian. But
if this great change on the mere surface of the Borough-moor has
taken somewhat more than three centuries to work out, what was that
change that a very few weeks effected on that proud and mighty
living host assembled here under the Royal banner of King James IV.,
in August, 1513? But let our poet complete his description of the
grand spectacle wliioh this vast army afforded to Marmion, and we
are sure that the reader will say that he wishes that he had been at
his side to have beheld the same.
“For from Hebrides, dark with rain,
To eastern Lodon’s fertile plain,
And from the Southern Redswire edge,
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge;
From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come;
The horses' tramp, and tinkling clank,
Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank,
And chargers* shrilling neigh ;
And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flashed, from shield and lance.
The sun's reflected ray.
Thin curling in the morning air,
The wreathes of felling smoke deolare,
To embers now the brands decayed,
Where the night watch their fires had made.
They saw, slow rolling on the plain,
Full many a baggage-cart and wain,
And dire artillery's clumsy car,
By sluggish oxen tugged to war;
And there were Borthwick’s Sisters Seven,
And Culverins which Franco had given.
Ill-omened gift!—the guns remain
The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain.
Nor marked they less, where in the air
A thousand streamers flaunted fair;
Various in shape, device, and hue,
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,
Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,
Scroll, pennon, peneil, baudrol, there
O’er the pavilions flew.
Highest and midmost, was descried
The Royal Banner floating wide;
The staff, a pine tree strong and straight,
Pitched deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,
Vet bent beneath the standard's weight,
When e’er the western wind unrolled,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,
And gave to view the dazzling field,
Where, in proud Scotland's Royal shield,
The ruddy lion ramped in gold."
Well might the Bight of such a host as this have stirred up the
warlike spirit of Lord Marmion. But alas! well, indeed, would, it
have been for the unfortunate Scottish Monarch if he had taken the
spectral warning which was given to him some time previously in St.
Katharine's aisle, in Linlithgow Church, and that he had desisted
from his attempt, or that he had heard and applied the words of the
gentle Lyon King-at-Arms, which contain so excellent an advice to
all monarchs whatsoever:—
“Fair is the sight—and yet 'twere good
That Kings would think withal.
When peace and wealth their land have blessed,
’Tis better to sit still at rest
Than rise perchanoe to fall."
We have reason to thank God that, through the rapid progress of
free-trade opinions, nations will probably be henceforth so
dependent on each other as customers, that even if their kings and
governors do not show themselves to be disposed to follow this
advice of the old minstrel, they are not very likely to persuade
their subjects to be so great fools as to follow them. Alas! this
glorious host, embracing all the choicest chivalry of Scotland, was
left to moulder on the fatal field of Flodden! and that lovely,
plaintive, Scottish song—“The Flowers of the Forest”— may, with
truth, be Bard to be all that we have received—and it is, indeed,
metaphorically speaking, a funereal chaplet only—for this terrible
and afflicting national calamity.
Now, we ask our readers candidly to tell us, whether wo had not
right good reason to say, as we did in an earlier part of this
article, that if we had been gifted with the powers of poesy, we
might have spun long Spencercan cantos on the banks of our beloved
little Jordan; and at the time we did venture to make that
assertion, we solemnly declare that we had utterly forgotten that so
much of the fourth and fifth cantos of Marmion were so intimately
linked with it as to be entirely dependent on it. We think we can
perceive its very wavelets bubbling higher with the generous pride
we have infused into it from this, to it, so highly flattering a
communication. But, gentlest of all readers, although we neither
mean to indulge you, nor ourselves, nor the musical river with a
reprint of so large a portion of this most popular poem as that we
have here alluded to, yet, we do entreat you, before we leave the
breezy brow of Blackford, to listen to the poet’s description of tho
objects which are to be seen from it, and which, we need not tell
you who have had the experience of both, will come much better home
both to your heart and your understanding through the language of
his verse than through that of our prose, for all these grander
features are still the same.
“Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed.
For fairer scene he ne’er surveyed,
When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,
The wandering eye could o'er it go,
And mark the distant city glow
With gloomy splendour red;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow.
That round her sable turrets flow,
The morning beams were red,
And tinged them with a lustre proud,
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,
Where the huge castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down,
Whose ridgy bask heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,
Mine own romantic town !
But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kissed,
It gleamed a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw;
Here Preston Bay and Berwick-Law ;
And broad between them rolled,
The gallant Firth the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float,
Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fits-Eustace’ heart felt closely pent;
As if to give his rapture rent,
The spur he to his charger lent,
And raised his bridle-hand,
And, making demi-volte in air,
Cried, *Where’s the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land?”
The reader will probably think that we have detained him quite long
enough upon Blackford Hill, hut we cannot quit its vicinity without
noticing that beautiful little retired spot, the old place of
Blackford, which lies at the bottom of its slope, and is watered by
the stream of the Jordan passing through it. Lest it may have since
undergone change, we proceed to describe it as we saw it some years
ago; for, near as it lies to us, our feelings for old recollections
connected with those that are gone have not permitted us to trust
ourselves with a visit to it since. The house was old, and not very
large, and in no very remarkable style of architecture; but what was
of it—and there were a good many small rooms in it—might be said to
be very rambling. There was something so venerable in the very 'air
*of its front, that no one could lift its little brass knocker to
strike for admission without a certain feeling of respectful awe. It
was covered with the richest jessamines and roses, and the gravel
circle before the door was always kept in a state of the most exact
tidiness. On the south side of the premises there was a high and
steep bank of shaven turf, with a pretty little parterre flower
garden between its base and the house, and a broad terrace walk at
top, that stretched along under some noble trees, close to^tbe
boundary of the place in that direction. The fruit and vegetable
garden, which had some variegated hollies of goodly size in it,
occupied the gently-sloping ground at some little distance in front
of the house, and beyond this there was, and, we think, we may say
is, a fine open grove of old and well-grown trees. The whole grounds
of the place, which cannot occupy much more than a couple of acres,
slope down from either side to the brink of our stream, and these
were entirely covered with green sward, through which the snowdrop,
the crocus, and the pale primrose, and the pan By “prankt with jet,”
showed their beauteous tender forms in spring; and the yellow
daffodil—or, as we have always had an especial pleasure in calling
it, the daffy-down-dilly—was wont to flaunt it gaudily here and
there in the little glades that ran everywhere in mazes among the
huge boles of the trees that embosomed without obscuring them. The
entrance was by an old-fashioned gateway from the north, between two
very aristocratic-looking pillars, and the approach wound gently
down the bank to the right, and, crossing our Jordan by an arch,
climbed the opposite bank by an easy and well-engineered sweep to
the gravel in front of the door. From the very circumstance that
this little place lies to the north of the hill, and, consequently,
that the high ground rises to the south of it, the exquisite effects
of sun-lights and of sky that are thereby produced might be enough
to collect all the artists in Great Britain to the spot, in order to
study them. And then how variable and changeful! At one moment
lighting up this little fragment of lawn with a brilliancy that
becomes the more intense from the mellow shadows around it, and
anon, throwing that into clear obscurity, to bring another portion
into light, and again flickering through the foliage, and
checquering the shade below, or shooting down on the little curling
eddies of the Jordan, and giving life to them with the most
sparkling touches of illumination. Then think of the crash of the
orchestra of birds that filled those trees, and those evergreen
bushes, and that perpetually piled their little instruments from
before sunrise until sunset, during what might be called the height
of their season, and which was quite enough, if once heard, to have
shut up any other opera house that might have dared to have ventured
into competition with them in their neighbourhood. Among these
feathered performers, we speak not of the blackbirds and the
thrushes, that seemed to us to excel all the blackbirds and thrushes
that we ever heard, and we have heard a great many, but the superior
cheerfulness of the very sparrows of Blackford was something most
remarkable. How often have their glad and clamorous chirpings come
into harmony in our hearts with those sudden glints of sunshine
which poured simultaneously down on us over the ridge of the hill,
after one of those short spring showers that filled the air with
perfume, and hung diamonds all over the surrounding spray! In
addition to all those sources of calm enjoyment, this little nook
was so retired, that for any intrusive thought that might have
suggested the proximity of tho rest of the world, it might have been
in the wildest part of Sutherlandshire, except when the distant city
bell came through the calm air, and this only served to give an
additional zest to its privacy. We have written in the past tense,
but we have no reason to suspect that Blackford has undergone any
very great change in any of the particulars we have described. But
alas! the spirit of the place has flown! Our much-venerated friend,
the good old lady, who so long dwelt there, is gone!
Bear with us, kind and gentle reader, whilst we ask yon to imagine
to yourself our approaching the house, and lifting the little brass
knocker of which we spoke, and the door being opened by a pretty,
modest-looking young maiden, who smiles and curtsies as she
perceives us to be a well-known friend, and readily replies to our
question as to her mistress being at home. If the day or the ways
have been in the least degree foul, conceive the solicitous seraping
of shoes on our part, and the rubbing for at least five minutes on
the mat, so as to render our feet pure enough to pass over the
pavement of that little hall, which, in colour, is like the fairest
virgin paper. At last something like cleanliness is effected, and,
proceeding on tiptoe along the neat carpet, we are ushered into the
parlour. There we find, seated in her arm-chair, but springing from
it in a moment to meet us half-way across the room, an old lady, of
a handsome dignified countenance, lighted up with clear, black,
benevolent eyes, and of tall and commanding figure, though modified
by a very slight bend; but, indeed, the mild expression of her
features and general air was enough at once to satisfy the most
perfect stranger, that the commanding tone was one she could never
assume. No! every lineament of that face was replete with the
kindliest human expression, and, if it had been otherwise, how much
would they have proved false to the spirit within, which was indeed
one of the gentlest and most beneficent that ever warmed human
bosom? Those who did not know her so well as we did might have
supposed her to have been but a little above seventy years of age
only, from the freshness and vigour she displayed; but we, who were
aware that in her younger days she had flirted with our father, knew
that she had seen ninety years. But oh, how green and vigorous her
old age was, both in body and mind ! and how fresh and warm were all
her affections! and how very indefatigable she was in doing good!
and how utterly careless she was as to everything that regarded her
own personal happiness or comfort! How she used to walk off sturdily
to town, about two miles distant, to pay her visits of friendship
and of charity, and to return! and how numerous were those errands
of benevolence which she thus did in her own person, in order that
no one else might know anything about them!
We have shown that, by hereditary right, and, we may also add, that
on our own proper account, we were excessively deep in her
affections; and when we appeared, she not only sprung up, as we have
already described, with great elasticity to meet us, but she led us
to a chair, beside that which she occupied, and the longer we thus
sat together, it always seemed to us to be tho more difficult to
escape. How excellent were her buns, her shortbread, and her cakes,
and how very good was her raspberry cordial and her cherry brandy,
both of her own manufacture, and quite rivalling her noyaux, which
came direct to her from France! But oh, how interesting were the old
stories that she told! and how racily were they narrated in the
purest Scottish vernacular, and how perfectly did she bring back and
vivify people, of whom we have heard much, but whom we had not lived
early enough to know personally! Scandal, either malevolent or idle,
never came from her lips, which were continually employed in
dropping kind and charitable expressions regarding all mankind. We
shall never forget her feasts ! for, although we had often the good
fortune to dine with her at other times, she had her regular seasons
of festivity. A fat stot—which, for the benefit of Englishmen who
have partaken of tho animal at the London coffee-house in the shape
of a rump steak, without knowing its native name, we beg to
translate as a fat Highland bullock— which had been fed on her
brother the laird's ancient pasture, was slaughtered before
Martinmas, and we had the honour to receive a kind invitation to
dine on it every Sunday whilst it lasted. And what capital dinners!
plain, but substantial, and always a small collection of nice people
to eat them. And can we over forget the good-humourod discussions
which we used to originate, proceeding on our old-established right
to these annual festivals of love, as to the number of Sundays they
ought in justice to endure ? This obviously much depended on the
time at which the beast was slaughtered. If it chanced to be killed
towards the end of a week, then a little more than three weeks made
out the four Sunday dinners ; but if a termination was put to its
existence early in a week, as on a Monday or Tuesday, the odds were
ten to one against the endurance of the carcase for a fourth Sunday
dinner. And stoutly and eloquently did we contend on such occasions
for tho preservation of oar rights, and great was the hilarity
produced by the manner in which our important legal case was
conducted. Happy, happy and innocent hours of revelry ! Alas! they
have passed away like the clouds of those years in which they took
place ; and she who was then so perfect and beloved a reality—she to
whose kind and benevolent heart we owed so much of gladness, and
from whose bountiful hand the dinners of so many a poor family were
dispensed—is now to us as much a dream of this earth as they were,
for she now rests where we with tears beheld her deposited, to
moulder into dost in the family mausoleum. Let the reader only in
fancy recal the old place of Blackford, with the sun glinting down
on the gravel before its door, and fully illuminating her aged but
firm figure as she stands giving directions to her gardener, and
then let him fancy how we can bear to revisit it, when everything we
behold around us reminds us that we can never see her there again!
After leaving Blackford, the Jordan runs through a natural valley in
the pastoral enclosures of the estate, which was the ancient Grange
or Farm of St. Giles’s Cathedral. The old place itself, which, with
its antique turrets, terraces, and gardens, are preserved in their
original style, may be worth noticing as having been the residence,
during the few last years of his life, of Dr. Robertson, the
historian, author of the Histories of Scotland, of America, of
Charles V., &c., and here it was that he died. It may be also worth
remarking, that when Prince Charles held his court at Holyrood, he
visited the family here, and presented them with the thistle from
his bonnet, which is still preserved in the house with great care.
Escaping from the Grange property, the stream if, for tha first
time, employed in contributing a share of its strength towards the
promotion of the manufactures of its country, by affording the
necessary supply of water to a pretty considerable tanning
establishment; after which it runs down a continuance of the same
valley, having gardens on its left bank, and a fine stretch of rich
arable fields on the other. It then washes the walls of the new
cemetery called the Newington Necropolis, which is partially laid
out on the slopes of its left bank, and which is doubtless destined
to contain the ashes of many a great and good man and woman. After
leaving this, our little stream approaches a place called Sharpdale,
nearly opposite to the pretty residence of “The Cameron,’’ which is
a small appendage to the Prestonfield estate.
Here opens to us a field of geological and antiquarian research, and
etymological disenssion, which, to folks of our speculative kidney,
is almost too tempting to be resisted, did we not feel that it is
much too extensive for ns to call upon our readers to follow us
through it. But, on the other hand, we fear we might be accused of
undue negligence, if we permitted ourselves to pass it by altogether
without notice. To save time, however, we will ask of the reader,
without putting us to the expense of finding arguments, or himself
to that of finding patience to listen to them, to take it for
granted, on our authority, that the Lake of Duddingstone, or some
other lake of much larger extent, once covered all the plain here,
and encircling a little islet where the house of “The Inch”
stands—in this way conferred on it its name. In this state of
things, “The Cameron” was “the crooked-nosed promontory” that here
thrust itself into the lake. At the time when this was the condition
of matters, our Jordan must have here finished its course; but since
this large loch has disappeared, or receded from its ancient bounds,
the existence of the stream has been extended, and it has been led
to pursue a somewhat devious course, as it passes through the
grounds of Prestonfield, afterwards to receive the stream of the
Burn of Braid, near the place where it enters the Park of
Budding-stone House. Just above this point, it is joined by the
small stream supplied by and discharged from the loch. In this last
part of its course, although it perfumes the summer air with its
beds of Queen of the Meadow, its more immediate banks possess few
features of interest either pictorial or historical. But the objects
at some distance from them on either side are well worthy of notice.
Prestonfield, the seat of Sir Robert Keith Bick Conynghame, is a
fine old place, which has been a good deal modernised. It stands
among some ancient trees; and, to the north of it, the bold face of
Arthur Seat rises very grandly. It is now quite bare of timber, but
we believe that not much more than a century and a half, or perhaps
two centuries, have elapsed since it was covered with oak wood, for
the destruction of which every possible encouragement was held out
by the authorities, seeing that it served as a place of shelter “for
all manner of thieves and lymmers.”
A lower projection of the hill exhibits, that curious basaltic
series of prismatic bent columns which are known by the name of
Samson's Ribs ; and above these, the line of the grand new Victoria
Road, executed by the Honourable the Commissioners of Woods and
Forests, in a style which might almost with troth be asserted to
rival that of the Simplon itself, is seen stretching along the face
of the hill, and affording, at every step you move, a changeful
series of views of the utmost richness and grandeur, rendering this
pleasing drive through the Royal Park of Holyrood altogether one of
the most remarkable that the vicinity of any great European city can
boast of. It was by this side of the hill that Prince Charles and
his Highlanders marched both to and from the battle of Prestonpans
in 1745, and their encampment was on the green slope nnder the rock
of Dunsappio, and immediately over the village of Duddingstone.
This is a very pretty little village, chiefly composed of nice
houses, each with its pleasant garden. The church, which stands on a
knoll rising over the lake, is old and curious, and the manse and
its terrace gardens, which are in themselves most lovely, are
rendered doubly so to us from their association in our minds with
many an innocent, happy, intellectual, and instructive hour which we
have had the good fortune to pass there with a late incumbent, the
Rev. John Thomson. In his parish he was warmly estimated for his
deeds of Christian kindness and charity ; but by the world at large
he was chiefly known by the exquisite landscapes he painted, which,
in regard to composition and colouring, were always foil of the
highest poetical imagination and feeling. To this day, he stands
unrivalled in these particulars. But great as were his talents in
this fascinating art, as well as in the sister art of music, the
science of which he deeply understood, we who partook of the closest
intimacy of friendship with him—who knew his head, and the wonderful
extent of his information, and the acuteness of his perception,
which enabled him to take an immediate grasp of any subject, and to
discuss it with a truth and a clearness that rendered him almost
unrivalled in conversation, and with a playfulness of manner, too,
that made everything, however valuable, fall from him like dew-drops
shaken from the lion's mane; and, above all, wo who knew that
generous and feeling heart, which was at all times prompting him to
afford ns lessons in his own person of pure practical
Christianity—are disposed to give but a secondary place to that high
accomplishment which has gained him so public and so permanent a
name. How lovely has that retired lake often appeared to us, when,
tired with the turmoil of the city, we, often in company with the
late amiable Grecian Williams, have sought shelter for an hour or
two from its bustle in his improving society! and how have we
watched the effect of sunset, pouring its level rays past the
southern shoulder of Arthur Seat, and lighting up the whole of its
snrface into one golden flame!
Considerably to the right of the course of our Jordan, there is a
very old Scottish mansion, known by the name of Peffer Mill, which
most people have set down as the true and legitimate place of
Dumbiedykes. But a still more striking feature in the surrounding
landscape is that most interesting ruin, Craigmillar Castle, which
crowns the rising ground to the south. As our tributary, the Burn of
Braid, runs to the north of it, we should perhaps, under a more
strict attention to order, have left it for notice whilst describing
that stream; but, as it comes so prominently into view here, we may
perhaps as well discuss it now. It was an ancient seat of the
Prestons, who continued in possession of it for about three hundred
years. Their arms are to be found upon it; and in one place, on the
lintel of a doorway in the outer courtyard wall, a pun on the name
is carved in the form of a wine press and a ton. The arms of the
Cockburns of Ormiston, the Congaltons of Congalton, the Mowbrays of
Barnbougle, and the Otterburns of Redford, all ancient families with
whom the Prestons were intimately connected, are to be found here.
King James V. resided here for some months during his minority,
having been obliged to leave Edinburgh Castle on account of the
plague. But the best known and most interesting association with
this castle is, that Queen Mary frequently made it her residence
after her return from France in 1561, and her French retinue were
quartered in a small village at the foot of the southern side of the
hill, which was thence called Petit France, a name which it still
retains to this day.
We have now followed the Jordan from its source till it receives the
Burn of Braid. Before tracing it hence downwards to the sea, we must
give a short and very general notion of the beauties of this its
sister stream. The Bum of Braid rises from two separate sources in
the Pentland Hills, above Lord Cockbum’s residence of Bonaly ; and
it was this fact which misled one of the disputants in regard to the
source of the Jordan. These streams unite in, and give great
additional beauty to, the lovely wilderness of sweets which art and
taste have created here. The place itself is a beautiful retreat,
and the views of the distant city and country from some of its
terraces are matchless. But, interesting as it would be as a theme
to expatiate upon, how much more interesting, and how much more
extensive would be that which is famished by the very name of the
owner! And we ask our reader, whether we are not really and truly
merciful in quietly submitting to abandon so prolific a subject,
which might have enabled us, without any great risk of being thought
unreasonable, to have given an account of the origin and early
history of the Edinburgh Review, together with a recapitulation of
all the most celebrated criminal trials in Scotland for many years
back, together with an outline of every rational scheme that has
ever been brought forward in recent times for ameliorating the
political, the physical, or the moral condition of the people?
After leaving Bonaly, the stream passes through the extensivo
grounds of Dreghora, thence through an agricultural country, which
is without any great or particular marked object of interest, until
it throws itself into the deep and romantic rocky and grandly wooded
Glen of Braid, whence it receives its name. This opens
longitudinally between the two hills of Blackford and of Baird. A
more wild or beautiful scene for solitary contemplation cannot be
imagined ; and here is the House of Braid, which has fancifully been
called "The Hermitage,” to which its position more than its
architecture may give it some claim. This was the principal estate
of Sir William Dick, whose history we have already given. It passed
from him to his eldest son, and from him into the family of the
Browns of Gorgie, who had heavy mortgages on it. After passing out
of the eternal shade of this dark part of the glen, the stream runs
sparkling along the more open part of it for more than a mile, where
not a tree occurs to throw a shadow over its smiling surface. On the
south side, there are fine sloping agricultural fields, and high up
above them rises the very rude, old, peel tower of Libberton ;
whilst, on the north, there are crags ' and large beds of furze, the
haunts of linnets and goldfinches, and the immediate banks of the
stream are covered with the broad leaves of the Tussllago Petasites,
a plant which is so valuable to landscape painters for the
enrichment of their foregrounds. The agricultural part of the valley
then extends downwards for about a mile, after passing through which
the stream skirts the place of "The Inch,” formerly noticed; whence
it hurries past the ancient house of Peffer Mill, to form its
junction with the Jordan immediately above the point where their
united waters enter the park of the Marquis of Abercorn’s delightful
residence of Duddingstone House. There, they are tastefully expanded
into a very beautiful little lake ; and, upon leaving these grounds,
they are made to give motion to some very important mills; after the
performance of which duty, they quietly find their way onwards
through an extremely rich agricultural district, passing near to the
remains of an ancient Roman Road, vulgarly called the Fishwife’s
Causeway, from the fisherwomen carrying basket loads of fish to
Edinburgh, always preferring to take it in preference to the
ordinary highway. This has been much obliterated by the operations
of the Great North British Railway, under the viaduct of which the
stream afterwards passes in its way to throw itself into the sea, at
the northern extremity of the pretty and well-frequented bathing
place of Portobello.
We have now completed a task, which we must confess to have been an
extremely pleasant one to ourselves, however it may have affected
our readers; and offering to them, as we now do, this account of our
little Jordan as our primitice in regard to our articles on the
Scottish Rivers, we leave them, upon the principle of “Ex pede
Hercidem,” to judge as to what they may look for when we come to our
Clyde or our Tweed, our Spey or our Findhorn. |