SKETCHES IN SCOTLAND IN AULD LANGSYNE'.
SETTLIN' FOR CRUMMIE.-PART I.

0 Scotia, my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle.'
Robert Burns.

to the etching headed, 'Settlin' for Crummie.' We have often and often witnessed such scenes, and had placed before us such characters, so that we have a great deal to say concerning this etching, as elucidative of the habits and mode of life of two classes of muirland farmers, as they existed, say, sixty years ago, and shall make it the subject of our first sketch.

Look at the group; it is the work of a master. He with the hat, holding the cow, is the seller, beyond all manner of question. One could almost take a 'davy' (affidavit) that his name is Saunders Patterson, a strong, before our readers a few of those rapidly disappearing with the bonnet, is the buyer, and you may be equally WE propose, in a series of occasional papers, to place thick-headed, hard-working, honest man, the occupier of some half-plough' of bare muirland soil. The other, * scenes' and 'characters' of 'auld langsyne' in our beloved fatherland. The writer is left alone in this much- certain that his name is Gawn Tamson, a 'bein, couthie,' Were you to occupied world (for the reaper whose name is death' has, extensive farmer also in the muirlands. one by one, removed all near and dear to us, down even judge by appearances, you would say Saunders is the to that fair-haired child, who was in very deed our Be- wealthier man of the two; for, although every part of his noti); and, in our old age,' before entering on the great apparel is of hameward mak',' save his green velveteen above-future, we would preserve our memories of the an'shorts,' yet he is better 'redd-up,' and fully as 'wisecient past. Take up that beautiful volume, gentle reader, like' as the other. But beware; a' is nae gowd that The Etchings of Geikie.'* It is Scottish all over: Scot- glitters.' Gawn (Gavin) is but plainly, and even meanly tish scenes Scottish faces-Scottish doings. How our dressed, sure enough, but what cares he for that, providLeart fills over this treasure-trove out of that 'auld langed he is comfortably dressed? He has got a twinge of syne' of which we are about to speak. Fix on any one of rheumatiz' (rheumatism) too, and summer and winter, land at all, you will not look on one of these most truthful, it matter what his short clothes are? all the series, and, if you know anything of your native dry day an' wat day,' he can go nowhere without his 'polonie'; and when his polonie is buttoned up, what does most life-like etchings, without having something like a conviction that you are looking upon faces that have been You take him, perhaps, reader, for a man rather hard leng familiar to you, and gazing on scenes that you have up in the world, working a 'day's darg' now and then witnessed long before. So much is this the case, that we -fond of frequenting fairs and trysts, and 'turning a set about casting in our mind as to when and where we beast' when he sees a bargain-ay, and from the way he saw the prototype of such a face or figure, for seen it we goes round and handles a horse or cow, you soon perceive andoubtedly have somewhere; or, at least, as we have that he is no 'prentice hand' at this sort of work. There said, we think so, and are not a little perplexed that we ing of Geikie's, you do hear him speaking-in the dry unis something comical too-for, looking at that living etchcannot name the very individual at once, or say when we musical tones of his voice, and in his antiquated phraseosaw him or her. There is another peculiarity about these etchings. No logy, which tempts you sorely to try your hand at quizone can look upon them-at any rate, no Scotchman-zing the old curmudgeon; and so you may, if you know without feeling that, if called upon to do so, he could not how to set about it, for in the general affairs of the world only give an explanation of the different and varied scenes he is a mere child. But beware again: the moment you and groups, but likewise-and that with ease-a history see a twinkle in that deep-set grey eye, be off, if you would of the 'characters' exhibited. Let us turn, for instance, avoid a storm of bitter, biting, though homely invective, if not something worse.

• Etchings Mustrative of Scotch Character and Scenery. London: Supkin. 1 vol. 4to. This has already been done, and on the whole well done, to a nsiderable extent, in the letterpress which accompanies the Etchbags which were issued under the editorial care of the late lamented Sir Themas Dick Lauder, Bart. Very different versions, however, might be given of the greater number of the Etchings whose scenes are laid in the country. Moreover, one or two are objectionable. Thus the paper on 'Douce Politicians'-and we notice it in particular, that we may record a few things that have not appeared in 'gude thick prent' concerning this phase of lowly Scottish life-is not less prsite than anachronistic. Not only is the unmerited diatribe against the licentiousness of the newspaper press uncalled for here, tat it is now ise to the purpose, in respect either of the group itself or of the title. Every Scotchman knows, or ought to know, that in the euntry (and the scene before us is evidently laid there) not one in ten takes in a newspaper for the sake of political news. No, no; the ading article' and 'summary' (let them be even the elder Ster Lag's thunderers) are utterly thrown away on them. It is the Lane news' (local news) that they delighted and delight in, such as accidents and offences, the state of the markets, the appearance of the crops, &c. In the group in question, the centre figure with the paper is perhaps the only labouring man in the whole district who takes in a newspaper, and that too at second-hand. It may be that, a little before this, some popular clergyman has stood up in his place a the General Assembly, and boldly denounced the 'unholy and unscriptural' claims of patronage, and this-his oration-has made no the noise in the country-side. To hear the speech of this wonnerfa' man' read, the shepherd and the dry-stane' mason, after the labours of the day are over, step 'owre the way' to our centre-friend, the labourer. To enjoy the cool of the evening, as well as to take advantage of the fading 'gloamin' light, the whole party-wife, chilCrea, and all-step out to the seat at the cottage-door, and then the reading commences. That it is this or some other piece of domestic intelligence equally interesting, is beyond all doubt; otherwise the "wife' would not have been listening so attentively. For, to their hour be it spoken, even now, few women (be their station in life what it may) will take any part in politics, least of all a labourer's wife. While we have been constrained to find fault with the letterpress attached to the preceding etching in the volume, we by no means wish to be understood as undervaluing it, as a whole. To do this, would be cynical indeed, seeing that Dick, and Vedder, and lantyne are among the contributors.

But, my readers, there is one never-failing mark that you may know him by-to be somebody,' that is-he is clean 'neist the skin,' or, in other words, the little you see of his linen is as pure and white as the 'driven snaw.' It would be an everlasting reproach to his 'womankind,' were he to be seen 'oot aboot' with a 'hame sark' on his back, or even a soiled linen one. A muirland farmer of the 'better sort' may dress as he pleases otherwise, but, as regards his linen and stockings, he has no choice. He must tell the 'gudewife' or 'dochters' beforehand that he is 'gaen frae hame,' and a clean 'harn stracken or linen sark' (shirt), according as the quality of the company he expects to meet with requires, he must put on, together with a pair of clean stockings, will he, nil he.'

But to proceed. Before Crummie is finally settled for, it is desirable that you, reader, should know a little of our friend Saunders also, and the reason of that gloom on his heavy features. For this purpose, then, we may take a 'daunder' out to his place of residence-it is only some six or seven miles-and there we shall know all about it, for there are few secrets kept at (we shall call it) Burnbrae. So let us take the day before us,' and be off. It is a bright sunny morning in June, and, after we are about a mile out of the town, we are quite delighted with the scene before us. Every field is well cultivated and enclosed; the air is sweet, balmy, and refreshing; the dew-drops still quiver and glisten before the rays of the sun on the deep green grass and corn, the cattle browse

Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green,
This shinin' day will bleach our linen clean;
The water's clear, the lift unclouded blue,
Will mak' them like a lily wet wi' dew.'

The Gentle Shepherd. Scene ii. Act 1.

peacefully and greedily, the hares skip and scamper about merrily-now chasing one another, now stopping short, sitting down on their haunches, pricking up their long cars, and gazing about them to see that all is right, then to it again; the deep-toned pipe of the blackbird is heard far within the plantation, and the mavis sits beeking' in the sunlight on the very pinnacle of the highest tree he can find, heaving his 'spotty' breast, and swelling his throat to outvie him; the lark rises slowly and perpendicularly from the dewy grass, carolling his well-known notes as he mounts upwards, looking all the while cau tiously about, that no intruder is approaching the retreat of his beloved partner, and her, as yet, naked and helpless offspring; the swallow twitters and skims round in graceful curves, darting, now and again, underneath the onearched bridge that straddles across the 'glintin', bickerin' stream,' with its channel pebbles shining, smooth an' round;' and there is a pleasant humming noise all around, as if all the small birds in the district were performing their several parts in a concert. But we are leaving all this behind us, and are approaching the uplands.

The hedges are now thin, stunted, and bare, and are here and there broken down, while all sorts of vegetation, of a sickly, half-yellow colour, are trailing and creeping over them. Further on, the prospect is still more desolate and dreary. In front, eminence rises above eminence, as far as the eye can reach, with scarcely a tree, or hedge, or fence of any kind. The braeside is covered with short heath, and further up the hill, here and there, is seen a farm-steading or 'toun' placed in the middle of some 'ploughgate' of land that has been reclaimed from the howling wilderness. The 'flats' (level places) are mostly composed of extensive peat bogs, edged with 'threshes' (rushes), lichens, sinkfoil, and cat-grass, the pure, featherlike down of the latter contrasting strongly with the darkbrown heatner. As for roads, you may keep, readers, that hacked, battered, unmetalled, yellow path, if you please, but, if you prefer going through the fields, you are welcome; no one will challenge you for doing so.

After you have tapped once and again, a stout girl, dressed in raw 'plaiding,' as it came from the loom, barefoot, with a pair of hoggers' on (stockings with the feet cut off), makes her appearance. Her coarse, stiff, loose dress gives her rather an uncouth shape, and then her 'tousie,' uncombed hair is partly staring, partly matted, and partly clotted in small portions of the size of whipcord. In her mother's phrase, you would suppose the cat had been sooking it.' On making your request, she turns her full blue eye, in which there is an air half of fear and half of wonder, on you, and without opening her lips disappears; and in a moment after you hear something said in the house about a 'man at the door, wanting a drink;' and the response is, 'Ye stupid thing, could ye no ha'e tell't him to come in then.' In a short space of time (less than is taken to tell it), you have a sturdy, 'raucle,' elderly woman before you, who accosts you with What's your wull (will), sir?' You repeat your request, and are instantly asked to come in, and are admonished at the same time to keep your heed laigh (head low), an' tak' tent o' your feet;' a piece of advice, by the way, we would do well to remember on more important occasions. ('Keep laigh'—how much of force, of truth, nay of beauty, is contained in these vernacular expressions of our language, these Doric winged words.' But we may not tarry to elucidate or moralise.)

You enter, and do as you are bid, or 'wae betide' your fine, well-brushed beaver. The first object that meets your eye is a plain deal table, on which is lying the muckle Bible,' carefully preserved in a cover of untanned calf-skin, and beside it there are three or four smaller ones; so that you are at no loss to conceive how a portion of the morning had been spent by the inmates of this lowly dwelling. The house is altogether inconvenient, and seemingly as uncomfortable within as it is ungainly without; and the furniture is old, ricketty, and not overly clean, and, over and above all, in no little confusion.

Although the morning is scorchingly hot, you are kindly asked to sit 'in to the fire (in to, near to); and, on your modestly asking for a drink of water, you are asked, in return, if you wadna rather ha'e milk,' adding, maybe ye ha'e come a lang road this morning, ye'll no be a thocht the waur o' a mouthfu' o' breed an' cheese; it'll break' the win' on your stamack;' and, without waiting for a reply, the table is set before you, on which is placed a thin, shrivelled, blue-looking, skim-milk cheese, with an ample store of oaten cakes and barley scones,' flanked with a tankard full of new milk. The fare, you think, is not very tempting; besides, you have scruples in your mind whether it is altogether (shade of Mrs Maclarty!) clean. This does not escape the observation of honest Lucky, so she tells you that she is sorry she has nothing better to set afore ye,' that, howthering' as she is, she likes to ha'e everything aboot the meat an' the milk clean;' that the 'bannocks an' cakes are a' her ain baking; an' as for the cheese, it's free o' baith butter an' dirt, sae won to, an' tak' a hearty stow o't.'

But stop, reader; here is Burnbrae. Let us take a look at the house, and all about it. To those who have lived but little in the country, the house is a curiosity in its way. Built up and down the face of a brae, not across it, of course the one end is at least twenty feet higher than the other. How human ingenuity could contrive to perch a human habitation on so awkward a spot, is almost incomprehensible. You approach it with caution, for you are impressed with a conviction that the slightest movement of the earth would set the whole fabric on end, or at least make it obey the laws of gravity, and slide down into the haugh below. The one end is entirely covered with woodbine, which has overtopped the 'gavel' (gable), and extended a considerable distance along the riggin'. The other end is plentifully garnished with 'fowat' (house leek) planted on the turf 'skews,' and it has also made its way to the top and along a part of the rigging, no doubt with a view of meeting the woodbine. In the centre is a sort of cone, built of 'flaughter fale,' firmly stuck on with wooden pegs, not fully driven home, which gives the whole a sort of prickly, jagged appearance; and, from the thin blue smoke that is issuing from it, you are strongly reminded of the crater of a volcano. Every device that the brain of man could contrive seems to have been in request, in order to prevent the black, half-rotten thatch from being blown away in windy weather: straw ropes, branches of trees, stuck on with pegs, pieces of old wood, old harrows, and even stones, have been had recourse to, to keep the roof frae tirring.' As for the mason and carpenter work, you perceive at a glance that every-pairt wi' puir Crummie, for a wordier (worthier) beast thing has been done in absolute defiance of every architectural and mechanical rule. You are nevertheless amused with the twisted side-walls, the numerous small windows and 'boles,' the black, moss-oak lintels, and the crazy, worm-eaten doors.

But, reader, perhaps you would like to see something of the inhabitants of this apology for a human dwellingplace. If so, step up to the door, and ask for a 'drink.'

Thus encouraged and admonished, you fall to, and help yourself to a 'whang' of the cheese and a 'blaud' of the cakes, which, to your surprise, you eat with a relish which you little anticipated. Then the delicious flavour of the milk, far surpassing anything of the kind you have been accustomed to, and the sweet palateable 'bannocks o' barley,' why, you work away at them and the milk until you are ashamed. During this an apology is made for the house being out of order. They were a' soon afit, to get Saunders brushed up an' sent to the fair wi' a bit cow beast; and a sair heart it was to ane an' a'o' them to

6

never routed at a stake. But what could they do? Dawtie was just at the drapping (calving), an' a brawer quey never stood afore her ain tail; an' Gowdie wasna yet come to her best, sae it couldna be thocht that she could be pairted wi'; an' there was neither meat nor inhaudin' for them a', an' as Crummie was wearin' into years, it was resolvit to let her gang. Puir thing, she'll be missed for lang aboot the doors!"

While you are discussing your bannocks an' milk,' butt' steps a strapping young woman, in all the flush of health and bloom of womanhood. She had fled 'ben' on your approach, to 'snod hersel' up awee;' for no young woman likes to be seen by a stranger in a 'huggery-muggery' state, if she has any taste with her at all. Her luxuriant auburn hair, with the exception of a few stray tresses that hang in swirls, and play about her blooming cheek and well-formed neck, is coiled up into a knot on the back part of her head, and held firm by a single pin made for the purpose. Her dress is little else than her every-day attire, but in this, like most country girls, she is seen to the best advantage; for in this dress, as Robert Barns observes justly, as he always does, they are mair braw than when they're fine.' You may perhaps think that she is a little plump or so, but when you consider that no part of her fair proportions (we speak of sixty years ago) have ever known the restraints of steel or whalebone, or, at least, but seldom, you will easily make allowance for this. Then you have maidenly modesty, in the shape of rustic bashfulness, in great perfection. At the very moment that she is panting for your notice, she cannot look you in the face, but, willing to begin a little conversation, turns her back to you, and makes the observation that this is a verra warm day.' She then sets about 'redding-up'o' the house; and, from the active, determined manner in which she flings chairs, stools, &c., into their places, you can easily see that in the peat moss, the meadow, or the har'st rig,' she would be no canny' customer to challenge to a kemp.' The house having been put in order, she sits down quietly to her white-seam.

syne. We gaed but bare thegither, an' had for lang a
sair battle to fecht. I ha'e gane to the bar'st-rig wi' the
infant at my breast; I ha'e pu'd the lint wi' the bairn tied
on my back; I ha'e 'fitted' peats when the weans were
tumblin' aboot amang the heather, wi' nae ither plaything
than the colley dog. Muckle ha'e we suffer'd in our time
frae wat simmers, late har'sts, an' close winters, an',
warst o' a', for lang, disease was seldom oot o' the house.
Neitherns has death itsel' been ony great stranger at
Burnbrae. Four human beings ha'e I seen carried oot o'
that door wi' their feet foremost-three o' my sweet bairns,
an' my gudemither. Then, again, we had a living sorrow
in our auldest son, Sandy; a braw man as ye could clap
an e'e on, but a sad loon amang the lassies; an' yet weel
likit by ane an' a' o' them. But,' she continued, it was
baith bauld an' sinfu' in her to compleen; her sufferings
had aye been mixed wi' mercy, and her lot had fa'en in
pleasant places be that o' mony a ane. Saunders' health
had aye been gude, and her ain no muckle to compleen o'.
They had aye gotten bit an' brat, rough an' raw, as it
micht be, an' that was mair than every ane could say.
The family was noo weel up, an' maistly doin' for them-
sel's. Sandy had ta'en himsel' up, married, settled at the
Kirkton, an' was doin' weel; the neist son was nearly oot
his apprenticeship; an' the neist again was oot at ser-
vice wi' a neighbouring farmer; an' Willie was doin' sae
weel at the schule, an' was sae eident owre his books an'
lear', that we whiles didna a'thegither despair o' seein'
him some day waggin' his wee yellow pow in a pu’pit yet.
The auldest lassie had been married, an' weel married,
some time since, an' the ane ye saw i' the house (Jean)
was nearly as gude as married, for she had been 'cried'
(proclaimed) twice. She was a clever, weel doin' lassie,
though she said it that shou'dna say't, an' they cou'dna
think to lat her gang a'thegither barehanded frae the
house. This was ane o' the reasons for pairtin' wi Crum-
mie; for, although they had a bit penny i' the laird's han'
(this is spoken in an under-tone), they cou'dna think to
break on it, as Saunders was failin', an' no sae able for a
day's darg as he had been. He was aye speakin' o' lookin'
oot for a better bit land, but she didna ken. Saunders
was aye about the laird's han' in seedtime, haytime, an'
har'st, an' was unco snod an' dosie, an' pleased the laird
in a'thing. Besides, the laird had been a gude laird to
them; sae, after a', they wad maist like to hurkie still in
the auld place, till they were carried awa' frae't. The
ither twa lassies were wearin' up, an' ane wad ha'e to
shank off to 'service' by the neist term. Ay, jist sae,
sir, that's wee Willie. He's just come hame frae the
schule. As I said already, he's a bit auld-farrant, glib

Having done justice to what was set before you, and having told who you are, what you are, where you come from, where you are going to, what is your business there, and so on, you are now a confidential favourite, and 'maun see Dawtie, an' Gowdie, an' the stirk, an' the pet ewe wi' her twa lambs.' But, first and foremost, you maun see the yaird;' for what country house would be worth living in without a 'yaird?' So out at the back-door you trot, st the heels of honest Luckie. There is an ample breadth planted with green 'kail' and 'bow kail' (cabbages), also a large plot in grass, on which poor Crummie's calf is *walloping in a tether.' The poor thing bellows, stretches and strains to get near you, and, when you come up to it, smells at you, licks your hand, and would fain suck your Engers. When you look at this last legacy of Crummie, you feel an emotion arising within you, as if you were looking upon a 'mitherless bairn;' but you know that the helpless thing is under the protection of a kind nurse, and the feeling is relieved. You must also take a look of the flowers; none of your flaunting dahlias, your gaudything; he was aye an unco bit gleg cratur at the uptak'. tulips, or your showy carnations; no. There is the universal and everywhere admired rose, and there, too, is 'spear-mint.' double and single, and appleringy,' and 'sweet-william,' and 'nancy pretty,' and 'Jacob's ladder,' and bachelor's button,' and 'dusty miller,' and twenty other sweet flowers, as hardy in their nature as the hands that planted them. Nor are the medicinal herbs awanting. There is the 'orpie' for cuts and green wounds, the 'borehound' for coughs and sore throats, the 'marigold' for possets, the bitter wormwood' for worms, and the rank smelling 'tansy' for poultices. But come now,' Luckie says, 'ye maun lean ye a blink' on the smooth turf seat below the ash-tree at the corner of the 'yaird,' and truly in such a day ye may find a worse seat. Before you sit down, however, you cast your eye over the few cultivated patches of land about you, and wonder how a subsistence, not to speak of rent, can be picked out of a soil so sterile and barren. Your companion sees what is passing in your mind, and anticipates your remark with Weel I wat it's a cauld, bare, late place, an' muckle dool an' sorrow ha'e I seen an' suffer'd aboot it, yet, for a' that, my heart warms to every stane in the auld wa's o't, nor div I think I could live happy or dee contentit in ony ither place. It's now some three-and-thretty years, come the time, sin' Saunders and me took up hoose under that aald rooftree, an', oh sirs, muckle has come an' gane sin'

Deed, some folk wad persuade us, as maybe I let spunk oot a wee while syne, to mak' a minister o' him; but she didna ken. Schuling was dear, an' buiks were dear; but 'whaur there's a will there's a way;' an' if it was ordanit that he really was to wag his pow in a pu'pit, the means wad be laid to their hand, though they cou'dna tell hoo. But, sir, you must see the bestial,' she said. They are doun i' the haugh, tented by a stout quean, half lass, half woman, wha, while she keeps the kye frae gaen' wrang, attends at the sametime to the bleaching o' some three or four beets o' harn, on the side o' the burn. She's no the herd in ordinar, but, as she has the 'claith to water,' she may as weel look to the bestial at the same time, for naebody is allowed to be idle or half employed aboot Burnbrae.'

Dawtie lifts up her head, pricks up her cars, and stares at you, wondering who you are, and what you are about. As you come up to her, she turns half round from you, as if she had some suspicion of your intentions, changes her mind, turns to you again, looks you full in the face with her large clear glassy eyes, and, coming forward, lays her nose on your arm. You give her a few scratches on the forehead, and then you stand on the footing of an intimate acquaintance, and may use with her what freedom you choose. Gowdie (the other cow) too comes in for a share of your caresses, and you cannot, in common politeness,