and again he betook himself to more congenial occupation, the study of theology. Edinburgh then was the centre for all literary Scotchmen, and he got drawn into the ircle; his companions' fingers were marked with ink; his friends were authors. Among them were numbered the racy Dr. Carlyle, of Inveresk, the gentle Dr. Adam Ferguson, the absent-minded Adam Smith, the timid Dr. Hugh Blair, the talkative Dr. Robertson, historian and principal of Edinburgh University, the Rovelist Tobias Smollett, the patri-otic General Fletcher of Salton, and his closest companion and relative David Hume. In such company he could not have but drank in the intoxicating spirit of authorship. The small flame was fanned into a fire by their living breaths of criticism and advice. To recall to our mind's eye such company in the old part of the city, we have to do more than merely to read their lives. It is, however, when we tread the oaken-floored Parliament House Hall, see the portraits, aging with time and dulled by the sun of bygone celebrities, when we cross the sacred Parliament Square to the high-housed High Street, saunter into the old haunts and taverns, or when we walk up the lawn-market with the wooden-fronted houses, through the low-lying Cowgate, the open and foreign aspect of grassmarket, or down the romantic Canongate, where the walls and closes, houses and gables gaunt are narratives of hoary antiquity, see the rooms, now ghastly to enter, wherein the nobles and lawyers and divines have of old lived, every step bring ing us closer to these bygone times, it is then that these ages seem a reality to us and not a romance, then the people become to us as real flesh and blood as we ourselves

are.

We can imagine Home sitting restlessly in his village lodgings,

chafing at his lot impatiently, like a high-spirited horse with his bit. We can imagine him, too, looking over the landscape in heavy wintertime only to draw back to the fireside and his manuscript.

We

can imagine him with sermon-paper before him, Bible, Concordance, and all other necessaries, preparing hard discourse for the village critics, but ever and anon casting the books from him to the floor, as he would throw dry logs on to the fire; and then he would dash off several passionate verses. We can also imagine him riding on horseback to London with the manuscript, how precious to him! of his tragedy, Douglas, placed in the saddle-bags for safety. How he rode there full of young undimmed hope, dreaming of fame as a young girl of love; how he rode back disheartened, but not undaunted, at the opinion of Garrick. How his heart beat, and how his life was sweetened, at the ultimate success it met with, after, especially, the narrow, prejudiced opinion of the Scottish Presbyterian, regarding his connection with the stage. When second childhood was stealing over him, his love for the "pastures green and quiet waters by" came back, and so he returned to Athelstaneford, rented a farm from his patron and friend the baronet of Gilmerton, on which he built himself a dwelling-house. What a splendid specimen of manhood he must have been, when his old parishioners drove for nothing the stones of his house! Though he is a minor poet, yet as we follow him in his life, vagabondish though it may have been, there is such a fine-heartedness about him that he fits in close to our hearts.

In the churchyard lies an old singer, a maker of vers de société more than a century ago. His name is seldom mentioned, but one of his songs is often sung. Though he lived long after the ballad

writers, he wrote for hearers of a similar character that they sang to. They were the burghers and members of the trade guilds, grocers and brewers, saddlers and tailors, barbers and vintners, who assembled together in the large room of the town's inn of a market evening, to chat over passing events, listen to a song, and pick up the news of the city world from a stray traveller who might stay all night. There Skirving's songs were sung, and sung only in the way that Lothian men could sing a Lothian song. They were heard also of a night in the four walls of a farm-servant's house, where the outward quietness was only broken by the loud, roaring chorus of strong if not harmonious voices. Oftener, however, they were sung by the yeoman farmer in his own farmhouse to a company of neighbouring farmers' hardy sons and blooming daughters. And they are always yet sung with gusto, Scottish glee, and Scottish nationality of feeling.

The meagre accounts of the writer are sufficient to portrait him. Adam Skirving was a farmer, near the village, of a pretty large farm; he was possessed of a sharp and ready wit. He was fonder of sports than verse-making, though he excelled in both; a great lover of all that was Scotch-ballad songs, and the sports of golf and curling. He wrote songs but occasionally. A favourite with all for his pleasantry, his upright character, to all shams and double dealings he was a relentless foe. His father, Archibald, is described on his tombstone as having been

"In feature, in figure, agility, mind,

And happy wit, rarely surpass'd; With lofty or low could be plain or refined,

Content beaming bright to the last."

Very graphic yet simple lines; but very expressive and full of meaning. He was the author of the Scotch song," Johnny Cope." There runs through the song a reference to going "tae the coals i' the morning.' It has been thought by many that that was a corruption of the text, an alteration by some transcribers. The words have re

ference to the habit of the farmers sending their farm-servants for coals to the coal pits in the county of Haddington, and as they in the east have many miles to go, they, even up to this day, leave early in the morning for the coals. That explains the words which many cannot understand. In his clever rustic song on "Tranent Muir," he referred to a Lieut. Smith," of Irish birth," as having run away from the battle, or, as he puts it,

66

-he never fought When he had room to flee, man.'

The officer, offended at this, sent from Haddington a challenge to Skirving, to answer for the insult. "Gang awa back," said the honest, burly farmer to the messenger, " and tell Mr. Smith that I hae nae leisure to come to Haddington; but tell him to come here, and I'll tak a look o' him, and if I think I'm fit tae fecht him, I'll fecht him; and if no, I'll dae as he did,-I'll rin awa."

The same stone records in verse also the life and death of a painter son, Archibald, one of the most eminent portrait painters of his day-his father's "first son and finest semblance;" and again we read, "And might have lived in affluence, had he not aimed at private independence, by simpli

There are yet in the neighbourhood descendants of the family: Skirvings still follow the same life their fathers led in tilling and cultivating the soil.

But to me the most interesting tombstone is a very plain one. It stands beside granite and marble stones, and beside stones to farmservants and farm-stewards. It is a plain sandstone slab with the words cut out simply, no attempt at ornament, no chisellings. The inscription is also plain, it breathes the spirit of simplicity, which characterized in all likelihood the woman's life. On the front we read these words:

:

Here lies the body of Helen Shaw, Spouse to James Stirling, who died 4th November, 1786, aged 63 years."

Thy smiles I court not,

Nor thy frowns I fear; My days are past,

My head lies quiet here. What was amiss in me Take care to shun, And look at home

Enough there's to be done."

This is one of the simplest but most touching of epitaphs; it portrays all the fine feelings of a splendid, sterling woman. 'Tis

a

sermon in a stone, and a most suggestive sermon it preaches; what ideas it suggests, what images it draws across our brain! Cerand added to tainly it deserves to be printed our collection of epitaphs.

In all the various paths of life, good men and true have been bred and born in this parish. Beautiful and noble women have done good work ere now, and made excellent wives, who belonged to it. From its mause the supreme courts of Scotland got a Lord President, the highest law office in Scotland; and France has got from the parish a Field Marshal, and one of her bravest soldiers.

From our early youth this village has had a hold upon our affections, it sweetens our memory as the sunset tinges a fine evening. We have often visited it, until all the houses are as familiar to us as our own ten fingers. In every season of the year we have been about it, and never did we visit it without thinking or imagining, in our own affirmative manner, of the former men and former times. Blair and Home are more familiar to me than all the inhabitants, save one or two households. Though not exactly a beautiful village, to a painter it is picturesque, to a poet it is deeply interesting; it is a joy for ever to him who has once seen it, or has worshipped in its beautiful church, or passed an hour in the company of the tombstones.

It is, perhaps, not a place for a merchant or any active man to live in, but it is a place wherein to spend the declining years of old age. When the creeping sure years of second childhood steal over an old man's heart-when he loses sympathy for much speech, much noise, streets, and city contractions-when his eyes grow dim, and his pulse beats low-when stairs are difficult to climb-this is a place to go to, where he has the blue sky overhead, the green grass at his door, the

rose-bush at the doorstep, the green fields at the house end, aud the voice and music of birds and humming insects everywhere all the year round. It is a village that requires only to be seen to be remembered. Its memory to a young man or woman is as sweet as a song. Back to it they will often throw their mind's eye loverlike

"The land of Knox-loved scenes of Home and Blair."

THE idea of a number of foolish or weak-minded people dwelling together in a community, and the various absurdities and extravagances which may be supposed to result from their deliberations is a subject which seems to have amused the imagination in all ages. Among the Greeks a reputation of this kind clung for many centuries to the inhabitants of Abdera, in Thrace, otherwise celebrated as the birthplace of Democritus. The Abderites became a proverb in the mouths of their countrymen, and may be said to have achieved the illustrious reputation of having been the first bull-makers upon record. It was not that they were represented as deficient in ideas, but that the ideas seldom suited the occasion for which they were required. It once occurred to them that a city like Abdera should have a fountain in the centre of the market-place, and a famous sculptor was sent for from Athens to prepare a group, representing Nep

tune in a chariot, drawn by seahorses, and surrounded by Tritons and dolphins, who should spout water from their nostrils; but when the wish was completed, it was discovered that there was scarcely enough water to wet their nosesso the entire group had the appearance of suffering from a very severe cold. In order to stop the laughers the work was removed to the temple of Neptune, and, when exhibited to strangers, the sacristan was accustomed to express the sorrow of the worshipful city that so splendid a production of art was rendered useless by the poverty of nature. On another occasion they purchased a lovely Venus of Praxiteles. It was about five feet high, and intended for an altar. As soon as it arrived all Abdera fell into ecstasies about it. "She is too beautiful," exclaimed the townsmen, with one voice "to be placed upon a low pedestal; a masterpiece that does our city so much honour, and which has cost us so

much money, should be the first thing that strikes the eye of the stranger on his visit to Abdera." - Whereupon, the small and exquisitely wrought statue was perched upon an obelisk, eighty feet high, and as it was quite impossible at that distance to know whether it was a goddess or a cat, it became necessary to engage a keeper to assure all strangers that nothing more divinely perfect was to be seen, provided you could only see it.

In early English literature we find the men of Norfolk accredited with many of the attributes of the Abderites, and at a somewhat later period we begin to hear of the wise men of Gotham. The stories of their wonderful feats appear to have been first collected by Andrew Borde, a physician of the time of Henry VIII., who seems to have believed in the comfortable doctrine that mirth is a valuable ally of medicine.

Innumerable editions of his work have been published since, and we know from the frequent allusions to the tales in our old popular and dramatic literature that the book was a great favourite for at least two centuries. Until quite recent times a chap-book version of the "Merry Tales of Gotham," was a very saleable article of the pedlar's pack in the more remote districts of the west of England. One of the most famous of the storieswhich is met with in slightly vary ing forms in almost every country in the world-relates the attempt to impound the cuckoo. The men of Gotham observing that it was almost invariably fine sunny weather when they heard the cuckoo, determined to keep the bird with them the year through, in order to improve their climate. "So, in the midst of the town, they made a hedge round in compass, and got a cuckoo, and put therein, saying to her, 'Sing here all the

year, thou shalt lack neither meat nor drink. The cuckoo, as soon as she perceived herself encompassed within the hedge, flew away. 'A vengeance on her,' said they; 'we made not our hedge high enough.''

Another relates to the clever way in which they contrived to get fish for Lent.

"When that Good Friday was come the men of Gotham did cast their heads together what to do with their white fish and red herrings, their sprats and salt fish. Then one consulted with the other, and agreed that all such fish should be cast into the pond or pool which was in the middle of the town, that the number of them might increase against the next year, and they might all fare like lords. At the beginning of the next Lent they immediately went about drawing the pond, imagining that they should catch a great shoal of fish, but were much surprised to find nothing but a great eel. 'Ah!' said they, a mischief on this eel, for he hath eaten up our fish.' 'What must we do with him?' said one to the other. Kill him,' said one. " Chop him into pieces,' said another. Nay, not so,' said another; but let us drown him.' So they immediately went to another pond, and did cast the eel into the water. 'Lie there,' said these wise men,' and shift for thyself, since you can expect no help from us.'

Another inhabitant of Gotham rode to the market with two bushels of wheat, and, in order to save his horse, carried one of the bags upon his own shoulder, but still continued to ride. When he arrived at his journey's end, he said, with great satisfaction, "The just man is always careful of his

horse."

It must be confessed that the humour of these stories is of the