Excerpt
Thirty years ago, there dwelt an old man named Simon Cockburn, who followed the avocations of parish teacher and precentor. Every Saturday afternoon, after he had washed his hands from the labours of the week, he went down to the public-house of the village in which he dwelt, and took his seat by the parlour window or fire (according as it was summer or winter), to read the newspaper, and see, as he said, "what country Bonaparte had conquered this week;" and, as Simon read of some new achievement of "the terrible Corsican," as he called him, he was wont to lay down the newspaper, take off his spectacles, and say unto himself aloud, "But if the chield should come owre to Britain, surely he will never be guilty o' the cruelty and folly o' doing onything to the parish schoolmasters. He owes so much to learning himsel, that he will certainly respect those who impart it to others."
But, if a stranger chanced to be in the room when he had glanced over the news, and as he began to warm and wax mighty over his single pint (or mutchkin) bottle of strong ale, Simon's wonted taciturnity gave way to a flow of speech; and seldom had the conversation continued long, when he invariably inquired, "Did ever ye hear o' the saying, by what law the bishops were expelled from Scotland?"
The answer being in the negative, he continued—"Weel, it was neither by civil law nor by canon law, but by Dunse Law!"
"By Dunse Law, old man!" inquired his auditors; "why, what law is that?"
If ye never heard o' it (answered he), it is worth your while going to see it. Ye may become acquainted wi' it without paying a fee to a writer. Dunse Law, sir, is a bonny round hill, which rises behind the honest town o' that name. Ye have a magnificent view upon the top o' it. In my opinion, it is equal to the view from the Calton at Edinburgh; and some o' my scholars that have been travellers inform me that the view from the Calton is every way equal to the far-famed view in the Bay o' Naples. Ye have the whole Merse lying beneath your feet, like a beautifully-laid-out and glorious garden—the garden o' some mighty conqueror, that had converted a province into a pleasure-ground, and walled it round wi' mountains. There ye behold the Blackadder wimpling along; the Whitadder curling round below you, and as far as ye can see—now glittering in a haugh, or buried among woody braes. Before ye, also, ye behold the Cheviots and the Northumberland hills, wi' a broad country, the very sister o' the Merse, lying below them, and which runs to Tweedside, where they stand and look at each other! Down the middle distance runs the Tweed, shining out here and there, like an illuminated lake, and receiving the Border rivers o' both countries into its bosom, just as a hen gathers its young under its wings. To the right hand, also, ye behold Roxburghshire, wi' the dimness o' distance, like a thin veil thrown owre its beauty, and its hills a' before ye. Ye see also the smoke arising from towns, villages, and hamlets, and hovering owre them in the midway air, like almost transparent clouds. Gentlemen's seats, and the plantations around them, lie scattered owre the scene; farmhouses that lairds might live in, and stackyards that no other country could produce. On each elbow ye have the purple Lammermuir, where a hundred hirsels graze; and to the east, the mighty ocean, wi' the ships sailing upon it, where, wi' their white sails spread to the sun, they look from the distance just like sea-birds poising themselves on their out-stretched wings owre the deep. Ye see also the islands that rise wondrously from its bosom—fragments which the great waters have stolen from the dry land, or the dry land from the waters. But I ought to have mentioned that, before ye, also, ye see the ruins o' castles, some o' them still majestic, which changed masters a hundred times, as victory chanced to decide for the English bow or the Scottish spear, and which yet bear manifestations o' having been places o' strength and terror....