CHAPTER I.
Scene near Colinton in midsummer—A grey travelled Boulder—Its aspect and contents—Its story of the past.
Three miles to the south-west of Edinburgh, and not many hundred yards from the sequestered village of Colinton, there is a ravine, overshaded by a thick growth of beech and elm, and traversed beneath by a stream, which, rising far away among the southern hills, winds through the rich champaign country of Mid-Lothian. It is, at all seasons of the year, one of the most picturesque nooks in the county. I have seen it in the depth of winter—the leafless boughs doddered and dripping, the rocks dank and bare save where half-hidden by the rotting herbage, and the stream, red and swollen, roaring angrily down the glen, while the families, located along its banks, fleeing in terror to the higher grounds, had left their cottages to the mercy of the torrent. The last time I visited the place was in the heart of June, and surely never did woodland scene appear more exquisitely beautiful. The beech trees were in full leaf, and shot their silvery boughs in slender arches athwart the dell, intertwining with the broader foliage and deeper green of the elm, and the still darker spray of the stately fir. The rocks on either side were tapestried with verdure; festoons of ivy, with here and there a thread of honey-suckle interwoven, hung gracefully from the cliffs overhead; each projecting ledge had its tuft of harebells, or speedwell, or dog-violets, with their blue flowers peeping out of the moss and lichens; the herb-robert trailed its red blossoms over crag and stone; the wood-sorrel nestled its bright leaves and pale flowerets among the gnarled roots of beech and elm; while high over all, alike on the rocks above and among the ferns below, towered the gently drooping stalks of the fox-glove. The stream, almost gone, scarcely broke the stillness with a low drowsy murmur, as it sauntered on among the lapides adesos of its pebbly channel. Horace's beautiful lines found again their realization:—
"Qua pinus ingens, albaque populus
Umbram hospitalem consociare amant
Ramis, et obliquo laborat
Lympha fugax trepidare rivo." [1]
Where the tall pine and poplar pale
Delight to cast athwart the vale
A pleasing shade.
While the clear stream low murmuring bells.
And o'er its winding channel toils
Adown the glade.—A. G.
It was noon, and the sun shone more brightly and with greater heat than had been felt for years. The air, heavy and warm, induced a feeling of listlessness and languor, and the day seemed one for which the only appropriate employment would have been to read once again the "Castle of Indolence." But failing that, I found it pleasant to watch the flickering light shot in fitful gleams through the thick canopy of leaves, and thus, in the coolness of the shade, to mark these rays—sole messengers from the sweltering world around—as they danced from rock to stream, now lighting up the ripples that curled dreamily on, now chequering some huge boulder that lay smooth and polished in mid-channel, anon glancing playfully among the thickets of briar or honeysuckle and vanishing in the shade. Sometimes a wagtail would alight at hand, or a bee drone lazily past, while even an occasional butterfly would venture down into this shady covert. But, with these exceptions, the animal creation seemed to have gone to sleep, an example which it was somewhat difficult to avoid following. While thus idly engaged, my eye rested on a large boulder on the opposite side. It lay partly imbedded in a stiff clay, and partly protruding from the surface of the bank some way above the stream. A thick arbour of leafage overhung it, through which not even the faintest ray of sunshine could force its way. The spot seemed cooler and more picturesque than that which I occupied, and so, crossing the well-nigh empty channel, I climbed the bank and was soon seated on the boulder. A stout hammer is a constant companion in my rambles, and was soon employed on this occasion in chipping almost unconsciously the newly-acquired seat. The action was, perhaps, deserving of the satire of Wordsworth's Solitary:—
"You may trace him oft
By scars, which his activity has left
Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven!
This covert nook reports not of his hand.
He, who with pocket-hammer smites the edge
Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised
In weather-stains, or crusted o'er by Nature
With her first growths, detaching by the stroke
A chip or splinter to resolve his doubts;
And, with that ready answer satisfied,
The substance classes by some barbarous name,
And hurries on; or from the fragments picks
His specimen; if but imply interveined
With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube
Lurk in its cells and thinks himself enriched.
Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before!"
There was nothing in the distant aspect of the boulder to attract attention. It was just such a mass as dozens of others all round. Nor, on closer inspection, might anything peculiar have been observed. It had an irregularly oblong form, about two or three feet long, and half as high. Ferns and herbage were grouped around it, the wood-sorrel clustered up its sides, and little patches of moss and lichen nestled in its crevices. And yet, withal, there was something about it that, ere long, riveted my attention. I examined it minutely from one end to the other, and from top to bottom. The more I looked the more did I see to interest me; and when, after a little labour, some portions of its upper surface were detached, my curiosity was abundantly gratified. That grey lichened stone, half hid among foliage, and unheeded by any human being, afforded me material for a pleasant forenoon's thought. Will my reader accept an expanded narrative of my reverie?
I can almost anticipate a smile. "What can there be remarkable in such a grey stone, hidden in a wood, and of which nobody knows anything? It never formed part of any ancient building; it marks the site of no event in the olden time; it is linked with nothing in the history of our country. What of interest, then, can it have for us?" Nay, I reply, you are therein mistaken. It is, assuredly, linked with the history of our country—it does mark the passing of many a historical event long ere human history began; and, though no tool ever came upon it, it did once form part of a building that rose under the finger of the Almighty during the long ages of a bygone eternity. To change the figure, this boulder seemed like a curious volume, regularly paged, with a few extracts from older works. Bacon tells us that "some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested." Of the last honour I think the boulder fully worthy, and if the reader will accompany me, I shall endeavour to show him how the process was attempted by me.
The rock consisted of a hard grey sandstone finely laminated above, and getting pebbly and conglomeritic below. The included pebbles were well worn, and belonged to various kinds of rock. The upper part of the block was all rounded, smoothed, and deeply grooved, and, when split open, displayed numerous stems and leaflets of plants converted into a black coaly substance. These plants were easily recognisable as well-known organisms of the carboniferous strata, and it became accordingly evident that the boulder was a block of carboniferous sandstone. The pebbles below, however, must have been derived from more ancient rocks, and they were thus seen to represent some older geological formation. In this grey rock, therefore, there could at once be detected well-marked traces of at least two widely-separated ages. The evidence for each was indubitable, and the chronology of the whole mass could not be mistaken. The surface striation bore undoubted evidence of the glacial period, the embedded plants as plainly indicated the far more ancient era of the coal-measures, while the pebbles of the base pointed, though dimly, to some still more primeval age. I had here, as it were, a quaint, old, black-letter volume of the middle ages, giving an account of events that were taking place at the time it was written, and containing on its earlier pages numerous quotations from authors of antiquity. The scratched surface, to complete the simile, may be compared to this old work done up in a modern binding. Let us, then, first of all, look for a little at the exterior of the volume, and inquire into the origin of that strangely-striated surface, and of the clay in which the boulder rested.