"MY DEAR Sir—Instead of being sketching, as I thought, in Switzerland, I was told yesterday that you were in Auld Reekie. Then why not come out here next Thursday, or Friday, or Saturday, and let us have a Hill Day? I suppose I need not write to summon the Faithful, because not having been in Edinburgh except once for above a month, I don't know where the Faithful are. But you must know their haunts, and it can't give you much trouble to speak to them. I should like to see Lauder here. And don't forget the Gaberlunzie.—Ever,
H. COCKBURN"* [footnote… James Ballantine, author of The Gaberlunzie's Wallet. In August 1865 Mr. Ballantine wrote to me saying: "If ever you are in Auld Reekie I should feel proud of a call from you. I have not forgotten the delightful day we spent together many years ago at Bonny Bonally with the eagle-eyed Henry Cockburn!" …]
The meeting came off. I collected a number of special friends about me, and I took my wife to the meeting of the Faithful. There were present David Roberts, Clarkson Stanfield, Louis and Carl Haag, Sir George Harvey, James Ballantine, and D. O. Hill—all artists. We made our way to Bonny Bonally, a charming residence, situated at the foot of the Pentland Hills.* [footnote… The house was afterwards occupied by the lamented Professor Hodgson, the well-known Political Economist. …] The day was perfect—in all respects "equal to bespoke." With that most genial of men, Lord Cockburn, for our guide, we wandered far up the Pentland Hills. After a rather toilsome walk we reached a favourite spot. It was a semicircular hollow in the hillside, scooped out by the sheep for shelter. It was carpeted and cushioned with a deep bed of wild thyme, redolent of the very essence of rural fragrance.
We sat down in a semicircle, our guide in the middle. He said in his quaint peculiar way, "Here endeth the first lesson." After gathering our breath, and settling ourselves to enjoy our well-earned rest, we sat in silence for a time. The gentle breeze blew past us, and we inhaled the fragrant air. It was enough for a time to look on, for the glorious old city was before us, with its towers, and spires, and lofty buildings between us and the distance. On one side Arthur's Seat, and on the other the Castle, the crown of the city. The view extended far and wide—on to the waters of the Forth and the blue hills of Fife. The view is splendidly described by "Delta": —
"Traced like a map, the landscape lies
In cultured beauty, stretching wide:
Here Pentland's green acclivities,—
There ocean, with its swelling tide,—
There Arthur's Seat and gleaming through
Thy Southern wing, Dull Edin blue!
While, in the Orient, Lammer's daughters,—
A distant giant range, are seen;
North Berwick Law, with cone of green,
And Bass amid the waters."
Then we began to crack, our host leading the way with his humorous observations. After taking our fill of rest and talk, we wended our way down again, with the "wimplin' burn" by our side, fresh from the pure springs of the hill, whispering its welcome to us.
We had earned a good appetite for dinner, which was shortly laid before us.
The bill of fare was national, and included a haggis:
"Fair fa' your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race!
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
As lang's my arm!"
The haggis was admirably compounded and cooked, and was served forth by our genial host with all appropriate accompaniments. But the most enjoyable was the conversation of Lord Cockburn, who was a master of the art—quick ready, humorous, and full of wit. At last, the day came to a close, and we wended our way towards the city.
Let me, however, before concluding, say a few words in reference to my dear departed friend David Oswald Hill. His name calls up many recollections of happy hours spent in his company. He was, in all respects, the incarnation of geniality. His lively sense of humour, combined with a romantic and poetic constitution of mind, and his fine sense of the beautiful in Nature and art, together with his kindly and genial feeling, made him, all in all, a most agreeable friend and companion. "D. O. Hill," as he was generally called, was much attached to my father. He was a very frequent visitor at our Edinburgh fireside, and was ever ready to join in our extemporised walks and jaunts, when he would overflow with his kindly sympathy and humour. He was a skilful draughtsman, and possessed a truly poetic feeling for art. His designs for pictures were always attractive, from the fine feeling exhibited in their composition and arrangement. But somehow, when he came to handle the brush, the result was not always satisfactory—a defect not uncommon with artists. Altogether, he was a delightful companion and a staunch friend, and his death made a sad blank in the artistic society of Edinburgh.