men and things; especially on Sabbath mornings, when the ploughman or
shepherd, "perplext wi' leisure," it is time to set forth on the three-
mile walk along the hill-skirts to Colinton kirk. But Swanston in winter
time must also

HAVE BEEN FAMILIAR TO STEVENSON.

Snow-wreathed Pentlands, the ribbed and furrowed front of Caerketton, the
low sun striking athwart the sloping fields of white, the shadows
creeping out from the hills, and the frosty yellow fog drawing in from
the Firth--must often have flashed back on the thoughts of the exile of
Samoa. Against this wintry background the white farmhouse, old and crow-
stepped, looks dingy enough; the garden is heaped with the fantastic
treasures of the snow; and when you toil heavily up the waterside to the
clump of pines and beeches you find yourself in a fairy forest. One need
not search to-day for the pool where the lynx-eyed John Todd, "the oldest
herd on the Pentlands," watched from behind the low scrag of wood the
stranger collie come furtively to wash away the tell-tale stains of
lamb's blood. The effacing hand of the snow has smothered it over.
Higher you mount, mid leg-deep in drift, up the steep and slippery hill-
face, to the summit. Edinburgh has been creeping nearer since
Stevenson's musing fancy began to draw on the memories of the climbs up
"steep Caerketton." But this light gives it a mystic distance; and it is
all glitter and shadow. Arthur Seat is like some great sea monster
stranded near a city of dreams; from the fog-swathed Firth gleams the
white walls of Inchkeith lighthouse, a mark never missed by Stevenson's
father's son; above Fife rise the twin breasts of the Lomonds. Or turn
round and look across the Esk valley to the Moorfoots; or more westerly,
where the back range of the Pentlands--Caernethy, the Scald, and the
knife-edged Kips--draw a sharp silhouette of Arctic peaks against the
sky. In the cloven hollow between is Glencarse Loch, an ancient chapel
and burying ground hidden under its waters; on the slope above it, not a
couple miles away, is Rullion Green, where, as Stevenson told in _The
Pentland Rising_ (his first printed work)

THE WESTLAND WHIGS WERE SCATTERED

as chaff on the hills. Were "topmost Allermuir," that rises close beside
you, removed from his place, we might see the gap in the range through
which Tom Dalyell and his troopers spurred from Currie to the fray. The
air on these heights is invigorating as wine