The miller of Deanhaugh

Front matter

THE

MILLER OF DEANHAUGH. a a Loe oe

BY

Chapter I

‘“* The new grows auld, and the auld grows new, The warld is changing every day ; But be ye honest, and be ye true, For truth an’ honour last for aye.”

Old Saying.

TIME is a steady and rapid trayeller, and his progress is as marked as it is swift. He leaves his foot-prints on the road as he passes along, and while millions of us wend on our weary way, and arrive at our journey’s end without leaving a trace of our existence behind, there are a few who move as it were in tracts of light, and whose careers are distinguished by brilliant serieses of achievements. Every century has its peculiar character, every year its peculiar feature. Light and darkness, peace and war may alternately prevail. Man may not in some particular departments of art have advanced for thousands of years, and he may still admire at all but a hopeless distance, the sublime creations of genius bequeathed to posterity by ancient Greece and Rome. We who belong to the days of Scott and Watt, may not individually be wiser or better than those who lived in the age of Bacon and Shakespeare. We who live when transition is rendered almost as swift as volition, may not be more elevated in thought or sentiment than were the travellers of old, who had to perform their journies on foot, and their tedious voyages in lumbering vessels. The great masses of mankind now huddled together in large towns may not be so vigorous in body, as were their rural ancestors. But in the refinements and elegancies of life, the progress of mind is distinctly traceable, while it is equally easy to discern signs of the gradual improvement of man’s condition, resulting from the comparative ease with which the staple commodities of life are now produced. Hence are we able to perceive, though not apt to value as we ought, the kind and beneficent gifts which Old Father Time has so liberally bestowed on us.

While the world is thus gradually improving, and mankind becoming every day more dexterous in availing themselves of the sources from which subsistence may be drawn, it appears somewhat strange that the old of every succeeding generation should always be lamenting the decline of the world’s happiness, and be perpetually talking about the virtue which universally prevailed when they were young. This feeling may be traceable to the fact that objects, moral as well as physical, generally assume a sombre hue to the dimmed vision of age; while to the bright eye of youth, they seem clothed in brilliancy and beauty. But be this as it may, such universal feeling seems to be a wise and kind provision of nature, to reconcile the aged to the departure which is approaching, by lessening the value of existence. Their reflections on the past, too, dim and indistinct though they may be, throw a faint but pleasing light around their path, which is becoming darker and darker at every step, and in the recollection of the joys of youth, they forget the infirmities of age.

Perhaps this may explain how it happens when an old road is shut up, and a new one made to supply its place, that, however crooked, steep, or rugged the former might have been, or however straight the latter may be, the ancient portion of the population of the district generally insist on retaining a preference for the condemned pathway, and, if they can, will use no other. Nor are they in all cases without some apology for such obstinacy, the old road, from its generally higher course, presenting a greater number of choice points of view, and being thus more cheerful than the new, which is always found pursuing the lowest levels.

The levelling system has not perhaps done more mischief anywhere, as regards the picturesque and romantic, than amongst some of our early built country villages, more especially those on the secluded banks of rivers, with their little peaked bridges and their irregular lines of houses, which could be approached only on either side by a very circuitous path, or by a very steep, straight cut hill road. These old landmarks, and the primitive inhabitants of such villages, look out of keeping with such modern erections as tall, lofty spanned, many arched bridges, which are often found uniting the opposite banks of rivers, stretching away far over the heads of these little unpretending communities and their thatch covered cottages. And much, undeniably, though the general comfort be enhanced by the improvements on the roads of late years, you cannot help feeling for the old villages as for old friends, whose seclusion has been rudely broken in upon by some dapper young fellow of a modern improver, who, armed with authority, declares that the old way of going on can no longer be tolerated, and that he has come to put an entirely new face on all alterable things. Now, although you can see that the new official may be much more efficient than his predecessor, still your heart takes the old fellow’s part, and you cannot help exclaiming, “ Well, he might have done well enough; what use was there for that young jackanapes to put him out ? The poor old man would soon have gone the way of all flesh, and then the impatient intruder would haye had his place as a matter of course.”

The village called the Water of Leith, with which our story is associated, is situated in a suburban district of Edinburgh, and close by the side of the stream from which it derives its name. It is chiefly occupied by millers, and the mills are of very high antiquity, David L., some seven hundred years ago, haying made a gift to the Abbot and Canons of Holyroodhouse of the profits arising from “ the mills of Edinburgh and Dean,” the name by which the said mills are still known. Fifty years ago, the road by which you approached Edinburgh from the Queensferry, a landing place whose celebrity has been revived by a late event, passed directly through this little antique village, the inhabitants of which drove a considerable trade in creature comforts, with both mounted and pedestrian travellers. It was thus also the great thoroughfare from the North, visiters from which often halted in it to refresh themselves before entering the city. Now a-days a tall elegant bridge stretches across the entire valley. A broad level road sweeps along the top of the adjoining heights, and the little village, with its little bridge and its primitive inhabitants, is neglected by all save the local antiquarian, or the admirer of the fine natural scenery with which the neighbourhood abounds ;—the village itself, however, forming perhaps the most striking and romantic point of the whole. Situated in the very gullet of a precipitous part of the valley, through which the stream winds its way onward to the sea, the rising grounds entirely enclose the little township on every side, which, viewed from the adjoining heights, with its mingled assemblage of mills and cottages, gardens and crofts, wood and water, presents a scene at once pleasing and picturesque.

Although the population consists chiefly of millers and others employed at the mills, the village is not without a considerable sprinkling of other classes, such as country labourers, ploughmen in the service of neighbouring farmers, and a few carters of the old school. A number of these honest but humble personages are small lairds, possessing snug thatched self-contained houses, with little patches of garden ground behind, well stocked with either fruit trees or vegetables, and having probably a pig’s palace in’ one of the corners; so numerous indeed are these elegant animals in one part of the village, that a punning Edinburgh writer lately dubbed it the sozlogical gardens. All these peculiarities combined, give the place a marked sort of character, a character at once antique and national, the millers of the Water of Leith having no more affinity to, or with the staid and aristocratic citizens of Edinburgh, than if the village had been distant from the city as many miles as it is paces.

The clear complexions of the juvenile portion of tbis primitive community gives them a sort of aquatic character, which again arises from the vicinity of much water, in the shape of dams, streams and lades, and the many undesired and unwelcome immersions to which the urchins are exposed, in the water-courses for supplying the mills, which runs through the very centre of the village. It is in truth rather a startling sight, when one looks to the number of children that are to be seen running and sprawling about, to see a run of water of five feet in depth, and about the same breadth, careering past and close to a long line of dwelling-house doors, the only approach to which is by flag stones laid across the stream, otherwise wholly uncovered throughout its entire length. On the edge of this water-course, there may be seen a number of fine looking clear complexioned women, dipping and plunging their snow white linen in the clear element, and swarms of chubby infants untended, romping and playing about the brink of the artificial stream, in which you would imagine .some of them must be drowned every day. On expressing your astonishment how they escape, you will be told by some good dame, “ That the bairns tumble sae often into the water, that neither children nor parents think onything o’t ;” and she may probably add, as she gives the linen another rinse in the stream, “ My wee Tam fell in yesterday, and had he no been kepped by Luckie Muter at the flagstane, he wad hae been skyted awa an’ broken to flinders on the mill wheel.” But, and very odd it is, there seems always to be a Luckie Muter in the way to come just in the nick of time to the rescue, for not one of the little creatures are ever drowned, although in danger of it, as one would think, at every turn.

The main street of the village is a curiosity in its way, taking a number of fantastic turns, and meeting the little peaked bridge that crosses the Water of Leith nearly at right angles. This street, however, is by no means so remarkable as the many little tortuous zig-zag lanes and alleys that branch out from it in various directions, like the small bloodvessels that spring from a main artery. The houses and mills seem to have been built first, either for the purpose of catching a waterfall for the mill-wheel, or to suit the taste of their owners,—the idea of forming streets and lanes having been matter of after consideration. In this way, houses have been thrust into such odd out of the way corners, that you have fairly to circumnavigate the building before you arrive at the entrance door.

In these little lanes, much genuine homely Scottish life and character is still to be seen ;—little low lintelled doors, little four paned windows ; old women sitting at doors working stockings, or feeding fowls, and children scared by your appearance, either running from you, or staring at you with looks of wondering enquiry ; old fashioned wooden water sfowps standing in the snug wooden lined inner porches of the humble doorway; the yellow sanded kitchen floor looking clean and bright in the glare of the kitchen fire; the miller’s buxom wife with her clear muslin close-eared cap, her ample short gown, and her striped apron, driving out before her to school a little mob of white headed urchins, who are one and all clamorously insisting that “ it’s no time yet ;” or when she returns pursuing with the ladle’ the thievish cat, whom she had caught in the act of taking liberties with the beef in the kail-pot, that stands sottering on the hearth. In a corner of the room stands the pride and glory of the miller’s heart, his eight-day clock, with the Cottar’s Saturday Night emblazoned on the top of the dial. Every male member of the Ayrshire Cottar’s family shining in a gold coat and silver breeches, while the lovely Jenny is seen with a spangled dress, and a cap glittering with brilliants, nay, even the old matron has a star shining on her breast.

The room walls also are thickly adorned with pictures brilliantly coloured, and representing such subjects as the Tomb of the Princess Charlotte, the battle of Waterloo, and the return of the Prodigal Son, the latter gentleman being attired in a smart blue coat, red vest, and flaming yellow inexpressibles. Perched on the top of a chest of drawers, is an assortment of stucco parrots, with a variety of birds unknown to ornithologists, although the brilliancy of their plumage would render them, one would think, well worthy the attention of the students of that interesting science. Peacocks’ feathers and corn-babies also peep out here and there ; a large sampler, the work of the eldest daughter, hangs over the mantel-piece—the bright green walls—the little white window curtains,—the unmarked yellow floor, and the whitewashed hearth, all proclaiming that this is the one cherished apartment, never used except on cases of christening or other equally important occasions. Thus, in these little alleys, if you do not carry too high a head, and are not too proud to “ lout aneath a laigh lintel,” you may see how comfortable and tidy is the miller’s home, and how well it accords with the words of the old song,

“ O merry may the maid be that marries the miller, For foul day or fair day he’s aye bringing till her.”

You will find contentment and happiness dwelling here together, and and if you are unable good reader to appreciate such happiness, you and I differ most materially in our ideas as to what constitutes human felicity.

The humble domiciles to which we have just been alluding, are frequently found forming the ground-floors of the mills or granaries, many of which are of considerable antiquity. Over the lintels of several of them are doorstones, on which are caryed the coats of arms belonging to the fraternity of millers, with dates shewing the tenements to have been erected in the 16th century. Generally, indeed, they partake more or less of the architectural style gf that age, having square projecting towers, steep roofs, crow-stepped gables and small windows. They are besides tall and not inelegant structures, and contrast strikingly enough with the thatched roofed cottages around them, adding moreover to the irregularity and boldness of the general outline.

I now know few of, and little about the millers of the Water of Leith. But there was a time when it was otherwise. There was a time when I knew many of them intimately. But there was none amongst them whom I knew so well, cr so highly esteemed, as my worthy friend, and ancient crony the jolly Miller of Deanhaugh, whom it is now full time I should introduce to the notice of my readers. I know nothing personally of the “ Miller of Dee,” he might have been a good sort of man enough in his way ; but I will back my friend, the Miller of Deanhaugh against him, or any other miller who ever lifted sack, or exacted multure, for honest jollity, genuine feeling, and irresistable humour, and could I but describe adequately his personal appearance, which was at all points in perfect accordance with his mind and the spirit by which he was animated, my readers might be able to form some idea of the breadth of his character, but I fear I cannot. The worthy miller was indeed “ a muirland man of upland mak,” being upwards of six feet in height, while his body was so well clad with muscles and sinewy flesh, was so broad and full in all its proportions, that it was only when you saw another well grown man beside him, that you became aware of his extraordinary stature. His face, though round, plump, and jolly, was full of expression, and although more given to laughing than crying, I have seen pity and charity more clearly depicted in that broad full countenance, than ever I saw it in the lean sharp phiz of the pretended philanthropist, whose name figures in public subscription lists, and who is always a collector when the public purse is to be drained for any professed public charity. His large, full blue eyes, which rose up very round, and whose prominent cases were considerably wrinkled with laughing, were very piercing, and although not of very quick movement, were full of meaning, His nose rose like the arch of a bridge ; his mouth although it looked small when contracted by displeasure, sunk as it was amongst a mass of cheek and chin, when opened in a hearty laugh, usurped the sovereignty of his whole face—then while his eyes glistened—his sides shook—he rocked and reeled in convulsive merriment, and the very earth seemed to rock and reel beneath him, as if it too was disposed to be jocund out of pure sympathy with the jolly miller.

With all this proneness to mirth, howeyer, Deanhaugh was a staid

THE MILLER OF DEANHAUGH. ila man generally; and when met alone, exhibited rather a thoughtful cast of countenance. He was never the first to speak, and never took the last word, either in conversation or argument. Yes, he once did, and that to some purpose too ; but I must not anticipate.

Halbert Flemyng, for such was the name of the Miller of Deanhaugh, had raised himself, by his own industry, from being the miller’s man, to be master of the mill in which he wrought, and by the name of which, like the generality of Scottish millers and farmers, he was better known than by his own surname. The mill was a tall steeproofed old building, and so beautifully situated, that when you leant on the old weatherbeaten oaken sluice-gate attached to it, and gazed around you, you saw much calculated at once to gratify your heart, and delight your eye. <A huge cliff rose behind, its brow crowned with lofty trees, its ridged and seamed face overhung with long fringes of pendulous plants, and studded at various points with clusters of richly tinted wild flowers, which, like all the weakly and delicate children of nature, generally congregate together. Sloping away to the south was a noble park, thickly wooded with stately trees, in which a number of old hunters were either nibbling the grass, or coursing and racing sportively amongst the rich pasture.

The mill stood close by the Water of Leith, which, at this point runs over a shelving ledge of rock, deeply marked with fissures, scars, and ridges, over the rough weatherbeaten edges of which the stream was now seen purling and trickling, and bubbling in a hundred silver rills, now rolling in one unbroken fall over the whole breadth of the ledge, and now again gathering itself into a quiet deep pool, whence it glided away on its career in unbroken silence. Several of these pools were well adapted for bathing, and, in summer, not only the boys of the village, but many of the Edinburgh gutter-bloods, might be seen half-immersed in their cooling waters, and laving each other with showers of the limpid element. For these pools, and the amusement they afforded, knowledge was neglected by the rising generation to a serious extent; schools were deserted, and mothers and sisters might have been seen running about in quest of the young deserters, vainly endeavouring to select their own from among the crowds of naked urchins who were plunging and floundering about, and equally unsuccessful in thelr attempts to make them listen to or answer to their names.

On the opposite side of the stream, and a little above the mill, the bank rose to a considerable height, and although very steep, was covered with rich and beautiful yerdure, intersected by pretty little brown footpaths, and overhung by some stately old trees. This bank was used by the “ gudewives” and lasses of the Dean as a bleaching green ;

and many a time and oft did the honest miller stand with his back against the water sluice-gate, of which I have spoken, listening to the music of the babbling wavelets, and the merry voices of the women, as they came, blended together on the soft summer breeze. Often was the honest man so delighted with these musical combinations, that although he had not a single note of music in his whole composition, he has been caught endeavouring to swell the harmony with a shrill and prolonged whistle.

Ata short distance below Flemyng’s mill stands an elegant little temple, built over the mineral well of St Bernard’s, a spring said to have had its medicinal properties imparted to it by the saint whose name it bears. This worthy is reported to have become proprietor of most of the ground in this neighbourhood, by promising the owners three acres in paradise for every earthly acre they left him. This well is still in great repute, and in the last century, when large potations were fashionable, the Luckenbooth merchants were much in the habit of repairing thither in the mornings to drink of the water, which was considered an-excellent restorative after a deep debauch ; and that abominable abortion the Earthen Mound, is said to have owed its origin to these latter worthies, who formed a footpath through the intervening hollow called the North Loch, to facilitate their intercourse with their favourite morning rendezvous, St Bernard’s Well. It is insinuated, indeed, that the medicinal qualities of the spring were occasionally improved by the addition of a little genuine cogniac, which the keeper of the well kept for the especial use of some of his morning customers ; but scandal is always to be suspected, and the report may not, after all, be well founded.

Beyond St Bernard’s Well, and all along the course of the stream to the Firth of Forth, the scenery was, at the period when Flemyng occupied Deanhaugh Mill, much more romantic than it is now. The noble Firth with its isles lay sleeping in the distance. The sides of the valley throngh which the stream glided, exhibited a continuous succession of fertile fields and clumps of wood. The white cottages of the little village of Stockbridge, peeping through the foliage of the latter, and gleaming bright when lighted up by a summer setting sun, all contributed to make Halbert Flemyng proud, not only of his mill itself, but of the scenery also, by which it was surrounded.

It was with a countenance expressive of every kindly feeling that, on an evening after the last sack had been removed from the funnel, and the worthy miller’s face and hands had undergone a thorough ablution, he lighted his cutty pipe and sauntered up to the village of the Water of Leith, to take his nightly share in the chat and the cheer of his friend Mathew Waldie’s smithy ; and as it is with an incident con-

THE MILLER OF DEANHAUGH. WS)

nected with Mathew and his workshop that our tale properly commences, it will be necessary to describe here at some length this far-famed Mathew, and his no less far-famed smithy.

Mathew Waldie was a strong, healthy, brown complexioned man, with a black shock head of hair, and intensely black eyebrows. He never wore hat or coat except on Sundays. His arms, the muscles of which were as distinct as spokes in a coach wheel, were always bare to the shoulders ; and his shirt collar, thrown back over his neck, displayed a brown and brawny chest, indicative of surpassing strength.

Mathew, who reigned lord paramount of the village, executed all the smith work required for the mills and farms in the vicinity, and had often so many implements of various kinds sent in to repair from his numerous customers, that his workshop could not contain the half of them. On these occasions, the narrow street in which the smithy was situated, was often so quite blocked up with old carts, harrows, ploughs, and wheelbarrows, waiting Mathew’s leisure, as to be all but wholly impassable. There were no rural police in those days, and although at times Waldie and his journeyman Cyclops might rush out to hurry these encumbrances and obstructions out of the way of the approaching mail, yet they were more frequently allowed to remain where they were, and when the guard was on such occasions questioned as to what had detained him, his answer generally was, “ Waldie’s smiddy.” The answer was perfectly understood, but whether allowed to be a legitimate excuse or not, I do not exactly know. As to the interruption these accumulation of implements gave to the carts of the millers or farmers, Waldie gave himself no concern. In cases of this kind, the drivers themselves quietly stopped their horses, and as quietly proceeded to remove the obstructions without a word of complaint. Perhaps a respect for Mathew’s character was the cause, in part at least, of this obliging conduct. But it was also known that the smith had a spark in his throat, and that he kept a greybeard of genuine Kilbagie, of which he was liberal in the distribution. This liberality, however, he confined almost exclusively to the hard working ploughmen and carters, not thinking there was any call on him to exercise the same hospitality towards their masters. Accordingly, when any of the more stingy of his employers called at the smithy for the purpose of urging on Waldie the necessity of a reduction on his rates of charge, the honest smith, while agreeing to the proposed alteration, always stipulated for a half-mutchkin, the price of which more than made up the deficiency. The landlord of the public-house opposite had acquired considerable wealth, and this chiefly, it was alleged, by Waldie’s patronage. And the allegation did not look very like an untruth, for the drouthy smith might have been seen three or four times in the course of a forenoon, entering the sanctum in company with some closefisted farmer, or grippy laird, who congratulated himself on saving the very sum which Vulcan took care should be spent in his company. Notwithstanding this incessant dram-drinking, however, our friend was rarely ever intoxicated. His Herculean frame was surmounted by a strong head, and contained a sort of cast-iron stomach, on which liquid fire could make no impression.

“ Waldie’s smiddy,” as what smithy is not, was the repository of all the news, and all the gossip, and all the tittle-tattle of the country side. Not that the smith himself was either a gossiper or a scandal monger, for Mungo Wood, the cartwright, Watty Birse, the cobler, and Mark Sprot, the tailor, were all better and louder talkers than the smith ; but the very propensity to talking, for which these three worthies were so remarkable, rendered it necessary that they should have listeners. Accordingly, it was quite natural that in a winter’s evening they should repair to the smithy, where they were always sure to find an audience. A very considerable portion of the smithy work was necessarily executed after nightfall. Broken coulters, loose harrow teeth, blunted spades, and a hundred other implements of husbandry, were all sent in to repair at night, being wanted early in the morning, and if not done, both horses and men would be thrown idle on the following day, fields left unploughed and unharrowed, and the wrath of the farmers excited to the highest pitch.

Waldie was thus always kept late in his workshop, and although the ringing of hammer and anyil was incessant, and deafening to unaccustomed ears, yet those who were in the habit of frequenting this rendezvous, could carry on a conversation with the greatest ease, even amid the loudest din of this dinsome place. To the smithy, accordingly, all the babbling clanjamphry of the village resorted at night, not to listen, for that, as before remarked, formed no part of their enjoyment, but to talk, to delight open eared and open mouthed ploughmen, millers, and labourers with their stories, having unfailingly amongst their audience our very worthy friend Halbert Flemyng, who, good soul, was to be found there almost every night, smoking his pipe, passing a sly joke on some small occurrence of the day, laughing at some witty story, or watching and waiting with considerable anxiety for the moment when the last heavy stroke on the anvil announced that the last of the broken utensils was mended, and that the bellows might gather breath till mornmg. Still, however, the honest miller sat fast ; but it was merely till the smith had wiped his brow, dismissed his journeymen with a glass drawn from the far-famed greybeard, and sent off scampering to their homes the little ragged urchins who had been seated the whole night behind the fire. All this done, Mathew turned up a wheelbarrow, and seating himself thereon, joined his quondam companions in their mirth and merriment.

The winter of 1794 had set in with great severity, and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which covered the whole face of the country. A very strong and piercing north wind had chased and drifted huge masses of the feathery flakes into the hollows, and the sharp peaked faces of the ridged and furrowed rocks peeped out here and there on the hill sides, as if determined to brave the cold and angry blast. The houses and streets of the village were all deeply coated with snow, making the streams of flour look dim and yellow. The little kailyards were all squared in and covered up. The haystacks on the neighbouring farms were also entirely covered in, save on the side exposed to the chilling wind, and little robin redbreast headed a a numerous host of starving field songsters, who boldly disputed with the cocks and hens for a share of their daily allowance of grain. The village boys were busily engaged in forming an enormous snowball, which they rolled up the steep brae, facing the storm with all the glee of youthful excitement. Anon they reached the summit of the hill. The snowball, now somewhat formidable in size and weight, was allowed to roll down in a new track, where it gathered an additional coating with every successive revolution. Then would the delighted urchins push each other over, and roll themselves headlong down the brae, arriving at the bottom almost as hardly caked and coated with snow as the ball they had just turned off from the summit. Then was there a shaking of little curly heads, a dusting and beating of little coats and trousers, with little close hairy caps. Then there was the delighted contemplation of the huge globe of snow they had created. Then came farther attempts to roll the ponderous mass along, which, however, lay obstinately still, defying all that kick and push and thrust could do. Then there was that delight of delights, a snowball bicker, the little red hands and rosy faces of the combatants appearing still more red and rosy when excited by exercise, and contrasted with the white and silvery snow. Other portions of the juvenile community, of more architectural tastes, and more staid habits, were busily engaged rearing little snow houses against the gable ends of their cottages. Shovels and spades of every description were in great requisition for this interesting work, and many a young sprig of genius, who might in due time have rivalled Sir Christopher Wren, had his constructive propensities checked, and his genius nipped in the bud, by the heavy thrashing inflicted on him for wearing away some inches of the point of the fire-shovel which usually ornamented the “ ben” fire-place.