Lavengro, George Borrow [i love reading books txt] 📗

id="noteref-40" epub:type="noteref">40 and the deeds of Woinomoinen! Honour to thee, thou island stream! Onward may thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant future! Flow on, beautiful one!⁠—which of the world’s streams canst thou envy, with thy beauty and renown? Stately is the Danube, rolling in its might through lands romantic with the wild exploits of Turk, Polak,41 and Magyar!42 Lovely is the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old keeps of robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from picturesque crags and airy headlands!⁠—yet neither the stately Danube, nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame, though abundant, needst thou envy, thou pure island stream!⁠—and far less yon turbid river of old, not modern, renown, gurgling beneath the walls of what was once proud Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter’s town, but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome, Batuscha’s43 town, far less needst thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone fame, creeping sadly to the sea, surcharged with the abominations of modern Rome⁠—how unlike to thee, thou pure island stream!

And, as I lay on the bank and wept, there drew nigh to me a man in the habiliments of a fisher. He was barelegged, of a weather-beaten countenance, and of stature approaching to the gigantic. “What is the callant greeting for?” said he, as he stopped and surveyed me. “Has ony body wrought ye ony harm?”

“Not that I know of,” I replied, rather guessing at than understanding his question; “I was crying because I could not help it! I say, old one, what is the name of this river?”

“Hout! I now see what you was greeting at⁠—at your ain ignorance, nae doubt⁠—’tis very great! Weel, I will na fash you with reproaches, but even enlighten ye, since you seem a decent man’s bairn, and you speir a civil question. Yon river is called the Tweed; and yonder, over the brig, is Scotland. Did ye never hear of the Tweed, my bonny man?”

“No,” said I, as I rose from the grass, and proceeded to cross the bridge to the town at which we had arrived the preceding night; “I never heard of it; but now I have seen it, I shall not soon forget it!”

VII

It was not long before we found ourselves at Edinburgh, or rather in the Castle, into which the regiment marched with drums beating, colours flying, and a long train of baggage-wagons behind. The Castle was, as I suppose it is now, a garrison for soldiers. Two other regiments were already there; the one an Irish, if I remember right, the other a small Highland corps.

It is hardly necessary to say much about this Castle, which everybody has seen; on which account, doubtless, nobody has ever yet thought fit to describe it⁠—at least that I am aware. Be this as it may, I have no intention of describing it, and shall content myself with observing, that we took up our abode in that immense building, or caserne, of modern erection, which occupies the entire eastern side of the bold rock on which the Castle stands. A gallant caserne it was⁠—the best and roomiest that I had hitherto seen⁠—rather cold and windy, it is true, especially in the winter, but commanding a noble prospect of a range of distant hills, which I was told were “the hieland hills,” and of a broad arm of the sea, which I heard somebody say was the Firth of Forth.

My brother, who, for some years past, had been receiving his education in a certain celebrated school in England, was now with us; and it came to pass, that one day my father, as he sat at table, looked steadfastly on my brother and myself, and then addressed my mother: “During my journey down hither I have lost no opportunity of making inquiries about these people, the Scotch, amongst whom we now are, and since I have been here I have observed them attentively. From what I have heard and seen, I should say that upon the whole they are a very decent set of people; they seem acute and intelligent, and I am told that their system of education is so excellent, that every person is learned⁠—more or less acquainted with Greek and Latin. There is one thing, however, connected with them, which is a great drawback⁠—the horrid jargon which they speak. However learned they may be in Greek and Latin, their English is execrable; and yet I’m told it is not so bad as it was. I was in company the other day with an Englishman who has resided here many years. We were talking about the country and its people. ‘I should like both very well,’ said I, ‘were it not for the language. I wish sincerely our Parliament, which is passing so many foolish acts every year, would pass one to force these Scotch to speak English.’ ‘I wish so too,’ said he. ‘The language is a disgrace to the British Government; but, if you had heard it twenty years ago, captain!⁠—if you had heard it as it was spoken when I first came to Edinburgh!’ ”

“Only custom,” said my mother. “I dare say the language is now what it was then.”

“I don’t know,” said my father; “though I dare say you are right; it could never have been worse than it is at present. But now to the point. Were it not for the language, which, if the boys were to pick it up, might ruin their prospects in life⁠—were it not for that, I should very much like to send them to a school there is in this place, which everybody talks about⁠—the High School, I think they call it. ’Tis said to be the best school in the whole island; but the idea of one’s children speaking Scotch⁠—broad Scotch! I must think the matter over.”

And he did