And then there were the pleasant evenings at home.  When the day's work
was over, friends looked in to have a fireside crack--sometimes
scientific men, sometimes artists, often both.  They were all made
welcome.  There was no formality about their visits.  Had they been
formal, there would have been comparatively little pleasure.
The visitor came in with his "Good e'en", and seated himself.
The family went on with their work as before.  The girls were usually
busy with their needles, and others with pen and pencil.  My father
would go on with the artistic work he had in hand, for his industry was
incessant.  He would model a castle or a tree, or proceed with some
proposed improvement of the streets or approaches of the rapidly
expanding city.  Among the most agreeable visitors were Professor
Leslie, James Jardine, C.E., and Dr. Brewster.  Their conversation was
specially interesting.  They brought up the last new thing in science,
in discovery, in history, or in campaigning, for the war was then
raging throughout Europe.

The artists were a most welcome addition to the family group.
Many a time did they set the table in a roar with their quaint and
droll delineations of character.  These unostentatious gatherings of
friends about our fireside were a delightful social institution.
The remembrance of them lights up my recollection of the happiest
period of a generally happy life.  Could I have been able to set forth
the brightness and cheerfulness of these happy evenings at my father's
house, I am fain to think that my description might have been well
worth reading.  But all the record of them that remains is a most
cherished recollection of their genial tone and harmony, which makes me
think that, although in these days of rapid transit over earth and
ocean, and surrounded as we are with the results of applied scientific
knowledge, we are not a bit more happy than when all the vaunted
triumphs of science and so-called education were in embryo.

The supper usually followed, for my father would not allow his visitors
to go away supperless.  The meal did not amount to much.  Rizard or
Finnan harddies, or a dish of oysters, with a glass of Edinburgh ale,
and a rummer of toddy, concluded these friendly evenings.  The cry of
"Caller Aou" was constantly heard in the streets below of an evening.
When the letter r was in the name of the month, the supply of oysters
was abundant.  The freshest oysters, of the most glorious quality, were
to be had at 2s. 6d. the hundred!  And what could be more refreshing
food for my father's guests?  These unostentatious and inexpensive
gatherings of friends were a most delightful social institution among
the best middle-class people of Edinburgh some sixty or seventy years
ago.  What they are now I cannot tell.  But I fear they have
disappeared in the more showy and costly tastes that have sprung up in
the progress of what is called "modern society."

No part of my father's character was more admirable than his utter
unselfishness.  He denied himself many things, that he might give the
greater pleasure to his wife and children.  He would scarcely take part
in any enjoyment, unless they could have their fair share of it. In all
this he was faithfully followed by my mother.  The admirable example of
well-sustained industry that was always before her, sustained her in
her efforts for the good of her family.  She was intelligently
interested in all that related to her husband's business and interests,
as well as in his recreative enjoyments.  The household affairs were
under her skilful guidance.  She conducted them with economy, and yet
with generous liberality, free from the least taint of ostentation or
extravagance.  The home fireside was a scene of cheerfulness.
And most of our family have been blest with this sunny gift.  Indeed,
a merrier family circle I have never seen.  There were twelve persons
round the table to be provided for, besides two servants.
This required, on my mother's part, a great deal of management,
as every housekeeper will know.  Yet everything was provided and paid
for within the year's income.

The family result of my father and mother's happy marriage was four
sons and seven daughters.  Patrick, the eldest, was born in 1787.
He was called after my father's dear and constant friend, Patrick
Miller of Dalswinton.  I will speak by and by of his artistic
reputation.  Then followed a long succession of daughters--
Jane, the eldest', was born in 1788; Barbara 1790; Margaret in 1791;
Elizabeth in 1793; Anne in 1798; Charlotte in 1804.
Then came a succession of three sons--Alexander, George,and James.
There followed another daughter, Mary; but as she only lived for about
eighteen months, I remained the youngest of the family.

My sisters all possessed, in a greater or less degree, an innate love
of art, and by their diligent application they acquired the practice of
painting landscape in oils.  My father's admirable system and method of
teaching rendered them expert in making accurate sketches from nature,
which, as will afterwards be seen, they turned to good account.
My eldest sister, Jane, was in all respects a most estimable character,
and a great help to my mother in the upbringing of the children.
Jane was full of sound common sense; her judgment seemed to be beyond
her years.  Because of this the younger members of the family jokingly
nicknamed her "Old Solid"!--Even my father consulted her in every
case of importance in reference to domestic and financial affairs.
I had the great good fortune, when a child, to be placed under her
special protection, and I have reason to be thankful for the
affectionate care which she took of me during the first six years of
my life.

Besides their early education in art, my mother was equally earnest in
her desire to give her daughters a thorough practical knowledge in
every department and detail of household management.  When they had
attained a suitable age they were in succession put in charge of all
the household duties for two weeks at a time.  The keys were given over
to them, together with the household books, and at the end of their
time their books were balanced to a farthing.  They were then passed on
to the next in succession.  One of the most important branches of
female education--the management of the domestic affairs of a family,
the superintendence of the cooking so as to avoid waste of food, the
regularity of the meals, and the general cleaning up of the rooms--
was thus thoroughly attained in its best and most practical forms.
And under the admirable superintendence of my mother everything in our
family went on like clockwork.

My father's object was to render each and all of his children--
whether boys or girls--independent on their arrival at mature years.
Accordingly, he sedulously kept up the attention of his daughters to
fine art.  By this means he enabled them to assist in the maintenance
of the family while at home, and afterwards to maintain themselves by
the exercise of their own abilities and industry after they had left.
To accomplish this object, as already described, he set on foot drawing
classes, which were managed by his six daughters, superintended by
himself.

Edinburgh was at that time the resort of many county families.
The war which raged abroad prevented their going to the Continent.
They therefore remained at home, and the Scotch families for the most
part took up their residence in Edinburgh.  There were many young
ladies desiring to complete their accomplishments, and hence the
establishment of my sisters' art class.  It was held in the large
painting-room in the upper part of the house.  It soon became one of
the most successful institutions in Edinburgh.  When not engaged in
drawing and oil painting, the young ladies were occupied in sketching
from nature, under the superintendence of my sisters, in the outskirts
of Edinburgh.  This was one of the most delightful exercises in which
they could be engaged; and it also formed the foundation for many
friendships which only terminated with life.

My father increased the interest of the classes by giving little art
lectures.  They were familiar but practical.  He never gave lectures as
such, but rather demonstrations.  It was only when a pupil encountered
some technical difficulty, or was adopting some wrong method of
proceeding, that he undertook to guide them by his words and practical
illustrations.  His object was to embue the minds of the pupils with
high principles of art.  He would take up their brushes and show by his
dexterous and effective touches how to bring out, with marvellous ease,
the right effects of the landscape.  The other pupils would come and
stand behind him, to see and hear his clear instructions carried into
actual practice on the work before him.  He often illustrated his
little special lessons by his stores of instructive and interesting
anecdotes, which no doubt helped to rivet his practice all the deeper
into their minds.  Thus the Nasmyth classes soon became the fashion.
In many cases both mothers and daughters might be seen at work together
in that delightful painting-room.  I have occasionally met with some of
them in after years, who referred to those pleasant hours as among the
most delightful they had ever spent.

These classes were continued for many years.  In the meantime my
sisters' diligence and constant practice enabled them in course of time
to exhibit their works in the fine art exhibitions of Edinburgh.
Each had her own individuality of style and manner, by which their
several works were easily distinguished from each other.  Indeed,
whoever works after Nature will have a style of their own.  They all
continued the practice of oil painting until an advanced age.
The average duration of their lives was about seventy-eight.

There was one point which my father diligently impressed upon his
pupils, and that was the felicity and the happiness attendant upon
pencil drawing.  He was a master of the pencil, and in his off-hand
sketches communicated his ideas to others in a way that mere words
could never have done.  It was his Graphic Language.  A few strokes of
the pencil can convey ideas which quires of writing would fail to
impart.  This is one of the most valuable gifts which a man who has to
do with practical subjects can possess.  "The language of the pencil"
is a truly universal one, especially in communicating ideas which have
reference to material forms.  And yet it is in a great measure
neglected in our modern system of education.

The language of the tongue is often used to disguise our thoughts,
whereas the language of the pencil is clear and explicit.  Who that
possesses this language can fail to look back with pleasure on the
course of a journey illustrated by pencil drawings?  They bring back to
you the landscapes you have seen, the old streets, the pointed gables,
the entrances to the old churches, even the bits of tracery, with a
vividness of association such as mere words could never convey.
Thus, looking at an old sketch-book brings back to you the recollection
of a tour, however varied, and you virtually make the journey over
again with its picturesque and beautiful associations.  On many a fine
summer's day did my sisters make a picnic excursion into the
neighbourhood of Edinburgh.  They were accompanied by their pupils,
sketch-book and pencil in hand.  As I have already said, there is no
such scenery near any city that I know of.  Arthur's Seat and Salisbury
Crags, Duddingston Loch, the Braid Hills, Craigmillar Castle,
Hawthornden, Roslin, Habbie's How, and the many valleys and rifts in
the Pentlands, with Edinburgh and its Castle in the distance; or the
scenery by the sea-shore, all round the coast from Newhaven to Gullane
and North Berwick Law.

The excursionists came home laden with sketches.  I have still by me a
multitude of these graphic records made by my sisters.  Each sketch,
however slight, strikes the keynote, as it were, to many happy
recollections of the circumstances, and the persons who were present at
the time it was made.  I know not of any such effective stimulant to
the recollection of past events as these graphic memoranda.
Written words may be forgotten, but these slight pencil recollections
imprint themselves on the mind with a force that can never be effaced.
Everything that occurred at the time rises up as fresh in the memory as
if hours and not years had passed since then.  They bring to the mind's
eye many dear ones who have passed away, and remind us that we too must
follow them.

It is much to be regretted that this valuable art of graphic memoranda
is not more generally practised.  It is not merely a most valuable help
to the memory, but it educates the eye and the hand, and enables us to
cultivate the faculty of definite observation.  This is one of the most
valuable accomplishments that I know of, being the means of storing up
ideas, and not mere words, in the mental recollection of both men and
women.

Before I proceed to record the recollections of my own life, I wish to
say something about my eldest brother Patrick, the well-known landscape
painter.  He was twenty-one years older than myself!  My father was his
best and almost his only instructor.  At a very early age he manifested
a decided taste for drawing and painting.  His bent was landscape.
This gave my father great pleasure, as it was his own favourite branch
of art.  The boy acquired great skill in sketching trees, clouds,
plants, and foregrounds.  He studied with wonderful assiduity and
success.  I possess many of his graphic memoranda, which show the care
and industry with which he educated his eye and hand in rendering with
truth and fidelity the intimate details of his art.  The wild plants
which he introduced into the foregrounds of his pictures were his
favourite objects of study.  But of all portions of landscape nature,
the Sky was the one that most delighted him.  He studied the form and
character of clouds--resting cloud, the driving cloud, and the rain
cloud--and the sky portions of his paintings were thus rendered so
beautifully attractive.

He was so earnest in his devotion to the study of landscape that in
some respects he neglected the ordinary routine of school education.
He successfully accomplished the three R.'s, but after that his school
was the fields, in the face of Nature.  He was by no means a Romantic
painter.  His taste was essentially for Home subjects.  In his
landscapes he introduced picturesque farm-houses and cottages,
with their rural surroundings; and his advancement and success were
commensurate with his devotion to this fine branch of art.  The perfect
truth with which he represented English scenery, associated as it is
with so many home-loving feelings, forms the special attractiveness of
his works.  This has caused them to be eagerly sought after,
and purchased at high prices.

Patrick had a keen sense of humour, though in other respects he was
simple and unpretending.  He was a great reader of old-fashioned
novels, which indeed in those days were the only works of the kind to
be met with.  The Arabian Nights, Robinson crusoe, The Mysteries of
Udolpho, and such like, were his favourites, and gave a healthy filip
to his imagination.  He had also a keen relish for music, and used to
whistle melodies and overtures as he went along with his work.
He acquired a fair skill in violin playing.  While tired with sitting
or standing he would take up his violin, play a few passages, and then
go to work again.

Patrick removed to London in 1808, and exhibited at the Royal Academy
in the following year.  He made excursions to various parts of England,
where he found subjects congenial to his ideas of rural beauty.
The immediate neighbourhood of London, however, a bounded with the most
charming and appropriate subjects for his pencil.  These consisted of
rural "bits" of the most picturesque but homely description--decayed
pollard trees and old moss-grown orchards, combined with cottages and
farm-houses in the most paintable state of decay, with tangled hedges
and neglected fences, overrun with vegetation clinging to them with all
"the careless grace of Nature."  However neglected these might be by the
farmer, they were always tit-bits for Patrick.  When sketching such
subjects he was in his glory, and he returned to his easel loaded with
sketch-book treasures, which when painted form the gems of many a
collection.

In some of these charming subjects glimpses of the distant capital may
be observed, with the dome of St. Paul's in the distance; but they are
introduced with such skill and correctness as in no way to interfere
with the rural character of his subject.  When he went farther afield
--to Windsor Forest, Hampshire, the New Forest, or the Isle of Wight
--he was equally diligent with his pencil, and came home laden with
sketches of the old monarchs of the forest.  When in a state of partial
decay his skilful touch brought them to life again, laden with branches
and lichen, with leaves and twigs and bark, and with every feature that
gives such a charm to these important elements in true English
landscape scenery.  On my brother's first visit to London, accompanied
by my father, he visited many collections where the old Dutch masters
were to be seen, and he doubtless derived much advantage from his
careful studies, more particularly from the works of Hobbema, Ruysdael,
and Wynants.  These came home to him as representations of Nature as
she is.  They were more free from the traditional modes of representing
her.  The works of Claude Lorraine and Richard Wilson were also the
objects of his admiration, though the influence of the time for
classicality of treatment to a certain extent vitiated these noble
works.  When a glorious sunset was observed, the usual expression among
the lovers of art was, "What a magnificent Claudish effect!"  thus
setting up the result of man's feeble attempt at representation as the
standard of comparison, in place of the far grander original!

My brother carefully studied Nature herself.  His works, following
those of my father, led back the public taste to a more healthy and
true condition, and by the aid of a noble army of modern British
landscape painters, this department of art has been elevated to a very
high standard of truth and excellence.

I find some letters from Patrick to my father, after his settlement as
an artist in London.  My father seems to have supplied him with money
during the early part of his career, and afterwards until he had
received the amount of his commissions for pictures.  In one of his
letters he says: "That was an unlucky business, the loss of that order
which you were so good as send me on my account."  It turned out that
the order had dropt out of the letter enclosing it, and was not
recovered.  In fact, Patrick was very careless about all money
transactions.

In 1814 he made the acquaintance of Mr. Barnes, and accompanied him to
Bure Cottage, Ringwood, near Southampton, where he remained for some
time.  He went into the New Forest, and brought home "lots of sketches."
In 1815 he exhibited his works at the Royal Academy. He writes to his
father that "the prices of my pictures in the Gallery are--
two at fourteen guineas each (small views in Hampshire), one at
twelve guineas, and two at fourteen guineas.  They are all sold but
one.  These pictures would now fetch in the open market from two to
three hundred guineas each.  But in those days good work was little
known, and landscapes especially were very little sought after.

Patrick Nasmyth's admirable rendering of the finer portions of
landscape nature attracted the attention of collectors, and he received
many commissions from them at very low prices.  There was at that time
a wretched system of delaying the payment for pictures painted on
commission, as well as considerable loss of time by the constant
applications made for the settlement of the balance.  My brother was
accordingly under the necessity of painting his pictures for the
Dealers, who gave him at once the price which he required for his
works.  The influence of this system was not always satisfactory.
The Middlemen or Dealers, who stood between the artist and the final
possessor of the works, were not generous.  They higgled about prices,
and the sums which they gave were almost infinitesimal compared with
the value of Patrick Nasmyth's pictures at the present time.

The Dealers were frequent visitors at his little painting-room in his
lodgings.  They took undue advantage of my brother's simplicity and
innate modesty in regard to the commercial value of his works.  When he
had sketched in a beautiful subject, and when it was clear that in its
highest state of development it must prove a fine work, the Dealer
would pile up before him a row of guineas, or sovereigns, and say,
"Now, Peter, that picture's to be mine!", The real presence of cash
proved too much for him.  He never was a practical man.  He agreed to
the proposal, and thus he parted with his pictures for much less than
they were worth.  He was often remonstrated with by his brother artists
for letting them slip out of his hands in that way--works that he
would not surrender until he had completed them, and brought them up to
the highest point of his fastidious taste and standard of excellence.
Among his dearest friends were David Roberts and Clarkson Stanfield.
He usually replied to their friendly remonstrances by laughingly
pointing to his bursting portfolios of sketches, and saying,
"There's lots of money in these banks to draw from."  He thus warded off
their earnest and often-repeated remonstrances.  Being a single man,
and his habits and style of living of the most simple kind, he had very
little regard for money except as it ministered to his immediate
necessities.  His evenings were generally spent at a club of brother
artists "over the water;" and in their company he enjoyed many a
pleasant hour.  His days were spent at his easel.  They were
occasionally varied by long walks into the country near London,
for the purpose of refilling his sketch-book.

It was on one of such occasions--when he was sketching the details of
some picturesque pollard old willows up the Thames, and standing all
the time in wet ground--that he caught a severe cold which confined
him to the house.  He rapidly became worse.  Two of his sisters,
who happened to be in London at the time, nursed him with devoted
attention.  But it was too late.  The disease had taken fatal hold of
him.  On the evening of the l7th August 1831 there was a violent
thunderstorm.  At length the peals of thunder ceased, the rain passed
away, and the clouds dispersed.  The setting sun burst forth in a
golden glow.  The patient turned round on his couch and asked that the
curtains might be drawn.  It was done.  A blaze of sunset lit up his
weary and worn-out face.  "How glorious it is!" he said.  Then, as the
glow vanished he fell into a deep and tranquil sleep, from which he
never awoke.  Such was the peaceful end of my brother Patrick, at the
comparatively early age of forty-four years.


CHAPTER 4.  My Early Years.

I WAS born on the morning of the 19th of August 1808, at my father's
house No. 47 York Place, Edinburgh.  I was named James Hall after my
father's dear friend, Sir James Hall of Dunglass.  My mother afterwards
told me that I must have been "a very noticin'  bairn," as she observed
me, when I was only a few days old, following with my little eyes any
one who happened to be in the room, as if I had been thinking to my
little self, "Who are you?"

After a suitable time I was put under the care of a nursemaid.
I remember her well--Mary Peterkin--a truly Scandinavian name.
She came from Haddingtonshire, where most of the people are of
Scandinavian origin.  Her hair was of a bright yellow tint.
She was a cheerful young woman, and sang to me like a nightingale.
She could not only sing old Scotch songs, but had a wonderful memory 
for fairy tales. When under the influence of a merry laugh,
you could scarcely see her eyes; their twinkle was hidden by her 
eyelids and lashes.  She was a willing worker, and was always ready
to lend a helping hand at everything about the house, she took great
pride in me, calling me her "laddie."

When I was toddling about the house, another sister was born, the last
of the family.  Little Mary was very delicate; and to improve her
health she was sent to a small farm-house at Braid Hills, about four
miles south of Edinburgh.  It was one of the most rural and beautiful
surroundings of the city at that time.  One of my earliest
recollections is that of being taken to see poor little Mary at the
farmer's house.  While my nursemaid was occupied in inquiring after my
sister, I was attracted by the bright red poppies in a neighbouring
field.  When they made search for me I could not be found.  I was lost
for more than an hour.  At last, seeing a slight local disturbance
among the stalks of corn, they rushed to they spot, and brought me out
with an armful of brilliant red poppies.  To this day poppies continue
to be my greatest favourites.

When I was about four or five years old, I was observed to give a
decided preference to the use of my left hand.  Everything was done to
prevent my using it in preference to the right.  My mother thought that
it arose from my being carried on the wrong arm by my nurse while an
infant.  The right hand was thus confined, and the left hand was used.
I was constantly corrected, but "on the sly" I always used it,
especially in drawing my first little sketches.  At last my father,
after viewing with pleasure one of my artistic efforts, done with the
forbidden hand, granted it liberty and independence for all time
coming.  "Well," he said, "you may go on in your own way in the use of
your left hand, but I fear you will be an awkward fellow in everything
that requires handiness in life.  I used my right hand in all that was
necessary, and my left in all sorts of practical manipulative affairs.
My left hand has accordingly been my most willing and obedient servant
in transmitting my will through my fingers into material or visible
forms.  In this way I became ambidexter.

When I was about four years old, I often followed my father into his
workshop when he had occasion to show to his visitors some of his
mechanical contrivances or artistic models.  The persons present
usually expressed their admiration in warm terms of what was shown to
them.  On one occasion I gently pulled the coat-tail of one of the
listeners and confidentially said to him, as if I knew all about it,
"My papa's a kevie Fellae!"  My father was so greatly amused by this
remark that he often referred to it as "the last good thing" from that
old-fashioned creature little Jamie.

One of my earliest recollections is the annual celebration of my
brother Patrick's birthday.  Being the eldest of the family, his
birthday was held in special honour.  My father invited about twenty of
his most intimate friends to dinner.  My mother brought her culinary
powers into full operation.  The younger members of the family also
took a lively interest in all that was going on, with certain
reversionary views as to "the day after the feast."  We took a great
interest in the Trifle, which was no trifle in reality, in so far as
regarded the care and anxiety involved in its preparation.
In connection with this celebration, it was all established institution
that a large hamper always arrived in good time from the farm attached
to my mother's old home at Woodhall, near Edinburgh.  It contained many
substantial elements for the entertainment--a fine turkey, fowls,
duck, and suchlike; with two magnums of the richest cream.  There never
was such cream!  It established a standard of cream in my memory;
and since then I have always been hypercritical about the article.

On one of these occasions, when I was about four years old, and being
the youngest of the family, I was taken into the company after the
dinner was over, and held up by my sister Jane to sing a verse from a
little song which my nurse Mary Peterkin had taught me, and Which ran
thus:

 "I'll no bide till Saturday,
 But I'll awa' tile morn,
 An' follow Donald Hielandman,
 An' carry his poother-horn."

This was my first and last vocal performance.  It was received with
great applause.  In fact, it was encored.  The word "poother,"
which I pronounced "pootle", excited the enthusiasm of the audience.
I was then sent to bed with a bit of plum-cake, and was doubtless
awakened early next morning by the irritation of the dried crumbs of
the previous night's feast.

I am reminded, by reading over a letter of my brother Patrick's, of an
awkward circumstance that happened to me when I was six years old.
In his letter to my father, dated London, 22d September 1814, he says:
"I did get a surprise when Margaret's letter informed me of my little
brother Jamie's fall.  It was a wonderful escape.  For God's sake keep
an eye upon him!"  Like other strong and healthy boys, I had a turn for
amusing myself in my own way.  When sliding down the railing of the
stairs I lost my grip and fell suddenly over.  The steps were of stone.
Fortunately, the servants were just coming up laden with carpets which
they had been beating.  I fell into their midst and knocked them out of
their hands.  I was thus saved from cracking my poor little skull.
But for that there might have been no steam hammer--at least of my
contrivance!

Everything connected with war and warlike exploits is interesting to a
boy.  The war with France was then in full progress.  Troops and bands
paraded the streets.  Recruits were sent away as fast as they could be
drilled.  The whole air was filled with war.  Everybody was full of
excitement about the progress of events in Spain.  When the great guns
boomed forth from the Castle, the people were first startled.
Then they were surprised and anxious.  There had been a battle and a
victory!  "Who had fallen?" was the first thought in many minds.
Where had the battle been, and what was the victory?  Business was
suspended.  People rushed about the streets to ascertain the facts.
It might have been at Salamanca, Talavera, or Vittoria.  But a long
time elapsed before the details could be received; and during that time
sad suspense and anxiety prevailed in almost every household.
There was no telegraph then.  It was only after the Gazette had been
published that people knew who had fallen and who had survived.

The war proceeded.  The volunteering which went on at the time gave
quite a military aspect to the city.  I remember how odd it appeared to
me to see some well-known faces and figures metamorphosed into soldiers
It was considered a test of loyalty as well as of patriotism, to give
time, money, and leisure to take up the arms of defence, and to
practise daily in military uniform in the Meadows or on Bruntsfield
Links.  Windows were thrown up to hear the bands playing at the head of
the troops, and crowds of boys, full of military ardour, went, as usual,
hand to hand in front of the drums and fifes.  The most interesting
part of the procession to my mind was the pioneers in front, with their
leather aprons, their axes and saws, and their big hairy caps and
beards.  They were to me so suggestive of clearing the way through
hedges and forests, and of what war was in its actual progress.

Every victory was followed by the importation of large numbers of
French prisoners.  Many of them were sent to Edinburgh Castle.
They were permitted to relieve the tedium of their confinement by
manufacturing and selling toys; workboxes, brooches, and carved work of
different kinds.  In the construction of these they exhibited great
skill, taste, and judgment.  They carved them out of bits of bone and
wood.  The patterns were most beautiful; and they were ingeniously and
tastefully ornamented.  The articles were to be had for a mere trifle,
although fit to be placed with the most choice objects of artistic
skill.

These poor prisoners of war were allowed to work at their tasteful
handicrafts in small sheds or temporary workshops at the Castle, behind
the palisades which separated them from their free customers outside.
There was just room between the bars of the palisades for them to hand
through their exquisite works, and to receive in return the modest
prices which they charged.  The front of these palisades became a
favourite resort for the inhabitants of Edinburgh; and especially for
the young folks.  I well remember being impressed with the contrast
between the almost savage aspect of these dark-haired foreigners,
and the neat and delicate produce of their skilful fingers.

At the peace of 1814, which followed the siege of Paris, great
rejoicings and illuminations took place, in the belief that the war was
at an end.  The French prisoners were sent back to their own country,
alas! to appear again before us at Waterloo.  The liberation of those
confined in Edinburgh Castle was accompanied by an extraordinary scene.
The French prisoners marched down to the transport ships at Leith by
torchlight.  All the town was out to see them.  They passed in military
procession through the principal streets, singing as they marched along
their revolutionary airs, "Ca lra" and "The Marseillaise."  The wild
enthusiasm of these haggard-looking men, lit up by torchlight and
accompanied by the cheers of the dense crowd which lined the streets
and filled the windows, made an impression on my mind that I can never
forget.

A year passed.  Napoleon returned from Elba, and was rejoined by nearly
all his old fighting-men.  I well remember, young as I was, an assembly
of the inhabitants of Edinburgh in Charlotte Square, to bid farewell to
the troops and officers then in garrison.  It was a fine summer
evening when this sad meeting took place.  The bands were playing as
their last performance, "Go where glory waits thee!"  The air brought
tears to many eyes; for many who were in the ranks might never return.
After many a hand-shaking, the troops marched to the Castle, previous
to their early embarkation for the Low Countries on the following
morning.

Then came Waterloo and the victory!  The Castle guns boomed forth again;
and the streets were filled with people anxious to hear the news.
At last came the Gazette filled with the details of the killed and
wounded.  Many a heart was broken, many a fireside was made desolate.
It was indeed a sad time.  The terrible anxiety that pervaded so many
families; the dreadful sacrifice of lives on so many battlefields; and
the enormously increased taxation, which caused so many families to
stint themselves to even the barest necessaries of life;--such was
the inglorious side of war.

But there was also the glory, which almost compensated for the sorrow.
I cannot resist narrating the entry of the Forty-second Regiment into
Edinburgh shortly after the battle of Waterloo.  The old "Black Watch"
is a regiment dear to every Scottish heart.  It has fought and
struggled when resistance was almost certain death.  At Quatre Bras two
flank companies were cut to pieces by Pire's cavalry.  The rest of the
regiment was assailed by Reille's furious cannonade, and suffered
severely.  The French were beaten back, and the remnant of the
Forty-second retired to Waterloo, where they formed part of the brigade
under Major-General Pack.  At the first grand charge of the French,
Picton fell and many were killed.  Then the charge of the Greys took
place, and the Highland regiments rushed forward, with cries of
"Scotland for ever!"  Only a remnant of the Forty-second survived.
They were however recruited, and marched into France with the rest of
the army.

Towards the end of the year the Forty-Second returned to England,
and in the beginning of 1816 they set out on their march towards
Edinburgh.  They were everywhere welcomed with enthusiasm.  Crowds
turned out to meet them and cheer them.  When the first division of the
regiment approached Edinburgh, almost the entire population turned out
to welcome them.  At Musselburgh, six miles off; the road was thronged
with people.  When the soldiers reached Piershill, two miles off, the
road was so crowded that it took them two hours to reach the Castle.
I was on a balcony in the upper part of the High Street, and my father,
mother, and sisters were with me.  We had waited very long; but at last
we heard the distant sound of the cheers, which came on and on, louder
and louder.

The High Street was wedged with people excited and anxious.
There seemed scarcely room for a regiment to march through them.
The house-tops and windows were crowded with spectators.  It was a
grand sight.  The high-gabled houses reaching as far as the eye could
see, St. Giles' with its mural crown, the Tron Kirk in the distance,
and the picturesque details of the buildings, all added to the
effectiveness of the scene.

At last the head of the gallant band appeared.  The red coats gradually
wedged their way through the crowd, amidst the ringing of bells and the
cheers of the spectators.  Every window was in a wave of gladness,
and every house-top was in a fever of excitement.  As the red line
passed our balcony, with Colonel Dick at its head, we saw a sight that
can never be forgotten.  The red-and-white plumes, the tattered colours
riddled with bullets, the glittering bayonets, were seen amidst the
crowd that thronged round the gallant heroes, amidst tears and cheers
and hand-shakings and shouts of excitement.  The mass of men appeared
like a solid body moving slowly along; the soldiers being almost hidden
amongst the crowd.  At last they passed, the pipers and drums playing a
Highland march; and the Forty-Second slowly entered the Castle.  It was
perhaps the most extraordinary scene ever witnessed in Edinburgh.

One of my greatest enjoyments when a child was in going out with the
servants to the Calton, and wait while the "claes" bleached in the sun
on the grassy slopes of the hill.  The air was bright and fresh and
pure.  The lasses regarded these occasions as a sort of holiday.
One or two of the children usually accompanied them.  They sat
together, and the servants told us their auld-warld stories; common
enough in those days, but which have now, in a measure, been forgotten.
"Steam" and "progress" have made the world much less youthful and
joyous than it was then.

The women brought their work and their needles with them, and when they
had told their stories, the children ran about the hill making bunches
of wild flowers--including harebells and wild thyme.  They ran after
the butterflies and the bumbees, and made acquaintance in a small way
with the beauties of nature.  Then the servants opened their baskets of
provisions, and we had a delightful picnic.  Though I am now writing
about seventy years after the date of these events, I can almost
believe that I am enjoying the delightful perfume of the wild thyme and
the fragrant plants and flowers, wafted around me by the warm breezes
of the Calton hillside.

In the days I refer to, there was always a most cheerful and intimate
intercourse kept up between the children and the servants.  They were
members of the same family, and were treated as such.  The servants
were for the most part country-bred--daughters of farm servants or
small farmers.  They were fairly educated at their parish schools;
they could read and write, and had an abundant store of old
recollections.  Many a pleasant crack we had with them as to their
native places, their families, and all that was connected with them.
They became lastingly attached to their masters and mistresses, as well
as to the children.  All this led to true attachment; and when they
left; us, for the most part to be married we continued to keep up a
correspondence with them, which lasted for many years.

While enjoying these delightful holidays, before my school-days began,
my practical education was in progress, especially in the way of
acquaintance with the habits of nature in a vast variety of its phases,
always so attractive to the minds of healthy children.  It happened
that close to the Calton Hill, in the valley at its northern side,
there were many workshops where interesting trades were carried on;
there were coppersmiths, tinsmiths, brass-founders, goldbeaters, and
blacksmiths.  Their shops were all arranged in a busy group at the foot
of the hill, in a place called Greenside.  The workshops were open to
the inspection of passers-by.  Little boys looked in and saw the men at
work amidst the blaze of fires and the beatings of hammers.

Amongst others, I was an ardent admirer.  I may almost say that this
row of busy workshops was my first school of practical education.
I observed the mechanical manipulation of the men, their dexterous use
of the hammer, the chisel, and the file; and I imbibed many lessons
which afterwards proved of use to me.  Then I had tools at home in my
father's workshop.  I tried to follow their methods; I became greatly
interested in the use of tools and their appliances; I could make
things for myself.  In short, I became so skilled that the people about
the house called me "a little Jack-of-all-trades."

While sitting on the grassy slopes of the Calton Hill I would often
hear the chimes sounding from the grand old tower of St.Giles.
The cathedral lay on the other side of the valley which divides the
Old Town from the New.  The sounds came over the murmur of the traffic
in the streets below.

The chime-bells were played every day from twelve till one--the
old-fashioned dinner-hour of the citizens.  The practice had been in
existence for more than a hundred and fifty years.  The pleasing effect
of the merry airs, which came wafted tome by the warm summer breezes,
made me long to see them as well as hear them.

[Image]  Mural crown of St Giles', Edinburgh

My father was always anxious to give pleasure to his children.
Accordingly, he took me one day, as a special treat, to the top of the
grand old tower, to see the chimes played.  As we passed up the tower,
a strong vaulted room was pointed out to me, where the witches used to
be imprisoned.  I was told that the poor old women were often taken
down from this dark vault to be burnt alive!  Such terrible tales
enveloped the tower with a horrible fascination to my young mind.
What a fearful contrast to the merry sound of the chimes issuing from
its roof on a bright summer day.

On my way up to the top flat, where the chimes were played, I had to
pass through the vault in which the great pendulum was slowly swinging
in its ghostly-like tick-tack, tick-tack; while the great ancient clock
was keeping time with its sudden and startling movement.  The whole
scene was almost as uncanny as the witches' cell underneath.  There was
also a wild rumbling thumping sound overhead.  I soon discovered the
cause of this, when I entered the flat where the musician was at work.
He was seen in violent action, beating or hammering on the keys of a
gigantic pianoforte-like apparatus.  The instruments he used were two
great leather-faced mallets, one of which he held in each hand.
Each key was connected by iron rods with the chime-bells above.
The frantic and mad-like movements of the musician, as he energetically
rushed from one key to another, often widely apart gave me the idea
that the man was daft--especially as the noise of the mallets was
such that I heard no music emitted from the chimes so far overhead.
It was only when I had climbed up the stair of the tower to where the
bells were rung that I understood the performance, and comprehended the
beating of the chimes which gave me so much pleasure when I heard them
at a distance.

Another source of enjoyment in my early days was to accompany my mother
to the market.  As I have said before, my mother, though generous in
her hospitality, was necessarily thrifty and economical in the
management of her household.  There were no less than fourteen persons
in the house to be fed, and this required a good deal of marketing.
At the time I refer to, (about 1816, it was the practice of every lady
who took pride in managing economically the home department of her
husband's affairs, to go to market in person.  The principal markets in
Edinburgh were then situated in the valley between the Old and New Towns,
in what used to be called the Nor Loch.

Dealers in fish and vegetables had their stalls there: the market for
butcher meat was near at hand: each being in their several locations.
It was a very lively and bustling sight to see the marketing going on.
When a lady was observed approaching, likely to be a customer, she was
at once surrounded by the "caddies."  They were a set of sturdy
hard-working women, each with a creel on her back.  Their competition
for the employer sometimes took a rather energetic form.  The rival
candidates pointed to her with violent exclamations; "She's my ledie!
she's my ledie!" ejaculated one and all.  To dispel the disorder,
a selection of one of the caddies would be made, and then all was quiet
again until another customer appeared.

There was a regular order in which the purchases were deposited in the
creel.  First, there came the fish, which were carefully deposited in
the lowest part, with a clean deal board over them.  The fishwives were
a most sturdy and independent class, both in manners and language.
When at home, at Newhaven or Fisherrow, they made and mended their
husbands' nets, put their fishing tackle to rights, and when the
fishing boats came in they took the fish to market at Edinburgh.
To see the groups of these hard-working women trudging along with their
heavy creels on their backs, clothed in their remarkable costume,
with their striped petticoats kilted up and showing their sturdy legs,
was indeed a remarkable sight.  They were cheerful and good-natured,
but very outspoken.  Their skins were clear and ruddy, and many of the
young fishwives were handsome and pretty.  They were, in fact, the
incarnation of robust health.  In dealing with them at the Fish Market
there was a good deal of higgling.  They often asked two or three times
more than the fish were worth--at least, according to the then market
price.  After a stormy night, during which the husbands and sons had
toiled to catch the fish, on the usual question being asked,
"Weel, Janet, hoo's haddies the day!" "Haddies, mem?  Ou, haddies is
men's lives the day!"  which was often true, as haddocks were often
caught at the risk of their husbands' lives.  After the usual amount of
higgling, the haddies were brought down to their proper market price,
--sometimes a penny for a good haddock, or, when herrings were rife,
a dozen herrings for twopence, crabs for a penny, and lobsters for
threepence.  For there were no railways then to convey the fish to
England, and thus equalise the price for all classes of the community.

Let me mention here a controversy between a fishwife and a buyer called
Thomson.  the buyer offered a price so ridiculously small for a parcel
of fish that the seller became quite indignant, and she terminated at
once all further higgling.  Looking up to him, she said, "Lord help yer
e'e-sight, Maister Tamson!" "Lord help my e'e-sight, woman!  What has
that to do with it?" "Ou," said she, "because ye ha'e nae nose to put
spectacles on!"  As it happened, poor Mr. Thomson had, by some accident
or disease, so little of a nose left, if any at all, that the bridge of
the nose for holding up the spectacles was almost entirely wanting.
And thus did the fishwife retaliate on her niggardly customer.

When my mother had got her fish laid at the bottom of the creel, she
next went to the "flesher" for her butcher-meat.  There was no higgling
here, for the meat was sold at the ordinary market price. Then came the
poultry stratum; then the vegetables, or fruits in their season;
and, finally, there was "the floore"--a bunch of flowers;
not a costly bouquet, but a, large assortment of wallflowers, daffodils
(with their early spring fragrance), polyanthuses, lilacs, gilly-flowers,
and the glorious old-fashioned cabbage rose, as well as the even more
gloriously fragrant moss rose. The caddy's creel was then topped up,
and the marketing was completed.  The lady was followed home; the
contents were placed in the larder; and the flowers distributed all
over the house.

I have many curious traditional evidences of the great fondness for
cats which distinguished the Nasmyth family for several generations.
My father had always one or two of such domestic favourites, who were,
in the best sense, his "familiars."  Their quiet, companionable habits
rendered them very acceptable company when engaged in his artistic
work.  I know of no sound so pleasantly tranquillising as the purring
of a cat, or of anything more worthy of admiration in animal habit as
the neat, compact, and elegant manner in which the cat adjusts itself
at the fireside, or in a snug, cosy place, when it settles down for a
long quiet sleep.  Every spare moment that a cat has before lying down
to rest is occupied in carefully cleaning itself, even under adverse
circumstances.  The cat is the true original inventor of a sanitary
process, which has lately been patented and paraded before the public
as a sanitary novelty; and yet it has been in practice ever since cats
were created.  Would that men and women were more alive to habitual
cleanliness--even the cleanliness of cats.  The kindly and gentle
animal gives us all a lesson in these respects.

Then, nothing can be more beautiful in animal action than the
exquisitely precise and graceful manner in which the cat exerts the
exact amount of effort requisite to land it at the height and spot it
wishes to reach at one bound.  The neat and delicately precise manner
in which cats use their paws when playing with those who habitually
treat them with gentle kindness is truly admirable.  In these respects
cats are entitled to the most kindly regard.  There are, unfortunately,
many who entertain a strong prejudice against this most perfect and
beautiful member of the animal creation, and who abuse them because
they resist ill-treatment, occasioned by their innate feeling of
independence.  Cats have no doubt less personal attachment than dogs,
but when kindly treated they become in many respects attached and
affectionate animals.