Recreations of Christopher North, Volume 2 | Page 3

Mary
Morrison rest in her grave, and let us paint a pleasant picture of a
May-Day afternoon, and enjoy it as it was enjoyed of old, beneath that
stately Sycamore, with the grandisonant name of THE GLORY OF
MOUNT PLEASANT.
There, under the murmuring shadow round and round that noble stem,
used on MAY-DAY to be fitted a somewhat fantastic board, all deftly
arrayed in home-spun drapery, white as the patches of unmelted snow
on the distant mountain-head; and on various seats--stumps, stones,
stools, creepies, forms, chairs, armless and with no spine, or
high-backed and elbowed, and the carving-work thereof most intricate
and allegorical--took their places, after much formal ceremony of
scraping and bowing, blushing and curtsying, old, young, and
middle-aged, of high and low degree, till in one moment all were
hushed by the Minister shutting his eyes, and holding up his hand to
ask a blessing. And "well worthy of a grace as lang's a tether," was the
MAY-DAY meal spread beneath the shadow of the GLORY OF
MOUNT PLEASANT. But the Minister uttered only a few fervent

sentences, and then we all fell to the curds and cream. What smooth,
pure, bright burnished beauty on those horn-spoons! How apt to the
hand the stalk--to the mouth how apt the bowl! Each guest drew closer
to his breast the deep broth-plate of delft, rather more than full of curds,
many million times more deliciously desirable even than blanc-mange,
and then filled to overflowing with a blessed outpouring of creamy
richness that tenaciously descended from an enormous jug, the peculiar
expression of whose physiognomy, particularly the nose, we will carry
with us to the grave! The dairy at MOUNT PLEASANT consisted of
twenty cows--almost all spring calvers, and of the Ayrshire breed--so
you may guess what cream! The spoon could not stand in it,--it was not
so thick as that--for that was too thick,--but the spoon, when placed
upright in it, retained its perpendicularity for a while, and then, when
uncertain on which side to fall, was grasped by the hand of hungry
schoolboy, and steered with its fresh and fragrant freight into a mouth
already open in wonder. Never beneath the sun, moon, and stars, were
such oatmeal cakes, pease-scones, and barley-bannocks, as at MOUNT
PLEASANT. You could have eaten away at them with pleasure, even
although not hungry--and yet it was impossible of them to eat too
much--Manna that they were!! Seldom indeed is butter yellow on
May-day. But the butter of the gudewife of Mount Pleasant--such, and
so rich was the old lea-pasture--was coloured like the crocus, before the
young thrushes had left the nest in the honey-suckled corner of the
gavel-end. Not a single hair in the churn. Then what honey and what
jam! The first, not heather, for that is too luscious, especially after such
cream, but the pure white virgin honey, like dew shaken from clover,
but now querny after winter keep; and oh! over a layer of such butter
on such barley bannocks was such honey, on such a day, in such
company, and to such palates, too divine to be described by such a pen
as that now wielded by such a writer! The Jam! It was of
gooseberries--the small black hairy ones--gathered to a very minute
from the bush, and boiled to a very moment in the pan! A bannock
studded with some dozen or two of such grozets was more beautiful
than a corresponding expanse of heaven adorned with as many stars.
The question, with the gaucy and generous gudewife of Mount Pleasant,
was not--"My dear laddie, which will ye hae--hinny or jam?" but,
"Which will ye hae first?" The honey, we well remember, was in two

huge brown jugs, or jars, or crocks; the jam, in half-a-dozen white cans
of more moderate dimensions, from whose mouths a veil of thin
transparent paper was withdrawn, while, like a steam of rich distilled
perfumes, rose a fruity fragrance, that blended with the vernal
balminess of the humming Sycamore. There the bees were all at work
for next May-day, happy as ever bees were on Hybla itself; and gone
now though be the age of gold, happy as Arcadians were we, nor
wanted our festal-day or pipe or song; for to the breath of Harry Wilton,
the young English boy, the flute gave forth tones almost as liquid sweet
as those that flowed from the lips of Mary Morrison herself, who alone,
of all singers in hut or hall that ever drew tears, left nothing for the
heart or the imagination to desire in any one of Scotland's ancient
melodies.
Never had Mary Morrison heard the old ballad-airs sung, except during
the mid-day hour of rest, in the corn or hay field--and rude singers are
they all--whether male or female voices--although sometimes with