Arthur's Seat

Henry Cockburn, in his “Memorials of his Time” provides a glimpse of Edinburgh around 1815, and of one of its characters, Dr. Andrew Duncan, who ascended Arthur’s Seat on May 1^st of each year.

‘The extension of the city gave rise in 1815 to the New Town Dispensary.  Any such institution seems at least harmless; yet this one was assailed with a degree of

bitterness which is curious now. It was a civic war.

Two of its principles were, that medicines and medical advice, including obstetrical aid, 

were to be administered to patients at their own homes…The Lying-in Hospital was eloquent

on the danger and the vice of delivering poor women at their own houses. 

The Old Town Dispensary, which did not then go to such patients as could not come

to it, demonstrated the beauty of the sick poor being obliged to swallow their doses

at a public office. Subscribers choose managers ! Impracticable,and dangerously popular !...

The most conspicuous opponent of this charity was Dr. Andrew Duncan, senior,

one of our professors and physicians, and the great patron of the Old Dispensary; 

one of the curious old Edinburgh characters. He was a kind-hearted and excellent man;

but one of a class which seems to live and be happy, and get liked, by its mere 

absurdities. He was the promoter and the president of more innocent and foolish

clubs and societies than perhaps any man in the world, and the author of 

pamphlets, jokes, poems, and epitaphs, sufficient to stock the nation; all amiable,

all dull, and most of them very foolish. But they made the author happy; 

and he was so benevolent and so simple, that even those who were suffering 

under his interminable projects checked their impatience and submitted.

Scientific ambition, charitable restlessness, and social cheerfulness made him

thrust himself into every thing throughout a long life. Yet, though his patronage

was generally dangerous, and his talk always wearisome, nobody could 

ever cease to esteem him. He was even the president of a bathing club;

and once at least every year did this grave medical professor conduct as many 

of the members as he could collect to Leith, where the rule was, that their respect 

for their chief was to be shown by always letting him plunge first from the machine into the 

water. He continued, till he was past eighty, a practice of mounting to the summit 

of Arthur's Seat on the first of May, and celebrating the feat by what he called a poem.’

Arthur’s Seat was obviously a prominent part of Sir Walter Scott’s life as well.  Scott begins Chapter 7 of “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” there.

                    Arthur's Seat shall be my bed,

                    The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me,

                    St. Anton's well shall be my drink,

                    Sin' my true-love's forsaken me.

                                               Old Song.

If I were to choose a spot from which the rising or setting sun could be seen to the greatest possible advantage, it would be that wild path winding around the foot of the high belt of semicircular rocks, called Salisbury Crags, and marking the verge of the steep descent which slopes down into the glen on the south-eastern side of the city of Edinburgh. The prospect, in its general outline, commands a close-built, high-piled city, stretching itself out beneath in a form, which, to a romantic imagination, may be supposed to represent that of a dragon; now, a noble arm of the sea, with its rocks, isles, distant shores, and boundary of mountains; and now, a fair and fertile champaign country, varied with hill, dale, and rock, and skirted by the picturesque ridge of the Pentland mountains. But as the path gently circles around the base of the cliffs, the prospect, composed as it is of these enchanting and sublime objects, changes at every step, and presents them blended with, or divided from, each other, in every possible variety which can gratify the eye and the imagination. When a piece of scenery so beautiful, yet so varied,--so exciting by its intricacy, and yet so sublime,--is lighted up by the tints of morning or of evening, and displays all that variety of shadowy depth, exchanged with partial brilliancy, which gives character even to the tamest of landscapes, the effect approaches near to enchantment. This path used to be my favourite evening and morning resort, when engaged with a favourite author, or new subject of study. It is, I am informed, now become totally impassable; a circumstance which, if true, reflects little credit on the taste of the Good Town or its leaders.*
* A beautiful and solid pathway has, within a few years, been formed around these romantic rocks; and the Author has the pleasure to think, that the passage in the text gave rise to the undertaking.

Battle of Cromdale

'During the course of the winter 1689 - 90, King James made an effort to reanimate the war in the Highlands, which had almost died away after the repulse of the Highlanders at Dunkeld. He sent over General Buchan, an officer of reputation, and who was supposed to understand the Highland character and Highland warfare. The clans again assembled with renewed hopes; but Buchan proved as incapable as Cannon had shown himself the year before, of profiting by the ardor of the Highlanders.

With singular want of caution, the Jacobite general descended the Spey, as far as a level plain by the river-side called Cromdale, where he quartered his army, about eighteen hundred men, in the hamlets in the vicinity.

Sir Thomas Livingstone, an excellent old officer, who commanded on the part of King William, assembled a large force of cavalry, some infantry, and a body of the clan Grant, who had embraced William's interest. The general's guide on this night's march was Grant of Elchies, who conducted him from Forres, down the hill above castle Grant, and through the valley of Auchinarrow, to the side of the Spey, opposite to the haugh of Cromdale. Elchies then, with the advanced guard of Grant, forded the broad and rapid river. He next killed, with his own hand, two of the Highlanders, outposts or sentinels, and led his own party, with Sir Thomas Livingstone and his cavalry, through a thicket of beech-trees, and thus surprised Buchan and his army asleep in their quarters. They fought gallantly, notwithstanding, with their swords and targets, but were at length compelled to to take to flight. The pursuit was not so destructive to the defeated party as it would have been to the soldiers of any other nation, if pursued by the cavalry of a successful enemy. Light of foot, and well acquainted with their own mountains, the Highlanders escaped up the hills, and amongst the mists, with such an appearance of ease and agility, that a spectator observed, they looked more like men received into the clouds, than fugitives escaping from a victorious enemy.

But the skirmish of Cromdale, and the ruin of King James's affairs in Ireland, precluded all hopes on the part of the Jacobites, of bringing the war in the Highlands to a successful termination. A fort near Inverlochy, originally erected by Cromwell, was again repaired by Livingstone, received the name of Fort William, and was strongly garrisoned, to bridle the Camerons, MacDonalds, and other Jacobite clans. The chiefs saw they would be reduced to maintain a defensive war in their own fastnesses, and that against the whole regular force of Scotland. They became desirous, therefore, of submitting for the present, and reserving their efforts in behalf of the exiled family for some more favorable time. King William was equally desirous to see this smouldering fire, which the appearance of such a general as Montrose or Dundee might soon have blown into a destructive flame, totally extinguished. For this purpose, he had recourse to a measure, which, had it been duly executed, was one of deep policy.'

The Battle of Cromdale, which Sir Walter Scott covered in his "Tales of a Grandfather" (text above), ended on May 1, 1690 (from the day before).  It was a defeat for King James II's Jacobite forces under Major-General Buchan; victory for King William III's troops under Sir Thomas Livingstone.

Beltane

' I'm no wanting to learn onything at my years,' said Meg. ' If folk have onything to write to me about, they may gie the letter to John Hislop, the carrier, that has used the road these forty years. As for the letters at the postmistress's, as they ca' her, down by yonder, they may bide in her shop-window, wi' the snaps and bawbee rows till Beltane, or I loose them. I'll never file my fingers with them. Post-mistress, indeed !—Upsetting cutty ! I mind her fou weel when she dree'd penance for antenup '

From St. Ronan's Well, by Walter Scott

The second half of the ancient Celtic year begins with the fire festival of Beltane; along with Samhuinn, Imbolc, and Lughnasadh, one of the quarter-day Celtic festivals.