we had learnt about them in our daily scripture lessons . we found Europe a very accommodating continent , with the easily recognized Italy boot , and a pink Russia taking up most of the space , where we were only required to point out St Petersburg and perhaps Moscow . like the Grecian urn and beauty , that was all we knew or needed to know about Russia . when it came to nearer home , then prejudice and patriotism had their stubborn way with us . all very well for England to spread her patchwork quilt of counties before us . we viewed her with unsympathetic eyes . but unroll the map of Scotland , and here was geography itself . what could a whole wilderness of maps display that could beat this land of ours ? look to the west , and there was pink Argyll , all broken up by long strips of blue sea , and lovely islands with romantic Highland names . over the sea to Skye with Prince Charlie , and to Iona , where the long-ago saint built a shrine and raised a cross . back to the east , and there was Edinburgh . and here were we , actually in a house in a street in Edinburgh ! gleefully we pointed out the Firth of Forth , in which we had all bathed and paddled at one or other of the little villages on its coast . North Berwick , with the Bass Rock and Tantallon Castle , and over in Fife , Aberdour , its woods lovely in Maytime with the blue of wild hyacinths , and Largo , where Robinson Crusoe was born , Elie , with Macduff &apos;s cave and the rubies on Ruby Beach , and grey St Andrews , with the links , the ruins , and the castle , and the echoes of the long-ago lullaby : hush thee , hush thee , do not fret thee , the black Douglas will not get thee . we chattered , we pointed out , and compared notes on beaches and sand-castles and spades and shells , and jelly fish , and Miss Gray joined in and told us stories of Macduff , and Macbeth , and the black Douglas . I had been to the Trossachs , and had seen Ben Lomond , Ellen &apos;s isle and the Silver Strand , so when the poetry lesson was from the lady of the lake the pictures in my mind flashed into unforgettable words . lessons ? these things were at the heart of us , and Miss Gray was there with us . that &apos;s the sort of person she was . the same with history . history was for Miss Gray , and easily for us , a pageant of heroes and splendour , of pity and even tears . Scotland was of course our first love . her history blazoned before our eyes the bravery of Wallace , Bruce and his indomitable spider , Bannockburn , Mary Queen of Scots and best of all , Bonnie Prince Charlie , with tartans waving and banners flying &amp;hellip; . little Arthur &apos;s England brought us good King Alfred and Harold after a page or two of blue-painted Britons with druids and mistletoe - and so on to the lion-hearted Richard and his brave crusaders , and the sad tale , with a pathetic picture , of the little princes in the tower . and , of course , that hero of heroes for all little girls , the glorious and adorable Sir Walter Raleigh , cloak and all . we learnt the names of the wives of Henry 8 , we loved Charles 1 and hated Cromwell , and after being a little bored by Queen Anne and the Georges , we ended up comfortably with our own Queen Victoria , and she , in our childish loyalties , was and would be ever the one and only heroine of the national anthem . little Arthur &apos;s England - I have it still . I remember how I would open it and read the first words : you know , my dear little Arthur and then turn to the last page and read the last words : I hope it will help you to understand bigger and better histories bye and bye . I do n&apos;t know if it was little Arthur , but most certainly it was little Miss Gray who helped me to that understanding , awaking in me , sublimely unconscious , interest and energy for tackling these bigger and better histories in later years . one of our lessons was to read aloud . I do not know what children read in school these days , but the people who compiled our reading books must have been as deeply concerned about what we read as about how we read it - for our books were made up of extracts from great writers , interspersed with poetry from the great poets . I remember being charmed and amused by the Sir Roger de Coverley papers from the spectator , while the translation of Pliny &apos;s letters to Tacitus describing the eruption of Vesuvius , and the lava pouring down on Pompeii and Herculaneum , must have made so deep an impression that it was still clear at the back of my mind when , many years later , I saw the smoke of Vesuvius above the Bay of Naples , and stood among the ruins of the cities . of all the valuable things we learnt in those early days in the little schoolroom nothing , I think , was more valuable than the poetry , which we not only got by heart , but , stirred by Miss Gray &apos;s enthusiasms , also took to heart , laying the foundations of a love of poetry which has ever remained with me . can I ever forget the stimulating joy of standing up and reciting : cannon to right of them , cannon to left of them , volleyed and thundered . and all the time seeing in my mind &apos;s eye that brave brigade , galloping , galloping into immortal glory ? theirs not to reason why ! neither was it mine - the splendour and the tragedy were all in all . and the schooner Hesperus ! with the ache in my heart for the skipper &apos;s little daughter lying on that forsaken beach , the salt sea frozen on her breast , the salt tears in her eye . and the appeal of the incorruptible Casabianca , standing alone amid the flames , preferring death to disobedience ! oh , the pity of it ! I felt it , Miss Gray felt it , we all felt it . I think we regarded the Queen of the May rather in the light of a distinguished stranger , for no Queens of May ever reigned in Scotland , but we liked her , and sympathised with her eager desire to be up and doing - the lilt of her lines was easy to learn , and she lilted so many touching and interesting things that we could only rejoice when she , having thought to pass away before went on living and lilting for quite a page or two longer . then for rollicking fun , could anything beat John Gilpin and his spouse , and that gay picnic at the the bell at Edmonton , and the screaming from the balcony when the wigless John went flashing by on his run-away steed ? and surely there was no resisting the charm of the dashing young Lochinvar and his fair Ellen ? one touch to her hand , and one word in her ear ( and could n&apos;t one just see the glint in his eye ! ) and in a trice they &apos;re off and away , all the wedding guests coming helter-skelter behind them ! then ho ! for the racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee ! how we all laughed ! how Miss Gray laughed ! in gentler strain , could anything be sweeter than that dear little brook telling its own story and how it came from haunts of coot and hern , chatter-chattering its way to join the brimming river ? I knew quite a lot of chattering brooks myself . and I think that even we , young as we were , felt the strain of music linked with infinity in the haunting refrain : for men may come and men may go . but I go on for ever . many another poem could I speak of which sang itself into my heart and memory . but for me , best of all , the ever delightful blacksmith in his smithy under a spreading chestnut tree . best for me , because I actually knew a blacksmith , just like Longfellow &apos;s , minus the chestnut tree , who lived on Tweedside in a jewel of a tiny village called Clovenfords , where I was taken every spring . my father and my brothers put up at the Inn , where Hogg the Ettrick shepherd , and Sir Walter Scott , had put up before them - but Louis and I and Ann lived in the village blacksmith &apos;s cottage , with the smithy next door , and through the wall we could hear the bellows blowing and the horses stamping . my blacksmith too , had large and sinewy hands - swiney as one of my own children misread it - and often did I stand and watch him shoeing a horse , and was allowed to put my small hands on the bellows and help blow the fire . so it is of my Clovenfords blacksmith , dark-eyed and black-bearded , in his smithy among the hills , that Longfellow brings back the memory . at ten o&apos;clock Miss de Dreux rang the big brass bell in the hall . she did this every hour until two o&apos;clock , when the day-girls went home . at the sound of the bell , doors would open and release girls talking and laughing ; feet ran to and fro , as we all changed rooms for different classes . each hour , silence changed to noise , and noise again to silence . a memory stays with me , of arriving late one morning to find all doors closed against me , like the gates of doom . the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed an echo of my anxiously beating heart . I could hear the voice of Mr Robertson in the salle &amp;agrave; manger , and perhaps the German tones of Madame Kunz in the grande salle with the senior German class . upstairs and down I heard the muffled sound of pianos , hesitating scales , or stumbling sonatas , and the guttural German voices of Miss Wehle and Miss Javrova the music teachers - all very awe-inspiring for an anxious culprit . in the grande salle , from ten to eleven o&apos;clock , Mr Robertson taught writing and arithmetic . seated at one of the long desks , I had my first thrill with real ink and a quill pen . oh , the spluttering of that pen ! and the messiness of the thin pink papier buvard that soaked up the blots ! and the pages of alphabetical moral maxims we scratched and blotted in our copy-books ! for our sums we used slates , and slate-pencils , which would often give out a horrible screech as our small hands slipped on a line or figure , and this would be echoed by a screech of agony from everybody in the room . we did a great deal of rubbing out with the torchon , helped by a lick from a finger . Mr Robertson had a long red beard and whiskers which tickled my neck as he bent over me correcting my sums &amp;hellip; . we had our first French lessons from Miss de Dreux . Hall &apos;s first French course , all masculines and feminines , troublesome conjugations , and exercises to write at home . before very long we were reading un philosophe sous les toits - I can not remember the author , but I know I had a sort of affection for that old philosopher and his meditations under his roofs . it was dear Miss Bogen who gave us our first German lessons , only vocabulary , no books . she was a sweet , kind creature and we all loved her . later on , when Madame Kunz took us over , German became important , with Weisse &apos;s grammar , Schiller , Goethe &apos;s Faust and Heine &apos;s poetry . but even in these early days we were growing daily more familiar with speech both in French and German . then of course , there was music . there were two piano mistresses , both German , both very plain , both admirable teachers , though severe , both trained at Leipzig Conservatoire , which in those days was considered the last word for training in all kinds of musick . Miss Javrova , who taught us little ones , had a very long nose . though she was strict , she was kind and appreciative of effort . I was a nervously conscientious child , and took my practising seriously . you must play this ten times over , Miss Javrova would say , pointing with relentless fingers to a jumble of crotchets and quavers . 