_Monday, October 9th_
There were some streets in Edinburgh called wynds, and it was in one of
these, the College Wynd, that Sir Walter Scott was born in the year
1771. It seemed a strange coincidence that the great Dr. Samuel Johnson
should have visited the city in the same year, and have been conducted
by Boswell and Principal Robertson to inspect the college along that
same wynd when the future Sir Walter Scott was only about two years old.
We had not yet ventured to explore one of these ancient wynds, as they
appeared to us like private passages between two rows of tall houses. As
we could not see the other end, we looked upon them as traps for the
unwary, but we mustered up our courage and decided to explore one of
them before leaving the town. We therefore rose early and selected one
of an antiquated appearance, but we must confess to a feeling of some
apprehension in entering it, as the houses on each side were of six to
eight storeys high, and so lofty that they appeared almost to touch each
other at the top. To make matters worse for us, there were a number of
poles projecting from the windows high above our track, for use on
washing days, when clothes were hung upon them to dry. We had not gone
very far, when my brother drew my attention to two women whose heads
appeared through opposite windows in the upper storeys, and who were
talking to each other across the wynd. On our approach we heard one of
them call to the other in a mischievous tone of voice, "See! there's twa
mair comin'!" We were rather nervous already, so we beat an ignominious
retreat, not knowing what might be coming on our devoted heads if we
proceeded farther. In the event of hostilities the two ladies were so
high up in the buildings, which were probably let in flats, that we
should never have been able to find them, and, like the stray sheep in
the Pass of St. Ninians, we might never have been found ourselves. We
were probably taken for a pair of sporting young medical students
instead of grave searchers after wisdom and truth. We therefore returned
to our hotel for the early breakfast that was waiting for us, and left
Edinburgh at 8.10 a.m. on our way towards Peebles.
[Illustration: QUEEN MARY'S BATH.]
[Illustration: CRAIGMILLAR CASTLE.]
We journeyed along an upward gradient with a view of Craigmillar Castle
to our left, obtaining on our way a magnificent view of the fine city we
had left behind us, with its castle, and the more lofty elevation known
as Arthur's Seat, from which portions of twelve counties might be seen.
It was a curiously shaped hill with ribs and bones crossing in various
directions, which geologists tell us are undoubted remains of an old
volcano. It certainly was a very active one, if one can judge by the
quantity of debris it threw out. There was an old saying, especially
interesting to ladies, that if you washed your face at sunrise on May
1st, with dew collected off the top of Arthur's Seat, you would be
beautiful for ever. We were either too late or too soon, as it was now
October 9th, and as we had a lot to see on that day, with not overmuch
time to see it in, we left the dew to the ladies, feeling certain,
however, that they would be more likely to find it there in October than
on May Day. When we had walked about five miles, we turned off the main
road to visit the pretty village of Rosslyn, or Roslin, with its three
great attractions: the chapel, the castle, and the dell. We found it
surrounded by woods and watered by a very pretty reach of the River Esk,
and as full of history as almost any place in Scotland.
The unique chapel was the great object of interest. The guide informed
us that it was founded in 1446 by William St. Clair, who also built the
castle, in which he resided in princely splendour. He must have been a
person of very great importance, for he had titles enough even to weary
a Spaniard, being Prince of Orkney, Duke of Oldenburg, Earl of Caithness
and Stratherne, Lord St. Clair, Lord Liddlesdale, Lord Admiral of the
Scottish Seas, Lord Chief Justice of Scotland, Lord Warden of the three
Marches, Baron of Roslin, Knight of the Cockle, and High Chancellor,
Chamberlain, and Lieutenant of Scotland!
The lords of Rosslyn were buried in their complete armour beneath the
chapel floor up to the year 1650, but afterwards in coffins. Sir Walter
Scott refers to them in his "Lay of the Last Minstrel" thus:--
There are twenty of Rosslyn's Barons bold
Lie buried within that proud Chapelle.
[Illustration: ROSSLYN CHAPEL--THE "MASTER AND 'PRENTICE PILLARS"]
[Illustration: THE "'PRENTICE PILLAR."]
There were more carvings in Rosslyn Chapel than in any place of equal
size that we saw in all our wanderings, finely executed, and with every
small detail beautifully finished and exquisitely carved. Foliage,
flowers, and ferns abounded, and religious allegories, such as the Seven
Acts of Mercy, the Seven Deadly Sins, the Dance of Death, and many
scenes from the Scriptures; it was thought that the original idea had
been to represent a Bible in stone. The great object of interest was the
magnificently carved pillar known as the "'Prentice Pillar," and in the
chapel were two carved heads, each of them showing a deep scar on the
right temple. To these, as well as the pillar, a melancholy memory was
attached, from which it appeared that the master mason received orders
that this pillar should be of exquisite workmanship and design. Fearing
his inability to carry out his instructions, he went abroad to Rome to
see what designs he could find for its execution. While he was away his
apprentice had a dream in which he saw a most beautiful column, and,
setting to work at once to carry out the design of his dream, finished
the pillar, a perfect marvel of workmanship. When his master returned
and found the pillar completed, he was so envious and enraged at the
success of his apprentice that he struck him on the head with his mallet
with such force that he killed him on the spot, a crime for which he was
afterwards executed.
We passed on to the castle across a very narrow bridge over a ravine,
but we did not find much there except a modern-looking house built with
some of the old stones, under which were four dungeons. Rosslyn was
associated with scenes rendered famous by Bruce and Wallace, Queen Mary
and Rizzio, Robert III and Queen Annabella Drummond, by Comyn and
Fraser, and by the St. Clairs, as well as by legendary stories of the
Laird of Gilmorton Grange, who set fire to the house in which were his
beautiful daughter and her lover, the guilty abbot, so that both of them
were burnt to death, and of the Lady of Woodhouselee, a white-robed,
restless spectre, who appeared with her infant in her arms. Then there
was the triple battle between the Scots and the English, in which the
Scots were victorious:
Three triumphs in a day!
Three hosts subdued by one!
Three armies scattered like the spray,
Beneath one vernal sun.
[Illustration: ROSSLYN CASTLE.]
Here, too, was the inn, now the caretaker's house, visited by Dr.
Johnson and Boswell in 1773, the poet Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy
in 1803, while some of the many other celebrities who called from time
to time had left their signatures on the window-panes. Burns and his
friend Nasmyth the artist breakfasted there on one occasion, and Burns
was so pleased with the catering that he rewarded the landlady by
scratching on a pewter plate the two following verses:
My blessings on you, sonsie wife,
I ne'er was here before;
You've gien us walth for horn and knife--
Nae heart could wish for more.
Heaven keep you free from care and strife.
Till far ayont four score;
And while I toddle on through life,
I'll ne'er gang bye your door.
Rosslyn at one time was a quiet place and only thought of in Edinburgh
when an explosion was heard at the Rosslyn gunpowder works. But many
more visitors appeared after Sir Walter Scott raised it to eminence by
his famous "Lay" and his ballad of "Rosabelle":
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud.
Where Rosslyn's chiefs uncoffin'd lie.
Hawthornden was quite near where stood Ben Jonson's sycamore, and
Drummond's Halls, and Cyprus Grove, but we had no time to see the caves
where Sir Alexander Ramsay had such hairbreadth escapes. About the end
of the year 1618 Ben Jonson, then Poet Laureate of England, walked from
London to Edinburgh to visit his friend Taylor, the Thames waterman,
commonly known as the Water Poet, who at that time was at Leith. In the
January following he called to see the poet Drummond of Hawthornden, who
was more frequently called by the name of the place where he lived than
by his own. He found him sitting in front of his house, and as he
approached Drummond welcomed him with the poetical salutation:
"Welcome! welcome! Royal Ben,"
to which Jonson responded,
"Thank ye, thank ye, Hawthornden."
[Illustration: HAWTHORNDEN.]
The poet Drummond was born in 1585, and died in 1649, his end being
hastened by grief at the execution of Charles I. A relative erected a
monument to his memory in 1784, to which the poet Young added the
following lines:
O sacred solitude, divine retreat,
Choice of the prudent, envy of the great!
By the pure stream, or in the waving shade
I court fair Wisdom, that celestial maid;
Here from the ways of men, laid safe ashore,
I smile to hear the distant tempest roar;
Here, blest with health, with business unperplex'd,
This life I relish, and secure the next.
Rosslyn Glen was a lovely place, almost like a fairy scene, and we
wondered if Burns had it in his mind when he wrote:
Their groves of sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen of green bracken,
Wi' the burn stealing under the long yellow broom.
[Illustration: PENNICUICK HOUSE COURT]
We walked very quietly and quickly past the gunpowder works, lest
conversation might cause an explosion that would put an end to our
walking expedition and ourselves at the same time, and regained the
highway at a point about seven miles from Edinburgh. Presently we came
to the Glencorse Barracks, some portions of which adjoined our road,
and, judging from the dress and speech of the solitary sentinel who was
pacing to and fro in front of the entrance, we concluded that a regiment
of Highlanders must be stationed there. He informed us that in the time
of the French Wars some of the prisoners were employed in making Scotch
banknotes at a mill close by, and that portions of the barracks were
still used for prisoners, deserters, and the like. Passing on to
Pennicuick, we crossed a stream that flowed from the direction of the
Pentland Hills, and were informed that no less than seven paper mills
were worked by that stream within a distance of five miles. Here we saw
a monument which commemorated the interment of 309 French prisoners who
died during the years 1811 to 1814, a list of their names being still in
existence. This apparently large death-rate could not have been due to
the unhealthiness of the Glencorse Barracks, where they were confined,
for it was by repute one of the healthiest in the kingdom, the road
being 600 feet or more above sea-level, and the district generally,
including Pennicuick, considered a desirable health-resort for persons
suffering from pulmonary complaints. We stayed a short time here for
refreshments, and outside the town we came in contact with two young men
who were travelling a mile or two on our way, with whom we joined
company. We were giving them an outline of our journey and they were
relating to us their version of the massacre of Glencoe, when suddenly a
pretty little squirrel crossed our path and ran into a wood opposite.
This caused the massacre story to be ended abruptly and roused the
bloodthirsty instinct of the two Scots, who at once began to throw
stones at it with murderous intent. We watched the battle as the
squirrel jumped from branch to branch and passed from one tree to
another until it reached one of rather large dimensions. At this stage
our friends' ammunition, which they had gathered hastily from the road,
became exhausted, and we saw the squirrel looking at them from behind
the trunk of the tree as they went to gather another supply. Before they
were again ready for action the squirrel disappeared. We were pleased
that it escaped, for our companions were good shots. They explained to
us that squirrels were difficult animals to kill with a stone, unless
they were hit under the throat. Stone-throwing was quite a common
practice for country boys in Scotland, and many of them became so expert
that they could hit small objects at a considerable distance. We were
fairly good hands at it ourselves. It was rather a cruel sport, but
loose stones were always plentiful on the roads--for the surfaces were
not rolled, as in later years--and small animals, such as dogs and cats
and all kinds of birds, were tempting targets. Dogs were the greatest
sufferers, as they were more aggressive on the roads, and as my brother
had once been bitten by one it was woe to the dog that came within his
reach. Such was the accuracy acquired in the art of stone-throwing at
these animals, that even stooping down in the road and pretending to
lift a stone often caused the most savage dog to retreat quickly. We
parted from the two Scots without asking them to finish their story of
Glencoe, as the details were already fixed in our memories. They told us
our road skirted a moor which extended for forty-seven miles or nearly
as far as Glasgow, but we did not see much of the moor as we travelled
in a different direction.
[Illustration: "JOUGS" AT A CHURCH, PEEBLESSHIRE.]
We passed through Edleston, where the church was dedicated to St. Mungo,
reminding us of Mungo Park, the famous African traveller, and, strangely
enough, it appeared we were not far away from where he was born. In the
churchyard here was a tombstone to the memory of four ministers named
Robertson, who followed each other in a direct line extending to 160
years. There was also to be seen the ancient "Jougs," or iron rings in
which the necks of criminals were enclosed and fastened to a wall or
post or tree. About three miles before reaching Peebles we came to the
Mansion of Cringletie, the residence of the Wolfe-Murray family. The
name of Wolfe had been adopted because one of the Murrays greatly
distinguished himself at the Battle of Quebec, and on the lawn in front
of the house was a cannon on which the following words had been
engraved:
_His Majesty's Ship Royal George of 108 guns, sunk at Spithead 29th
August 1782. This gun, a 32 pounder, part of the armament of the
Royal George, was fished up from the wreck of that ship by Mr. Deans,
the zealous and enterprising Diver, on the 15th November 1836, and
was presented by the Master-General and Board of Ordnance to General
Durham of Largo, the elder Brother of Sir Philip Charles Henderson
Durham, Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Military Order of
the Bath, Knight Commander of the Most Ancient Military Order of
Merit of France, Admiral of the White Squadron of Her Majesty's
Fleet, and Commander-in-Chief of the Port of Portsmouth, 1836._
Sir Philip was serving as a lieutenant in the _Royal George_, and was
actually on duty as officer of the watch upon deck when the awful
catastrophe took place. He was providentially and miraculously saved,
but nearly 900 persons perished, amongst them the brave Admiral
Kempenfelt, whose flag went down with the ship.
The wreck of the _Royal George_ was the most awful disaster that had
hitherto happened to the Royal Navy. William Cowper the poet, as soon as
the sad news was brought to him, wrote a solemn poem entitled "The Loss
of the _Royal George_," from which it seems that Admiral Kempenfelt was
in his cabin when the great ship suddenly foundered.
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.
* * * * *
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone:
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.
* * * * *
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more.
All sunk beneath the wave.
Fast by their native shore!
It was nearly dark when we entered the town of Peebles, where we called
at the post office for letters, and experienced some difficulty at first
in obtaining lodgings, seeing that it was the night before the Hiring
Fair. We went first to the Temperance Hotel, but all the beds had been
taken down to make room for the great company they expected on the
morrow; eventually we found good accommodation at the "Cross Keys Inn,"
formerly the residence of a country laird.
We had seen notices posted about the town informing the public that, by
order of the Magistrates, who saw the evil of intoxicating drinks,
refreshments were to be provided the following day at the Town Hall. The
Good Templars had also issued a notice that they were having a
tea-party, for which of course we could not stay.
We found Peebles a most interesting place, and the neighbourhood
immediately surrounding it was full of history. The site on which our
hotel had been built was that of the hostelage belonging to the Abbey of
Arbroath in 1317, the monks granting the hostelage to William Maceon, a
burgess of Peebles, on condition that he would give to them, and their
attorneys, honest lodging whenever business brought them to that town.
He was to let them have the use of the hall, with tables and trestles,
also the use of the spence (pantry) and buttery, sleeping chambers, a
decent kitchen, and stables, and to provide them with the best candles
of Paris, with rushes for the floor and salt for the table. In later
times it was the town house of Williamson of Cardrona, and in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries became one of the principal inns,
especially for those who, like ourselves, were travelling from the
north, and was conducted by a family named Ritchie. Sir Walter Scott,
who at that time resided quite near, frequented the house, which in his
day was called the "Yett," and we were shown the room he sat in. Miss
Ritchie, the landlady in Scott's day, who died in 1841, was the
prototype of "Meg Dobs," the inn being the "Cleikum Inn" of his novel
_St. Ronan's Well_.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH AND MONASTERY OF THE HOLY CROSS, PEEBLES, AD
1261.]
There was a St. Mungo's Well in Peebles, and Mungo Park was intimately
associated with the town. He was born at Foulshiels, Yarrow, in the same
year as Sir Walter Scott, 1771, just one hundred years before our visit,
and, after studying for the Church, adopted medicine as his profession.
He served a short time with a doctor at Selkirk, before completing his
course at the University of Edinburgh, and sailed in 1792 for the East
Indies in the service of the East India Company. Later he joined an
association for the promotion of discovery in Africa, and in 1795 he
explored the basin of the Niger. In 1798 he was in London, and in 1801
began practice as a doctor in Peebles. He told Sir Walter Scott, after
passing through one of the severe winters in Peebleshire, that he would
rather return to the wilds of Africa than pass another winter there. He
returned to London in December 1803 to sail with another expedition, but
its departure was delayed for a short time, so he again visited Peebles,
and astonished the people there by bringing with him a black man named
"Sidi Omback Boubi," who was to be his tutor in Arabic. Meantime, in
1779, he had published a book entitled _Travels in the Interior of
Africa_, which caused a profound sensation at the time on account of the
wonderful stories it contained of adventures in what was then an unknown
part of the world. This book of "Adventures of Mungo Park" was highly
popular and extensively read throughout the country, by ourselves
amongst the rest.
[Illustration: THE BLACK DWARF.]
It was not until January 29th, 1805, that the expedition left Spithead,
and before Mungo Park left Peebles he rode over to Clovenfords, where
Sir Walter Scott was then residing, to stay a night with him at
Ashestiel. On the following morning Sir Walter accompanied him a short
distance on the return journey, and when they were parting where a small
ditch divided the moor from the road Park's horse stumbled a little. Sir
Walter said, "I am afraid, Mungo, that is a bad omen," to which Park
replied, smiling, "Friets (omens) follow those that look for them," and
so they parted for ever. In company with his friends Anderson and Scott
he explored the rivers Gambia and Niger, but his friends died, and Dr.
Park himself was murdered by hostile natives who attacked his canoe in
the River Niger.
Quite near our lodgings was the house where this famous African
traveller lived and practised blood-letting as a surgeon, and where
dreams of the tent in which he was once a prisoner and of dark faces
came to him at night, while the door at which his horse was tethered as
he went to see Sir Walter Scott, and the window out of which he put his
head when knocked up in the night, were all shown as objects of interest
to visitors. Mungo had at least one strange patient, and that was the
Black Dwarf, David Ritchie, who lies buried close to the gate in the old
churchyard. This was a horrid-looking creature, who paraded the country
as a privileged beggar. He affected to be a judge of female beauty, and
there was a hole in the wall of his cottage through which the fair
maidens had to look, a rose being passed through if his fantastic
fancies were pleased; but if not, the tiny window was closed in their
faces. He was known to Sir Walter Scott, who adopted his name in one of
his novels, _The Bowed Davie of the Windus_. His cottage, which was
practically in the same state as at the period of David Ritchie's death,
bore a tablet showing that it had been restored by the great Edinburgh
publishers W. and R. Chambers, who were natives of Peebles, and worded:
"In memory D.R., died 1811. W. and R. Chambers, 1845."
Dr. Pennicuick, who flourished A.D. 1652-1722, had written:
Peebles, the Metropolis of the shire,
Six times three praises doth from me require;
Three streets, three ports, three bridges, it adorn,
And three old steeples by three churches borne,
Three mills to serve the town in time of need.
On Peebles water, and on River Tweed,
Their arms are _proper_, and point forth their meaning,
Three salmon fishes nimbly counter swimming;
but there were other "Threes" connected with Peebles both before and
after the doctor's time: "The Three Tales of the Three Priests of
Peebles," supposed to have been told about the year 1460 before a
blazing fire at the "Virgin Inn."
There were also the Three Hopes buried in the churchyard, whose
tombstone records:
Here lie three Hopes enclosed within,
Death's prisoners by Adam's sin;
Yet rest in hope that they shall be
Set by the Second Adam free.
And there were probably other triplets, but when my brother suggested
there were also three letter e's in the name of Peebles, I reminded him
that it was closing-time, and also bed-time, so we rested that night in
an old inn such as Charles Dickens would have been delighted to
patronise.
(_Distance walked twenty-five miles_.)
_Tuesday, October 10th._
This was the day of the Great Peebles Fair, and everybody was awake
early, including ourselves. We left the "Cross Keys" hotel at six
o'clock in the morning, and a very cold one it was, for there had been a
sharp frost during the night. The famous old Cross formerly stood near
our inn, and the Cross Church close at hand, or rather all that remained
of them after the wars. In spite of the somewhat modern appearance of
the town, which was probably the result of the business element
introduced by the establishment of the woollen factories, Peebles was in
reality one of the ancient royal burghs, and formerly an ecclesiastical
centre of considerable importance, for in the reign of Alexander III
several very old relics were said to have been found, including what was
supposed to be a fragment of the true Cross, and with it the calcined
bones of St. Nicholas, who suffered in the Roman persecution, A.D. 294.
On the strength of these discoveries the king ordered a magnificent
church to be erected, which caused Peebles to be a Mecca for pilgrims,
who came there from all parts to venerate the relics. The building was
known as the Cross Church, where a monastery was founded at the desire
of James III in 1473 and attached to the church, in truly Christian
spirit, one-third of its revenues being devoted to the redemption of
Christian captives who remained in the hands of the Turks after the
Crusades.
[Illustration: ST. ANDREWS CHURCH, PEEBLES, A.D. 1195.]
If we had visited the town in past ages, there would not have been any
fair on October 10th, since the Great Fair, called the Beltane Festival,
was then held on May Day; but after the finding of the relics it was
made the occasion on which to celebrate the "Finding of the Cross,"
pilgrims and merchants coming from all parts to join the festivities and
attend the special celebrations at the Cross Church. On the occasion of
a Beltane Fair it was the custom to light a fire on the hill, round
which the young people danced and feasted on cakes made of milk and
eggs. We thought Beltane was the name of a Sun-god, but it appeared that
it was a Gaelic word meaning Bel, or Beal's-fire, and probably
originated from the Baal mentioned in Holy Writ.
As our next great object of interest was Abbotsford, the last house
inhabited by Sir Walter Scott, our course lay alongside the River Tweed.
We were fortunate in seeing the stream at Peebles, which stood at the
entrance to one of the most beautiful stretches in the whole of its
length of 103 miles, 41 of which lay in Peeblesshire. The twenty miles
along which we walked was magnificent river scenery.
[Illustration: THE SEAL OF THE CROSS CHURCH.]
We passed many castles and towers and other ancient fortifications along
its banks, the first being at Horsburgh, where the castle looked down
upon a grass field called the Chapelyards, on which formerly stood the
chapel and hospice of the two saints, Leonard and Lawrence. At this
hospice pilgrims from England were lodged when on their way to Peebles
to attend the feasts of the "Finding of the Cross" and the "Exaltation
of the Cross," which were celebrated at Beltane and Roodmass
respectively, in the ancient church and monastery of the Holy Cross. It
was said that King James I of England on his visits to Peebles was also
lodged here, and it is almost certain the Beltane Sports suggested to
him his famous poem, "Peebles to the Play," one of its lines being:
Hope Kailzie, and Cardrona, gathered out thickfold,
Singing "Hey ho, rumbelow, the young folks were full bold."
both of which places could be seen from Horsburgh Castle looking across
the river.
We saw the Tower of Cardrona, just before entering the considerable
village, or town, of Innerleithen at six miles from Peebles, and
although the time was so early, we met many people on their way to the
fair. Just before reaching Innerleithen we came to a sharp deep bend in
the river, which we were informed was known as the "Dirt Pot" owing to
its black appearance. At the bottom of this dark depth the silver bells
of Peebles were supposed to be lying. We also saw Glennormiston House,
the residence of William Chambers, who, with his brother, Robert,
founded _Chambers's Journal_ of wide-world fame, and authors, singly and
conjointly, of many other volumes. The two brothers were both
benefactors to their native town of Peebles, and William became Lord
Provost of Edinburgh, and the restorer of its ancient Cathedral of St.
Giles's. His brother Robert died earlier in that very year in which we
were walking. We reached Innerleithen just as the factory operatives
were returning from breakfast to their work at the woollen factories,
and they seemed quite a respectable class of people. Here we called at
the principal inn for our own breakfast, for which we were quite ready,
but we did not know then that Rabbie Burns had been to Innerleithen,
where, as he wrote, he had from a jug "a dribble o' drink," or we should
have done ourselves the honour of calling at the same place. At
Innerleithen we came to another "Bell-tree Field," where the bell hung
on the branch of a tree to summon worshippers to church, and there were
also some mineral springs which became famous after the publication of
Sir Walter Scott's novel, _St. Ronan's Well_.
[Illustration: TRAQUAIR HOUSE.]
Soon after leaving Innerleithen we could see Traquair House towering
above the trees by which it was surrounded. Traquair was said to be the
oldest inhabited house in Scotland. Sir Walter Scott knew it well, it
being quite near to Ashiestiel, where he wrote "The Lay of the Last
Minstrel," "Marmion," and "The Lady of the Lake." It was one of the
prototypes of "Tully Veolan" in his _Waverley_. There was no abode in
Scotland more quaint and curious than Traquair House, for it was
turreted, walled, buttressed, windowed, and loopholed, all as in the
days of old. Within were preserved many relics of the storied past and
also of royalty. Here was the bed on which Queen Mary slept in 1566;
here also the oaken cradle of the infant King James VI. The library was
rich in valuable and rare books and MSS. and service books of the
twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries in beautiful penmanship
upon fine vellum. The magnificent avenue was grass-grown, the gates had
not been opened for many years, while the pillars of the gateway were
adorned with two huge bears standing erect and bearing the motto: "Judge
Nocht." Magnificent woods adorned the grounds, remains of the
once-famous forest of Ettrick, said to be the old classical forest of
Caledon of the days of King Arthur.
Here was also Flora Hill, with its beautiful woods, where Hogg, the
Ettrick Shepherd, lays the scene of his exquisite poem "Kilmeny" in the
_Queen's Wake_, where--
Bonnie Kilmeny gae'd up the Glen,
But it wisna to meet Duneira's men, etc.
Through beautiful scenery we continued alongside the Tweed, and noticed
that even the rooks could not do without breakfast, for they were busy
in a potato field. We were amused to see them fly away on our approach,
some of them with potatoes in their mouths, and, like other thieves,
looking quite guilty.
Presently we came to a solitary fisherman standing knee-deep in the
river, with whom we had a short conversation. He said he was fishing for
salmon, which ascended the river from Berwick about that time of the
year and returned in May. We were rather amused at his mentioning the
return journey, as from the frantic efforts he was making to catch the
fish he was doing his best to prevent them from coming back again. He
told us he had been fishing there since daylight that morning, and had
caught nothing. By way of sympathy my brother told him a story of two
young men who walked sixteen miles over the hills to fish in a stream.
They stayed that night at the nearest inn, and started out very early
the next morning. When they got back to the hotel at night they wrote
the following verse in the visitors' book:
Hickory dickory dock!
We began at six o'clock,
We fished till night without a bite.
Hickory dickory dock!
This was a description, he said, of real fishermen's luck, but whether
the absence of the "bite" referred to the fishermen or to the fish was
not quite clear. It had been known to apply to both.
Proceeding further we met a gentleman walking along the road, of whom we
made inquiries about the country we were passing through. He told us
that the castle we could see across the river was named "Muckle Mouthed
Meg." A certain man in ancient times, having offended against the laws,
was given a choice for a sentence by the King of Scotland---either he
must marry Muckle Mouthed Meg, a woman with a very large mouth, or
suffer death. He chose the first, and the pair lived together in the old
castle for some years. We told him we were walking from John o' Groat's
to Land's End, but when he said he had passed John o' Groat's in the
train, we had considerable doubts as to the accuracy of his statements,
for there was no railway at all in the County of Caithness in which John
o' Groat's was situated. We therefore made further inquiries about the
old castle, and were informed that the proper name of it was Elibank
Castle, and that it once belonged to Sir Gideon Murray, who one night
caught young Willie Scott of Oakwood Tower trying to "lift the kye." The
lowing of the cattle roused him up, and with his retainers he drove off
the marauders, while his lady watched the fight from the battlement of
the Tower. Willie, or, to be more correct, Sir William Scott, Junr., was
caught and put in the dungeon. Sir Gideon Murray decided to hang him,
but his lady interposed: "Would ye hang the winsome Laird o' Harden,"
she said, "when ye hae three ill-favoured daughters to marry?" Sir
Willie was one of the handsomest men of his time, and when the men
brought the rope to hang him he was given the option of marrying Muckle
Mou'd Meg or of being hanged with a "hempen halter." It was said that
when he first saw Meg he said he preferred to be hanged, but he found
she improved on closer acquaintance, and so in three days' time a
clergyman said, "Wilt thou take this woman here present to be thy lawful
wife?" knowing full well what the answer must be. Short of other
materials, the marriage contract was written with a goose quill on the
parchment head of a drum. Sir William found that Meg made him a very
good wife in spite of her wide mouth, and they lived happily together,
the moral being, we supposed, that it is not always the prettiest girl
that makes the best wife.
Shortly afterwards we left the River Tweed for a time while we walked
across the hills to Galashiels, and on our way to that town we came to a
railway station near which were some large vineries. A carriage was
standing at the entrance to the gardens, where two gentlemen were buying
some fine bunches of grapes which we could easily have disposed of, for
we were getting rather hungry, but as they did not give us the chance,
we walked on. Galashiels was formerly only a village, the "shiels"
meaning shelters for sheep, but it had risen to importance owing to its
woollen factories. It was now a burgh, boasting a coat-of-arms on which
was represented a plum-tree with a fox on either side, and the motto,
"Sour plums of Galashiels." The origin of this was an incident that
occurred in 1337, in the time of Edward III, when some Englishmen who
were retreating stopped here to eat some wild plums. While they were so
engaged they were attacked by a party of Scots with swords, who killed
every one of them, throwing their bodies into a trench afterwards known
as the "Englishman's Syke." We passed a road leading off to the left to
Stow, where King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table were said to
have defeated the Heathens. We left Galashiels by the Melrose Road, and,
after walking about a mile and a half, we turned aside to cross the
River Tweed, not by a ferry, as that was against our rule, but by a
railway bridge. No doubt this was against the railway company's by-laws
and regulations, but it served our purpose, and we soon reached
Abbotsford, that fine mansion, once the residence of the great Sir
Walter Scott, the king of novelists, on the building of which he had
spent a great amount of money, and the place of his death September
21st, 1832.
[Illustration: ABBOTSFORD FROM THE RIVER.]
Abbotsford, including the gardens, park, walks and woods, was all his
own creation, and was so named by him because the River Tweed was
crossed at that point by the monks on their way to and from Melrose
Abbey in the olden times.
[Illustration: SIR WALTER SCOTT.]
We found the house in splendid condition and the garden just as Sir
Walter had left it. We were shown through the hall, study, library, and
drawing-room, and even his last suit of clothes, with his white beaver
hat, was carefully preserved under a glass case. We saw much armour, the
largest suit belonging formerly to Sir John Cheney, the biggest man who
fought at the battle of Bosworth Field. The collection of arms gathered
out of all ages and countries was said to be the finest in the world,
including Rob Roy Macgregor's gun, sword, and dirk, the Marquis of
Montrose's sword, and the rifle of Andreas Hofer the Tyrolese patriot.
Amongst these great curios was the small pocket-knife used by Sir
Walter when he was a boy. We were shown the presents given to him from
all parts of the kingdom, and from abroad, including an ebony suite of
furniture presented to him by King George IV. There were many portraits
and busts of himself, and his wife and children, including a marble bust
of himself by Chantrey, the great sculptor, carved in the year 1820. The
other portraits included one of Queen Elizabeth, another of Rob Roy; a
painting of Queen Mary's head, after it had been cut off at Fotheringay,
and a print of Stothard's _Canterbury Pilgrims_. We also saw an iron box
in which Queen Mary kept her money for the poor, and near this was her
crucifix. In fact, the place reminded us of some great museum, for there
were numberless relics of antiquity stored in every nook and corner, and
in the most unlikely places. We were sorry we had not time to stay and
take a longer survey, for the mansion and its surroundings form one of
the great sights of Scotland, whose people revere the memory of the
great man who lived there.
[Illustration: SIR WALTER SCOTT'S STUDY.]
The declining days of Sir Walter were not without sickness and sorrow,
for he had spent all the money obtained by the sale of his books on this
palatial mansion. After a long illness, and as a last resource, he was
taken to Italy; but while there he had another apoplectic attack, and
was brought home again, only just in time to die. He expressed a wish
that Lockhart, his son-in-law, should read to him, and when asked from
what book, he answered, "Need you ask? There is but one." He chose the
fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel, and when it was ended, he said,
"Well, this is a great comfort: I have followed you distinctly, and I
feel as if I were yet to be myself again." In an interval of
consciousness he said, "Lockhart! I may have but a minute to speak to
you, my dear; be a good man, be virtuous, be religious, be a good man.
Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here."
A friend who was present at the death of Sir Walter wrote: "It was a
beautiful day--so warm that every window was wide open, and so perfectly
still that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle
ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible--as we
kneeled around his bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes."
We could imagine the wish that would echo in more than one mind as Sir
Walter's soul departed, perhaps through one of the open windows, "Let me
die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there;
It is the loneliness in death
That parts not quite with parting breath,
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
The hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray;
A gilded halo hov'ring round decay.
[Illustration: ABBOTSFORD.]
We passed slowly through the garden and grounds, and when we reached the
road along which Sir Walter Scott had so often walked, we hurried on to
see the old abbey of Melrose, which was founded by King David I. On our
way we passed a large hydropathic establishment and an asylum not quite
completed, and on reaching Melrose we called at one of the inns for tea,
where we read a description by Sir Walter of his "flitting" from
Ashiestiel, his former residence, to his grand house at Abbotsford. The
flitting took place at Whitsuntide in 1812, so, as he died in 1832, he
must have lived at Abbotsford about twenty years. He was a great
collector of curios, and wrote a letter describing the comical scene
which took place on that occasion. "The neighbours," he wrote, "have
been very much delighted with the procession of furniture, in which old
swords, bows, targets, and lances made a very conspicuous show. A family
of turkeys was accommodated within the helmet of some _preux chevalier_
of ancient Border fame, and the very cows, for aught I know, were
bearing banners and muskets. I assure you that this caravan, attended by
a dozen ragged, rosy, peasant children carrying fishing-rods and spears,
and leading ponies, greyhounds, and spaniels, would, as it crossed the
Tweed, have furnished no bad subject for the pencil."
[Illustration: THE CHANCEL, MELROSE ABBEY.]
Melrose Abbey was said to afford the finest specimen of Gothic
architecture and Gothic sculpture of which Scotland could boast, and the
stone of which it had been built, though it had resisted the weather for
many ages, retained perfect sharpness, so that even the most minute
ornaments seemed as entire as when they had been newly wrought. In some
of the cloisters there were representations of flowers, leaves, and
vegetables carved in stone with "accuracy and precision so delicate that
it almost made visitors distrust their senses when they considered the
difficulty of subjecting so hard a substance to such intricate and
exquisite modulation." This superb convent was dedicated to St. Mary,
and the monks were of the Cistercian Order, of whom the poet wrote:
Oh, the monks of Melrose made gude kail (broth)
On Fridays when they fasted;
Nor wanted they gude beef and ale,
So lang's their neighbours' lasted.
There were one hundred monks at Melrose in the year 1542, and it was
supposed that in earlier times much of the carving had been done by
monks under strong religious influences. The rose predominated amongst
the carved flowers, as it was the abbot's favourite flower, emblematic
of the locality from which the abbey took its name. The curly green, or
kale, which grew in nearly every garden in Scotland, was a very
difficult plant to sculpture, but was so delicately executed here as to
resemble exactly the natural leaf; and there was a curious gargoyle
representing a pig playing on the bagpipes, so this instrument must have
been of far more ancient origin than we had supposed when we noticed its
absence from the instruments recorded as having been played when Mary
Queen of Scots was serenaded in Edinburgh on her arrival in Scotland.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO MELROSE ABBEY.]
Under the high altar were buried the remains of Alexander II, the dust
of Douglas the hero of Otterburn, and others of his illustrious and
heroic race, as well as the remains of Sir Michael Scott. Here too was
buried the heart of King Robert the Bruce. It appeared that Bruce told
his son that he wished to have his heart buried at Melrose; but when he
was ready to die and his friends were assembled round his bedside, he
confessed to them that in his passion he had killed Comyn with his own
hand, before the altar, and had intended, had he lived, to make war on
the Saracens, who held the Holy Land, for the evil deeds he had done. He
requested his dearest friend, Lord James Douglas, to carry his heart to
Jerusalem and bury it there. Douglas wept bitterly, but as soon as the
king was dead he had his heart taken from his body, embalmed, and
enclosed in a silver case which he had made for it, and wore it
suspended from his neck by a string of silk and gold. With some of the
bravest men in Scotland he set out for Jerusalem, but, landing in Spain,
they were persuaded to take part in a battle there against the Saracens.
Douglas, seeing one of his friends being hard pressed by the enemy, went
to his assistance and became surrounded by the Moors himself. Seeing no
chance of escape, he took from his neck the heart of Bruce, and speaking
to it as he would have done to Bruce if alive, said, "Pass first in the
fight as thou wert wont to do, and Douglas will follow thee or die."
With these words he threw the king's heart among the enemy, and rushing
forward to the place where it fell, was there slain, and his body was
found lying on the silver case. Most of the Scots were slain in this
battle with the Moors, and they that remained alive returned to
Scotland, the charge of Bruce's heart being entrusted to Sir Simon
Lockhard of Lee, who afterwards for his device bore on his shield a
man's heart with a padlock upon it, in memory of Bruce's heart which was
padlocked in the silver case. For this reason, also, Sir Simon's name
was changed from Lockhard to Lockheart, and Bruce's heart was buried in
accordance with his original desire at Melrose.
Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie, who also lies buried in the abbey,
flourished in the thirteenth century. His great learning, chiefly
acquired in foreign countries, together with an identity in name, had
given rise to a certain confusion, among the earlier historians, between
him and Michael Scott the "wondrous wizard and magician" referred to by
Dante in Canto xxmo of the "Inferno." Michael Scott studied such
abstruse subjects as judicial astrology, alchemy, physiognomy, and
chiromancy, and his commentary on Aristotle was considered to be of such
a high order that it was printed in Venice in 1496. Sir Walter Scott
referred to Michael Scott:
The wondrous Michael Scott
A wizard, of such dreaded fame,
That when in Salamanca's Cave
Him listed his magic wand to wave
The bells would ring in Notre Dame,
and he explained the origin of this by relating the story that Michael
on one occasion when in Spain was sent as an Ambassador to the King of
France to obtain some concessions, but instead of going in great state,
as usual on those occasions, he evoked the services of a demon in the
shape of a huge black horse, forcing it to fly through the air to Paris.
The king was rather offended at his coming in such an unceremonious
manner, and was about to give him a contemptuous refusal when Scott
asked him to defer his decision until his horse had stamped its foot
three times. The first stamp shook every church in Paris, causing all
the bells to ring; the second threw down three of the towers of the
palace; and when the infernal steed had lifted up his hoof for the third
time, the king stopped him by promising Michael the most ample
concessions.
A modern writer, commenting upon this story, says, "There is something
uncanny about the Celts which makes them love a Trinity of ideas, and
the old stories of the Welsh collected in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries include a story very similar about Kilhwch, cousin to Arthur,
who threatens if he cannot have what he wants that he will set up three
shouts than which none were ever heard more deadly and which will be
heard from Pengwaed in Cornwall to Dinsol in the North and Ergair Oerful
in Ireland. The Triads show the method best and furnish many examples,
quoting the following:
Three things are best when hung--salt fish, a wet hat, and an
Englishman.
Three things are difficult to get--gold from the miser, love from the
devil, and courtesy from the Englishman.
The three hardest things--a granite block, a miser's barley loaf, and an
Englishman's heart. But perhaps the best known is one translated long
ago from the Welsh:
A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree,
The more they are beaten, the better they be.
But to return to Michael Scott. Another strange story about Michael was
his adventure with the witch of Falschope. To avenge himself upon her
for striking him suddenly with his own wand whereby he was transformed
for a time and assumed the appearance of a hare, Michael sent his man
with two greyhounds to the house where the witch lived, to ask the old
lady to give him a bit of bread for the greyhounds; if she refused he
was to place a piece of paper, which he handed to him, over the top of
the house door. The witch gave the man a curt refusal, and so he
fastened the paper, on which were some words, including, "Michael
Scott's man sought meat and gat nane," as directed. This acted as a
spell, and the old witch, who was making cakes for the reapers then at
work in the corn, now began to dance round the fire (which, as usual in
those days, was burning in the middle of the room) and to sing the
words:
"Maister Michael Scott's man
Sought meat and gat nane."
and she had to continue thus until the spell was broken. Meantime, her
husband and the reapers who were with him were wondering why the cakes
had not reached them, so the old man sent one of the reapers to inquire
the reason. As soon as he went through the door he was caught by the
spell and so had to perform the same antics as his mistress. As he did
not return, the husband sent man after man until he was alone, and then
went himself. But, knowing all about the quarrel between Michael and his
wife, and having seen the wizard on the hill, he was rather more
cautious than his men, so, instead of going through the door, he looked
through the window. There he saw the reapers dragging his wife, who had
become quite exhausted, sometimes round, and sometimes through the fire,
singing the chorus as they did so. He at once saddled his horse and rode
as fast as he could to find Michael, who good-naturedly granted his
request, and directed him to enter his house backwards, removing the
paper from above the door with his left hand as he went in. The old man
lost no time in returning home, where he found them all still dancing
furiously and singing the same rhyme; but immediately he entered, the
supernatural performance ended, very much, we imagine, to the relief of
all concerned.
Michael Scott was at one time, it was said, much embarrassed by a spirit
for whom he had to find constant employment, and amongst other work he
commanded him to build a dam or other weir across the River Tweed at
Kelso. He completed that in a single night. Michael next ordered him to
divide the summit of the Eildon Hill in three parts; but as this
stupendous work was also completed in one night, he was at his wits'
end what work to find him to do next. At last he bethought himself of a
job that would find him constant employment. He sent him to the seashore
and employed him at the hopeless and endless task of making ropes of
sand there, which as fast as he made them were washed away by the tides.
The three peaks of Eildon Hill, of nearly equal height, are still to be
seen. Magnificent views are to be obtained from their tops, which Sir
Walter Scott often frequented and of which he wrote, "I can stand on the
Eildon and point out forty-three places famous in war and in verse."
Another legend connected with these hills was that in the "Eildon
caverns vast" a cave existed where the British King Arthur and his
famous Knights of the Round Table lie asleep waiting the blast of the
bugle which will recall them from Fairyland to lead the British on to a
victory that will ensure a united and glorious Empire. King Arthur has a
number of burial-places of the same character, according to local
stories both in England and Wales, and even one in Cheshire at Alderley
Edge, close By the "Wizard Inn," which title refers to the story.
[Illustration: MELROSE ABBEY.]
Melrose and district has been hallowed by the influence and memory of
Sir Walter Scott, who was to Melrose what Shakespeare was to
Stratford-on-Avon, and he has invested the old abbey with an additional
halo of interest by his "Lay of the Last Minstrel," a copy of which we
saw for the first time at the inn where we called for tea. We were
greatly interested, as it related to the neighbourhood we were about to
pass through in particular, and we were quite captivated with its
opening lines, which appealed so strongly to wayfarers like ourselves:
The way was long, the wind was cold.
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry.
We were now nearing the Borders of Scotland and England, where this
Border warfare formerly raged for centuries. The desperadoes engaged in
it on the Scottish side were known as Moss-troopers, any of whom when
caught by the English were taken to Carlisle and hanged near there at a
place called Hairibee. Those who claimed the "benefit of clergy" were
allowed to repeat in Latin the "Miserere mei," at the beginning of the
51st Psalm, before they were executed, this becoming known as the
"neck-verse."
William of Deloraine was one of the most desperate Moss-troopers ever
engaged in Border warfare, but he, according to Sir Walter Scott:
By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds;
In Eske or Liddel, fords were none,
But he would ride them, one by one;
* * * * *
Steady of heart, and stout of hand.
As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
Five times outlawed had he been,
By England's King, and Scotland's Queen.
When Sir Michael Scott was buried in Melrose Abbey his Mystic
Book--which no one was ever to see except the Chief of Branxholm, and
then only in the time of need--was buried with him. Branxholm Tower was
about eighteen miles from Melrose and situated in the vale of Cheviot.
After the death of Lord Walter (who had been killed in the Border
warfare), a gathering of the kinsmen of the great Buccleuch was held
there, and the "Ladye Margaret" left the company, retiring laden with
sorrow and her impending troubles to her bower. It was a fine moonlight
night when--
From amid the arméd train
She called to her, William of Deloraine.
and sent him for the mighty book to Melrose Abbey which was to relieve
her of all her troubles.
"Sir William of Deloraine, good at need,
Mount thee on the wightest steed;
Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride.
Until thou come to fair Tweedside;
And in Melrose's holy pile
Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
Greet the Father well from me;
Say that the fated hour is come,
And to-night he shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb:
For this will be St. Michael's night,
And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright;
And the Cross, of bloody red,
Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.
* * * * *
"What he gives thee, see thou keep;
Stay not thou for food or sleep:
Be it scroll, or be it book,
Into it, Knight, thou must not look;
If thou readest, thou art lorn!
Better had'st thou ne'er been born."--
* * * * *
"O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey steed,
Which drinks of the Teviot clear;
Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say,
"Again will I be here:
And safer by none may thy errand be done,
Than, noble dame, by me;
Letter nor line know I never a one,
Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee."
Deloraine lost no time in carrying out his Ladye's wishes, and rode
furiously on his horse to Melrose Abbey in order to be there by
midnight, and as described in Sir Walter Scott's "Lay of the Last
Minstrel":
Short halt did Deloraine make there;
Little reck'd he of the scene so fair
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong,
He struck full loud, and struck full long.
The porter hurried to the gate--
"Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?"
"From Branksome I," the warrior cried;
And straight the wicket open'd wide
For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood,
To fence the rights of fair Melrose;
And lands and livings, many a rood,
Had gifted the Shrine for their souls' repose.
* * * * *
Bold Deloraine his errand said;
The porter bent his humble head;
With torch in hand, and feet unshod.
And noiseless step, the path he trod.
The archèd cloister, far and wide,
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride,
Till, stooping low his lofty crest,
He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest,
And lifted his barred aventayle,
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.
* * * * *
"The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me,
Says, that the fated hour is come,
And that to-night I shall watch with thee,
To win the treasure of the tomb."
From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd;
A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard.
And strangely on the Knight look'd he,
And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide;
"And, darest thou, Warrior! seek to see
What heaven and hell alike would hide?
My breast, in belt of iron pent,
With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn;
For threescore years, in penance spent.
My knees those flinty stones have worn;
Yet all too little to atone
For knowing what should ne'er be known.
Would'st thou thy every future year
In ceaseless prayer and penance drie,
Yet wait thy latter end with fear
Then, daring Warrior, follow me!"
* * * * *
"Penance, father, will I none;
Prayer know I hardly one;
For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry,
Save to patter an Ave Mary,
When I ride on a Border foray.
Other prayer can I none;
So speed me my errand, and let me be gone."
* * * * *
Again on the Knight look'd the Churchman old,
And again he sighed heavily;
For he had himself been a warrior bold.
And fought in Spain and Italy.
And he thought on the days that were long since by,
When his limbs were strong, and his courage was high--
Now, slow and faint, he led the way,
Where, cloister'd round, the garden lay;
The pillar'd arches were over their head,
And beneath their feet were the bones of the dead.
* * * * *
The moon on the east oriel shone
Through slender shafts of shapely stone,
* * * * *
The silver light, so pale and faint,
Shew'd many a prophet, and many a saint,
Whose image on the glass was dyed;
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red
Triumphal Michael brandished,
And trampled the Apostate's pride.
The moon beam kiss'd the holy pane,
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.
* * * * *
They sate them down on a marble stone,--
(A Scottish monarch slept below;)
Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone--
"I was not always a man of woe;
For Paynim countries I have trod,
And fought beneath the Cross of God:
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms appear.
And their iron clang sounds strange to my ear.
* * * * *
"In these far climes it was my lot
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott;
* * * * *
Some of his skill he taught to me;
And, Warrior, I could say to thee
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone:
But to speak them were a deadly sin;
And for having but thought them my heart within,
A treble penance must be done.
* * * * *
"When Michael lay on his dying bed,
His conscience was awakened
He bethought him of his sinful deed,
And he gave me a sign to come with speed.
I was in Spain when the morning rose,
But I stood by his bed ere evening close.
The words may not again be said
That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid;
They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave,
And pile it in heaps above his grave.
* * * * *
"I swore to bury his Mighty Book,
That never mortal might therein look;
And never to tell where it was hid,
Save at his Chief of Branksome's need:
And when that need was past and o'er,
Again the volume to restore.
I buried him on St. Michael's night,
When the bell toll'd one, and the moon was bright,
And I dug his chamber among the dead,
When the floor of the chancel was stained red,
That his patron's cross might over him wave,
And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave.
* * * * *
"It was a night of woe and dread,
When Michael in the tomb I laid!
Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd,
The banners waved without a blast"--
Still spoke the Monk, when the bell toll'd one!--
I tell you, that a braver man
Than William of Deloraine, good at need,
Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed;
Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread,
And his hair did bristle upon his head.
* * * * *
"Lo, Warrior! now, the Cross of Red
Points to the grave of the mighty dead;
Within it burns a wondrous light,
To chase the spirits that love the night:
That lamp shall burn unquenchably,
Until the eternal doom shall be."--
Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag-stone,
Which the bloody Cross was traced upon:
He pointed to a secret nook;
An iron bar the Warrior took;
And the Monk made a sign with his wither'd hand,
The grave's huge portal to expand.
* * * * *
With beating heart to the task he went;
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent;
With bar of iron heaved amain,
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like rain.
It was by dint of passing strength,
That he moved the massy stone at length.
I would you had been there, to see
How the light broke forth so gloriously,
Stream'd upward to the chancel roof,
And through the galleries far aloof!
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright:
It shone like heaven's own blessed light,
And, issuing from the tomb,
Show'd the Monk's cowl, and visage pale,
Danced on the dark-brow'd Warrior's mail,
And kiss'd his waving plume.
* * * * *
Before their eyes the Wizard lay,
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd.
He seem'd some seventy winters old;
A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea:
His left hand held his Book of Might;
A silver cross was in his right;
The lamp was placed beside his knee:
High and majestic was his look,
At which the fellest fiends had shook.
And all unruffled was his face:
They trusted his soul had gotten grace.
* * * * *
Often had William of Deloraine
Rode through the battle's bloody plain,
And trampled down the warriors slain,
And neither known remorse nor awe;
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd;
His breath came thick, his head swam round.
When this strange scene of death he saw.
Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood.
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud:
With eyes averted prayed he;
He might not endure the sight to see.
Of the man he had loved so brotherly.
* * * * *
And when the priest his death-prayer had pray'd,
Thus unto Deloraine he said:--
"Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,
Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;
For those, thou may'st not look upon,
Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!"--
Then Deloraine, in terror, took
From the cold hand the Mighty Book,
With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound:
He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd;
But the glare of the sepulchral light,
Perchance, had dazzled the Warrior's sight.
* * * * *
When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb.
The night return'd in double gloom;
For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few;
And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew.
With wavering steps and dizzy brain,
They hardly might the postern gain.
'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd,
They heard strange noises on the blast;
And through the cloister-galleries small,
Which at mid-height thread the chancel wall,
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,
And voices unlike the voices of man;
As if the fiends kept holiday,
Because these spells were brought to day.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
* * * * *
"Now, hie thee hence," the Father said,
"And when we are on death-bed laid,
O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,
Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!"--
The Monk return'd him to his cell,
And many a prayer and penance sped;
When the convent met at the noontide bell--
The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was dead!
Before the cross was the body laid,
With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he pray'd.
What became of Sir William Deloraine and the wonderful book on his
return journey we had no time to read that evening, but we afterwards
learned he fell into the hands of the terrible Black Dwarf. We had
decided to walk to Hawick if possible, although we were rather reluctant
to leave Melrose. We had had one good tea on entering the town, and my
brother suggested having another before leaving it, so after visiting
the graveyard of the abbey, where the following curious epitaph appeared
on one of the stones, we returned to the inn, where the people were
highly amused at seeing us return so soon and for such a purpose:
The earth goeth to the earth
Glist'ring like gold;
The earth goeth to the earth
Sooner than it wold;
The earth builds on the earth
Castles and Towers;
The earth says to the earth,
All shall be ours.
Still, we were quite ready for our second tea, and wondered whether
there was any exercise that gave people a better appetite and a greater
joy in appeasing it than walking, especially in the clear and sharp air
of Scotland, for we were nearly always extremely hungry after an hour or
two's walk. When the tea was served, I noticed that my brother lingered
over it longer than usual, and when I reminded him that the night would
soon be on us, he said he did not want to leave before dark, as he
wanted to see how the old abbey appeared at night, quoting Sir Walter
Scott as the reason why:
If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery.
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go--but go alone the while--
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear.
Was ever scene so sad and fair?
I reminded my brother that there would be no moon visible that night,
and that it would therefore be impossible to see the old abbey "by the
pale moonlight"; but he said the starlight would do just as well for
him, so we had to wait until one or two stars made their appearance, and
then departed, calling at a shop to make a few small purchases as we
passed on our way. The path alongside the abbey was entirely deserted.
Though so near the town there was scarcely a sound to be heard, not even
"the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave." Although we had no
moonlight, the stars were shining brightly through the ruined arches
which had once been filled with stained glass, representing the figures
"of many a prophet and many a saint." It was a beautiful sight that
remained in our memories long after other scenes had been forgotten.
According to the Koran there were four archangels: Azrael, the angel of
death; Azrafil, who was to sound the trumpet at the resurrection;
Gabriel, the angel of revelations, who wrote down the divine decrees;
and Michael, the champion, who fought the battles of faith,--and it was
this Michael whose figure Sir Walter Scott described as appearing full
in the midst of the east oriel window "with his Cross of bloody red,"
which in the light of the moon shone on the floor of the abbey and
"pointed to the grave of the mighty dead" into which the Monk and
William of Deloraine had to descend to secure possession of the "Mighty
Book."
After passing the old abbey and the shade of the walls and trees to find
our way to the narrow and rough road along which we had to travel
towards Hawick, we halted for a few moments at the side of the road to
arrange the contents of our bags, in order to make room for the small
purchases we had made in the town. We had almost completed the
readjustment when we heard the heavy footsteps of a man approaching, who
passed us walking along the road we were about to follow. My brother
asked him if he was going far that way, to which he replied, "A goodish
bit," so we said we should be glad of his company; but he walked on
without speaking to us further. We pushed the remaining things in our
bags as quickly as possible, and hurried on after him. As we did not
overtake him, we stood still and listened attentively, though
fruitlessly, for not a footstep could we hear. We then accelerated our
pace to what was known as the "Irishman's Trig"--a peculiar step,
quicker than a walk, but slower than a run--and after going some
distance we stopped again to listen; but the only sound we could hear
was the barking of a solitary dog a long distance away. This was very
provoking, as we wanted to get some information about our road, which,
besides being rough, was both hilly and very lonely, and more in the
nature of a track than a road. Where the man could have disappeared to
was a mystery on a road apparently without any offshoots, so we
concluded he must have thought we contemplated doing him some bodily
harm, and had either "bolted" or "clapp'd," as my brother described it,
behind some rock or bush, in which case he must have felt relieved and
perhaps amused when he heard us "trigging" past him on the road.
[Illustration: LILLIESLEAF AND THE EILDON HILLS.]
We continued along the lonely road without his company, with the ghostly
Eildon Hills on one side and the moors on the other, until after walking
steadily onwards for a few miles, we heard the roar of a mountain stream
in the distance. When we reached it we were horrified to find it running
right across our road. It looked awful in the dark, as it was quite
deep, and although we could just see where our road emerged from the
stream on the other side, it was quite impossible for us to cross in the
dark. We could see a few lights some distance beyond the stream, but it
was useless to attempt to call for help, since our voices could not be
heard above the noise of the torrent. Our position seemed almost
hopeless, until my brother said he thought he had seen a shed or a small
house behind a gate some distance before coming to the stream. We
resolved to turn back, and luckily we discovered it to be a small lodge
guarding the entrance to a private road. We knocked at the door of the
house, which was in darkness, the people having evidently gone to bed.
Presently a woman asked what was wanted, and when we told her we could
not get across the stream, she said there was a footbridge near by,
which we had not seen in the dark, and told us how to find it a little
higher up the stream. Needless to relate, we were very pleased when we
got across the bridge, and we measured the distance across that
turbulent stream in fifteen long strides.
We soon reached the lights we had seen, and found a small village, where
at the inn we got some strange lodgings, and slept that night in a bed
of a most curious construction, as it was in a dark place under the
stairs, entered by a door from the parlour. But it was clean and
comfortable, and we were delighted to make use of it after our long
walk.
(_Distance walked thirty miles_.)
_Wednesday, October 11th._
We had been warned when we retired to rest that it was most likely we
should be wakened early in the morning by people coming down the stairs,
and advised to take no notice of them, as no one would interfere with us
or our belongings. We were not surprised, therefore, when we were
aroused early by heavy footsteps immediately over our heads, which we
supposed were those of the landlord as he came down the stairs. We had
slept soundly, and, since there was little chance of any further
slumber, we decided to get up and look round, the village before
breakfast. We had to use the parlour as a dressing-room, and not knowing
who might be coming down the stairs next, we dressed ourselves as
quickly as possible. We found that the village was called Lilliesleaf,
which we thought a pretty name, though we were informed it had been
spelt in twenty-seven different ways, while the stream we came to in the
night was known by the incongruous name of Ale Water. The lodge we had
gone back to for information as to the means of crossing was the East
Gate guarding one of the entrances to Riddell, a very ancient place
where Sir Walter Scott had recorded the unearthing of two graves of
special interest, one containing an earthen pot filled with ashes and
arms, and bearing the legible date of 729, and the other dated 936,
filled with the bones of a man of gigantic size.
A local historian wrote of the Ale Water that "it is one thing to see it
on a summer day when it can be crossed by the stepping-stones, and
another when heavy rains have fallen in the autumn--then it is a
strong, deep current and carries branches and even trees on its surface,
the ford at Riddell East Gate being impassable, and it is only then that
we can appreciate the scene." It seemed a strange coincidence that we
should be travelling on the same track but in the opposite direction as
that pursued by William Deloraine, and that we should have crossed the
Ale Water about a fortnight later in the year, as Sir Walter described
him in his "Lay" as riding along the wooded path when "green hazels o'er
his basnet nod," which indicated the month of September.
Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine,
To ancient Riddell's fair domain,
Where Aill, from mountain freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come;
Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
Like the mane of a chestnut steed.
In vain! no torrent, deep or broad.
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road.
* * * * *
At the first plunge the horse sunk low,
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow;
Above the foaming tide, I ween,
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen;
For he was barded from counter to tail,
And the rider was armed complete in mail;
Never heavier man and horse
Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force.
The warrior's very plume, I say
Was daggled by the dashing spray;
Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's grace,
At length he gain'd the landing place.
What would have become of ourselves if we had attempted to cross the
treacherous stream in the dark of the previous night we did not know,
but we were sure we should have risked our lives had we made the
attempt.
We were only able to explore the churchyard at Lilliesleaf, as the
church was not open at that early hour in the morning. We copied a
curious inscription from one of the old stones there:
Near this stone we lifeless lie
No more the things of earth to spy,
But we shall leave this dusty bed
When Christ appears to judge the dead.
For He shall come in glory great
And in the air shall have His seat
And call all men before His throne.
Rewarding all as they have done.
We were served with a prodigious breakfast at the inn to match, as we
supposed, the big appetites prevailing in the North, and then we resumed
our walk towards Hawick, meeting on our way the children coming to the
school at Lilliesleaf, some indeed quite a long way from their
destination. In about four miles we reached Hassendean and the River
Teviot, for we were now in Teviot Dale, along which we were to walk,
following the river nearly to its source in the hills above. The old
kirk of Hassendean had been dismantled in 1693, but its burial-ground
continued to be used until 1795, when an ice-flood swept away all
vestiges both of the old kirk and the churchyard. It was of this
disaster that Leyden, the poet and orientalist, who was born in 1775 at
the pretty village of Denholm close by, wrote the following lines:
By fancy wrapt, where tombs are crusted grey,
I seem by moon-illumined graves to stray,
Where now a mouldering pile is faintly seen--
The old deserted church of Hassendean,
Where slept my fathers in their natal clay
Till Teviot waters rolled their bones away.
[Illustration: LEYDEN'S COTTAGE.]
Leyden was a great friend of Sir Walter Scott, whom he helped to gather
materials for his "Border Minstrelsie," and was referred to in his novel
of _St. Ronan's Well_ as "a lamp too early quenched." In 1811 he went to
India with Lord Minto, who was at that time Governor-General, as his
interpreter, for Leyden was a great linguist. He died of fever caused by
looking through some old infected manuscripts at Batavia on the coast of
Java. Sir Walter had written a long letter to him which was returned
owing to his death. He also referred to him in his _Lord of the Isles_:
His bright and brief career is o'er,
And mute his tuneful strains;
Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore,
That loved the light of song to pour;
A distant and a deadly shore
Has Leyden's cold remains.
The Minto estate adjoined Hassenden, and the country around it was very
beautiful, embracing the Minto Hills or Crags, Minto House, and a castle
rejoicing, as we thought, in the queer name of "Fatlips."
The walk to the top of Minto Crags was very pleasant, but in olden times
no stranger dared venture there, as the Outlaw Brownhills was in
possession, and had hewn himself out of the rock an almost inaccessible
platform on one of the crags still known as "Brownhills' Bed" from which
he could see all the roads below. Woe betide the unsuspecting traveller
who happened to fall into his hands!
But we must not forget Deloraine, for after receiving instructions from
the "Ladye of Branksome"--
[Illustration: "FATLIPS" CASTLE.]
Soon in the saddle sate he fast,
And soon the steep descent he past,
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican.
And soon the Teviot side he won.
Eastward the wooded path he rode.
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod;
He passed the Peel of Goldieland,
And crossed old Borthwick's roaring strand;
Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound.
Where Druid shades still flitted round;
In Hawick twinkled many a light;
Behind him soon they set in night;
And soon he spurr'd his courser keen
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean.
* * * * *
The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark;--
"Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark."--
"For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd.
And left the friendly tower behind.
He turn'd him now from Tiviotside,
And, guided by the tinkling rill,
Northward the dark ascent did ride.
And gained the moor at Horsliehill;
Broad on the left before him lay,
For many a mile, the Roman Way.
* * * * *
A moment now he slacked his speed,
A moment breathed his panting steed;
Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band,
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand.
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint,
Where Barnhills hew'd his bed of flint;
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest,
Where falcons hang their giddy nest
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye
For many a league his prey could spy;
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne,
The terrors of the robber's horn!
We passed through a cultivated country on the verge of the moors, where
we saw some good farms, one farmer telling us he had 900 acres of arable
land with some moorland in addition. He was superintending the gathering
of a good crop of fine potatoes, which he told us were "Protestant
Rocks." He was highly amused when one of us suggested to the other that
they might just have suited a country parson we knew in England who
would not have the best variety of potatoes, called "Radicals," planted
in his garden because he did not like the name. He was further amused
when we innocently asked him the best way to reach Hawick, pronouncing
the name in two syllables which sounded like Hay-wick, while the local
pronunciation was "Hoike." However, we soon reached that town and had a
twelve-o'clock lunch at one of the inns, where we heard something of the
principal annual event of the town, the "Common Riding," the occasion on
which the officials rode round the boundaries. There was an artificial
mound in the town called the "Mote-Hill," formerly used by the Druids.
It was to the top of this hill the cornet and his followers ascended at
sunrise on the day of the festival, after which they adjourned to a
platform specially erected in the town, to sing the Common Riding Song.
We could not obtain a copy of this, but we were fortunate in obtaining
one for the next town we were to visit--Langholm--which proved to be the
last on our walk through Scotland. From what we could learn, the
ceremony at Hawick seemed very like the walking of the parish boundaries
in England, a custom which was there slowly becoming obsolete. We could
only remember attending one of these ceremonies, and that was in
Cheshire. The people of the adjoining parish walked their boundaries on
the same day, so we were bound to meet them at some point _en route_,
and a free fight, fanned by calling at sundry public-houses, was
generally the result. The greatest danger-zone lay where a stream formed
the boundary between the two parishes, at a point traversed by a culvert
or small tunnel through a lofty embankment supporting a canal which
crossed a small valley. This boundary was, of course, common to both
parishes, and representatives of each were expected to pass through it
to maintain their rights, so that it became a matter of some anxiety as
to which of the boundary walkers would reach it first, or whether that
would be the point where both parties would meet. We remembered coming
to a full stop when we reached one entrance to the small tunnel, while
the scouts ascended the embankment to see if the enemy were in sight on
the other side; but as they reported favourably, we decided that two of
our party should walk through the culvert, while the others went round
by the roads to the other end. There was a fair amount of water passing
through at that time, so they were very wet on emerging from the
opposite end, and it was impossible for the men to walk upright, the
contracted position in which they were compelled to walk making the
passage very difficult. What would have happened if the opposition had
come up while our boundary walkers were in the tunnel we could only
surmise.
Hawick is in Roxburghshire and was joined on to Wilton at a house called
the Salt Hall, or the "Saut Ha'," as it is pronounced in Scotch, where a
tragedy took place in the year 1758. The tenant of the Hall at that time
was a man named Rea, whose wife had committed suicide by cutting her
throat. In those days it was the custom to bury suicides at the dead of
night where the laird's lands met, usually a very lonely corner, and a
stake was driven through the body of the corpse; but from some cause or
other the authorities allowed "Jenny Saut Ha'," as she was commonly
called, to be buried in the churchyard. This was considered by many
people to be an outrage, and the body was disinterred at night, and the
coffin placed against the Saut Ha' door, where Rea was confronted with
it next morning. There was a sharp contest between the Church
authorities and the public, and the body was once more interred in the
churchyard, but only to fall on Rea when he opened his door the next
morning. The authorities were then compelled to yield to the popular
clamour, and the corpse found a temporary resting-place in a remote
corner of Wilton Common; but the minister ultimately triumphed, and
Jenny was again buried in the churchyard, there to rest for all time in
peace.
[Illustration: WILTON OLD CHURCH.]
We had now joined the old coach road from London to Edinburgh, a stone
on the bridge informing us that that city was fifty miles distant. We
turned towards London, and as we were leaving the town we asked three
men, who had evidently tramped a long distance, what sort of a road it
was to Langholm, our next stage. They informed us that it was
twenty-three miles to that town, that the road was a good one, but we
should not be able to get a drink the whole way, for "there wasn't a
single public-house on the road."
Presently, however, we reached a turnpike gate across our road, and as
there was some fruit exhibited for sale in the window of the toll-house
we went inside, and found the mistress working at her spinning-wheel,
making a kind of worsted out of which she made stockings. We bought as
much fruit from her as the limited space in our bags allowed, and had a
chat with her about the stocking trade, which was the staple industry of
Hawick. She told us there were about 800 people employed in that
business, and that they went out on strike on the Monday previous, but
with an advance in their wages had gone in again that morning.
The stockings were now made by machines, but were formerly all made by
hand. The inventor of the first machine was a young man who had fallen
deeply in love with a young woman, who, like most others living
thereabouts at that time, got her living by making stockings. When he
proposed to her, she would not have him, because she knew another young
man she liked better. He then told her if she would not marry him he
would make a machine that would make stockings and throw her out of work
and ruin them all. But the girl decided to remain true to the young man
she loved best, and was presently married to him.
[Illustration: GOLDIELANDS TOWER.]
The disappointed lover then set to work, and, after much thought and
labour, succeeded in making a stocking machine; and although it created
a great stir in Hawick, where all three were well known, it did not
throw any one out of work, but was so improved upon with the result that
more stockings were made and sold at Hawick than ever before!
We thanked the old lady for her story, and, bidding her good-bye, went
on our way. Presently we came to the ruins of a castle standing near the
road which a clergyman informed us was Goldielands Tower, mentioned with
Harden by Sir Walter Scott in the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." He told us
that a little farther on our way we should also see Branxholm, another
place referred to by Scott. Although we were on the look out for
Branxholm, we passed without recognising it, as it resembled a large
family mansion more than the old tower we had expected it to be.
[Illustration: BRANXHOLM TOWER.]
It was astonishing what a number of miles we walked in Scotland without
finding anything of any value on the roads. A gentleman told us he once
found a threepenny bit on the road near a village where he happened to
be staying at the inn. When his find became known in the village, it
created quite a sensation amongst the inhabitants, owing to the "siller"
having fallen into the hands of a "Saxon," and he gravely added to the
information that one-half of the people went in mourning and that it was
even mentioned in the kirk as the "awfu'" waste that had occurred in the
parish!
[Illustration]
We were not so lucky as to find a silver coin, but had the good fortune
to find something of more importance in the shape of a love-letter which
some one had lost on the road, and which supplied us with food for
thought and words for expression, quite cheering us up as we marched
along our lonely road. As Kate and John now belong to a past generation,
we consider ourselves absolved from any breach of confidence and give a
facsimile of the letter (see page 198). The envelope was not addressed,
so possibly John might have intended sending it by messenger, or Kate
might have received it and lost it on the road, which would perhaps be
the more likely thing to happen. We wondered whether the meeting ever
came off.
[Illustration: COVENANTER'S GRAVE.]
Shortly after passing Branxholm, and near the point where the Allan
Water joined the River Teviot, we turned to visit what we had been
informed was in the time of King Charles I a hiding place for the people
known as Covenanters. These were Scottish Presbyterians, who in 1638, to
resist that king's encroachments on their religious liberty, formed a
"Solemn League," followed in 1643 by an international Solemn League and
Covenant "between England and Scotland to secure both civil and
religious liberty." These early Covenanters were subjected to great
persecution, consequently their meetings were held in the most lonely
places--on the moors, in the glens, and on the wild mountain sides. We
climbed up through a wood and found the meeting-place in the ruins of a
tower--commonly said to have been built by the Romans, though we
doubted it--the remains of which consisted of an archway a few yard
longs and a few yards square, surrounded by three trenches. It occupied
a very strong position, and standing upon it we could see a hill a short
distance away on the top of which was a heap of stones marking the spot
where a bon-fire was lit and a flag reared when Queen Victoria drove
along the road below, a few years before our visit.
In former times in this part of Scotland there seemed to have been a
bard, poet, or minstrel in every village, and they appeared to have been
numerous enough to settle their differences, and sometimes themselves,
by fighting for supremacy, for it was at Bradhaugh near here that a
deadly combat took place in 1627 between William Henderson, known as
"Rattling Roaring Willie," and Robert Rule, another Border minstrel, in
which, according to an old ballad, Willie slew his opponent, for--
Rob Roole, he handled rude.
And Willie left Newmill's banks
Red-wat wi' Robin's blude.
[Illustration: HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.]
At Teviothead our road parted company with the River Teviot, which
forked away to the right, its source being only about six miles farther
up the hills from that point. In the churchyard at Teviothead, Henry
Scott Riddell, the author of _Scotland Yet_, had only recently been
buried. Near here also was Caerlanrig, where the murder of Johnnie
Armstrong of Gilnockie, a very powerful chief who levied blackmail along
the Border from Esk to Tyne, or practically the whole length of
Hadrian's Wall, took place in 1530. Johnnie was a notorious freebooter
and Border raider, no one daring to go his way for fear of Johnnie or
his followers. But of him more anon.
The distance from Caerlanrig, where Armstrong was executed, to Gilnockie
Tower, where he resided, was about seventeen miles, and we had to
follow, though in the opposite direction and a better surfaced road, the
same lonely and romantic track that he traversed on that occasion. It
formed a pass between the hills, and for the first seven miles the
elevations in feet above sea-level on each side of the road were:
To our right:--1193. 1286. 1687. 1950. 1714. 1317. 1446. To our
left:--1156. 1595. 1620. 1761. 1741. 1242. 1209.
The distance between the summits as the crow flies was only about a
mile, while the road maintained an altitude above the sea of from five
to eight hundred feet, so that we had a most lonely walk of about
thirteen miles before we reached Langholm. The road was a good one, and
we were in no danger of missing our way, hemmed in as it was on either
side by the hills, which, although treeless, were covered with grass
apparently right away to their tops, a novelty to us after the bare and
rocky hills we had passed elsewhere. We quite enjoyed our walk, and as
we watched the daylight gradually fade away before the approaching
shadows of the night, we realised that we were passing through the
wildest solitudes. We did not meet one human being until we reached
Langholm, and the only habitation we noted before reaching a small
village just outside that town was the "Halfway House" between Hawick
and Langholm, known in stage-coach days as the "Mosspaul Inn." It was a
large house near the entrance to a small glen, but apparently now
closed, for we could not see a solitary light nor hear the sound of a
human voice.
How different it must have appeared when the stage-coaches were passing
up and down that valley, now deserted, for even the railway, which
supplanted them, had passed it by on the other side! In imagination we
could hear the sound of the horn, echoing in the mountains, heralding
the approach of the stage-coach, with its great lamp in front, and could
see a light in almost every window in the hotel. We could picture mine
host and his wife standing at the open door ready to receive their
visitors, expectant guests assembled behind them in the hall and
expectant servants both indoors and out; then staying for the night,
refreshing ourselves with the good things provided for supper, and
afterwards relating our adventures to a friendly and appreciative
audience, finally sinking our weary limbs in the good old-fashioned
feather-beds!
But these visions passed away almost as quickly as they appeared, so we
left the dark and dreary mansion whose glory had departed, and marched
on our way, expecting to find at Langholm that which we so badly
needed--food and rest.
The old inn at Mosspaul, where the stage-coaches stopped to change
horses, was built at the junction of the counties of Dumfries and
Roxburgh, and was very extensive with accommodation for many horses, but
fell to ruin after the stage-coaches ceased running. Many notable
visitors had patronised it, among others Dorothy Wordsworth, who visited
it with her brother the poet in September 1803, and described it in the
following graphic terms:
The scene, with this single dwelling, was melancholy and wild, but
not dreary, though there was no tree nor shrub: the small streamlet
glittered, the hills were populous with sheep, but the gentle bending
of the valley, and the correspondent softness in the forms of the
hills were of themselves enough to delight the eye.
A good story is told of one of the Armstrongs and the inn:
Once when Lord Kames went for the first time on the Circuit as
Advocate-depute, Armstrong of Sorbie inquired of Lord Minto in a whisper
"What long black, dour-looking Chiel" that was that they had broc'ht
with them?
"That," said his lordship, "is a man come to hang a' the Armstrongs."
"Then," was the dry retort, "it's time the Elliots were
ridin'."[Footnote: Elliot was the family name of Lord Minto.]
The effusions of one of the local poets whose district we had passed
through had raised our expectations in the following lines:
There's a wee toon on the Borders
That my heart sair langs to see,
Where in youthful days I wander'd,
Knowing every bank and brae;
O'er the hills and through the valleys,
Thro' the woodlands wild and free,
Thro' the narrow straits and loanings,
There my heart sair langs to be.
[Illustration: THE COMMON RIDING, LANGHOLM.]
There was also an old saying, "Out of the world and into Langholm,"
which seemed very applicable to ourselves, for after a walk of
thirty-two and a half miles through a lonely and hilly country, without
a solitary house of call for twenty-three, our hungry and weary
condition may be imagined when we entered Langholm just on the stroke of
eleven o'clock at night.
We went to the Temperance Hotel, but were informed they were full. We
called at the other four inns with the same result. Next we appealed to
the solitary police officer, who told us curtly that the inns closed at
eleven and the lodgings at ten, and marched away without another word.
The disappointment and feeling of agony at having to walk farther cannot
be described, but there was no help for it, so we shook the dust, or
mud, off our feet and turned dejectedly along the Carlisle road.
Just at the end of the town we met a gentleman wearing a top-hat and a
frock-coat, so we appealed to him. The hour was too late to find us
lodgings, but he said, if we wished to do so, we could shelter in his
distillery, which we should come to a little farther on our way. His men
would all be in bed, but there was one door that was unlocked and we
should find some of the rooms very warm. We thanked him for his kindness
and found the door, as he had described, opening into a dark room. We
had never been in a distillery before, so we were naturally rather
nervous, and as we could not see a yard before us, we lighted one of our
candles. We were about to go in search of one of the warmer rooms when
the thought occurred to us that our light might attract the attention of
some outsider, and in the absence of any written authority from the
owner might cause us temporary trouble, while to explore the distillery
without a light was out of the question, for we might fall through some
trap-door or into a vat, besides which, we could hear a great rush of
water in the rear of the premises, so we decided to stay where we were.
The book we had obtained at Hawick contained the following description
of the Langholm "Common Riding," which was held each year on July 17th
when the people gathered together to feast on barley bannock and red
herring, of course washed down with plenteous supplies of the
indispensable whisky. The Riding began with the following proclamation
in the marketplace, given by a man standing upright on horseback, in the
presence of thousands of people:
Gentlemen,--The first thing that I am going to acquaint you with are
the names of the Portioners' Grounds of Langholm:--
Now, Gentlemen, we're gan' frae the Toun,
An' first of a' the Kil Green we gang roun',
It is an ancient place where Clay is got,
And it belangs to us by Right and Lot,
And then frae here the Lang-Wood we gang throu'
Where every ane may breckons out an' pu',
An' last of a' oor Marches they be clear,
An' when unto the Castle Craigs we come,
I'll cry the Langholm Fair and then we'll beat the drum.
Now, Gentlemen. What you have heard this day concerning going round
our Marches, it is expected that every one who has occasion for
Peats, Breckons, Flacks, Stanes, or Clay, will go out in defence of
their Property, and they shall hear the Proclamation of the Langholm
Fair upon the Castle Craigs.
Now, Gentlemen, we have gane roun our hill,
So now I think it's right we had oor fill
Of guid strang punch--'twould make us a' to sing.
Because this day we have dune a guid thing;
For gangin' roun' oor hill we think nae shame,
Because frae it oor peats and flacks come hame;
So now I will conclude and say nae mair.
An' if ye're pleased I'll cry the Langholm Fair.
Hoys, yes! that's ae time! Hoys, yes! that's twae times!!
Hoys, yes! that's the third and the last time!!!
This is to Give Notice,
That there is a muckle Fair to be hadden in the muckle Toun o' the
Langholm, on the 15th day of July, auld style, upon his Grace the
Duke of Buccleuch's Merk Land, for the space of eight days and
upwards; and a' land-loupers, and dub-scoupers, and
gae-by-the-gate-swingers, that come here to breed hurdums or durdums,
huliments or buliments, haggle-ments or braggle-ments, or to molest
this public Fair, they shall be ta'en by order of the Bailie and Toun
Council, and their lugs be nailed to the Tron wi' a twal-penny nail,
and they shall sit doun on their bare knees and pray seven times for
the King, and thrice for the Mickle Laird o' Ralton, and pay a groat
to me, Jemmy Ferguson, Bailie o' the aforesaid Manor, and I'll awa'
hame and ha'e a bannock and a saut herrin'.