by means of which Glasgow, from being a comparatively insignificant
town, became a large and a prosperous mercantile city, and whilst
Manchester, in England, was almost equally obscure and unimportant,
there was no properly-constructed highway through Dumfries-shire betwixt
these two mercantile depots. There was, indeed, along the banks of the
Nith, the trace of the old Roman road; but this was obscure, in many
places obliterated, and in all narrow and unaccommodating to
wheel-carriages. Indeed, the road in many cases was impracticable,
unless on horses; and these, too, in some places, were in danger of
disappearing in mosses and quagmires. In this state of things, to talk
of or think of inns, or public-houses of accommodation, was out of the
question. _Where there is no demand, there can be no supply_--that is a
clear case; yet still a certain overland intercourse was carried on
betwixt these two great national marts, Glasgow and Manchester; and a
merchant from the one city was in the habit of mounting a strong nag,
and meeting with a merchant from the other city at what was deemed the
_half-way point_--at the place, namely, where a large tree, with three
outspread and sheltering branches, not only marked the spot of tryst,
but afforded partial shade and shelter. (The reason why these branches
were afterwards denominated the Three Brethren has already formed the
subject of a tale.) Well, by previous arrangement and appointment, the
Glasgow and the Manchester merchants met and transacted business under
this tree, and then retraced their steps homewards; and this continued
for many years to be the nearest and the most commonly-frequented line
of communication betwixt Glasgow and Manchester. It was in this way,
originally, that the benevolent founder of the free school of Closeburn,
Mr Wallace, a native of that parish, and a Glasgow merchant, carried on
this extensive business with Manchester. Many a time has the worthy
founder of the most celebrated institution in the south of Scotland
(with which the name of Mundell will be associated till latest ages)
been seen sitting upon a stone rolled to the foot of this immense tree,
and transacting business with a Manchester merchant, similarly placed
with himself. In process of time, the international intercourse
increased--post-chaises succeeded to strong saddle horses, the roads
were improved, and an inn, or house of accommodation, became absolutely
necessary. It was on this occasion that the once famous, though now
comparatively obscure inn, called of late years Brownhill, arose--an inn
resorted to by travellers of all ranks, in preference to any which even
Dumfries in former times could afford--an inn celebrated as the frequent
resort of Robert Burns, who used to hold high carousal here with its
former convivial landlord, Mr Bacon; in whose house, and on one of the
panes of glass in the window, were originally written those well-known
lines of Burns, beginning--
"Cursed be the man, the veriest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife,
Who has no will but by her high permission--
Who has not sixpence but in her possession....
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch," &c.
As I happen to know the particular circumstances which accompanied the
writing of these lines, I shall conclude this chapter on trees, by
relating them.
Burns lived at this time at Ellisland, about two miles lower down the
vale than the Three Brethren, and about three miles from Brownhill. Much
of his duty as a gauger lay about the village of Brownhill. Now,
Brownhill was a very convenient half-way house betwixt Thornhill and his
home at Ellisland; and, accordingly, Burns' little stout pony (which I
remember well, though I forget the name) would seldom pass Brownhill.
One day, whilst a boy at the free school of Wallacehall, I chanced to be
lingering about the stable-door at Brownhill, when Burns alighted from
his pony, _wet and weary_, and, giving the beast a slap on the hinder
extremity, exclaimed, "There! make you comfortable for the night, in the
best way you can--and so will the poor gauger!" Burns looked at me very
closely; but I was unknown to him at that time (though I knew him
personally afterwards); and muttering, "One of Mundell's," passed on.
What follows is from undoubted authority; namely, one of the party of
three, who enjoyed this very merry evening. Bacon and Burns were their
bowl of punch a-piece, as well as my friend, and were in high talk and
song; but Mrs Bacon, who did not partake of the festivity, and who, in
fact, was the support of the house, refused to produce the materials for
the fourth bowl. High words arose betwixt her and her husband; who, as
well as Burns and my friend, had by this time given indications of their
having
"A wee drap in their ee;"
and Mrs Bacon hid the keys and went to bed. Ere Burns went to repose (or
next morning), he inscribed, with his ready wit, and equally ready
diamond, the lines mentioned on the window-pane.
KIRKYARDS.
Kirkyards are to me exceedingly interesting. Alas! those nearest and
dearest to me are now the tenants of these silent retirements. They
contain subjects of intense and protracted recollection. Whenever I have
an hour to spare after dinner in my pedestrian wanderings, I am sure to
deviate into a churchyard, and there to spell and stumble my way through
and over a multiplicity of graves and monuments. But, instead of dealing
in generalities, I shall speak of two particular cases, known to myself,
in the churchyard of the parish of Closeburn. One is on your right hand
as you enter and pass Elder Boe, on Sunday, at the church stile. The
stone is merely an erect headstone, and of considerable dimensions. The
inscription is--"Here lies Richard Reid, aged 16, who perished in
crossing the water of Nith in 1794." Richard, as well as his brother
Stephen, now Colonel Reid, were my particular companions at Wallacehall
School. We were class-fellows. Oh! what fun and frolic we have had
together! The Castle Wood, Barmuir Wood, Gilchrist Land Wood, the
Pothouse Wood, the Whitston Cleughs, and the Gravel Walk, could tell, if
they were permitted, many tales of us three. What nests did we not find!
what nuts did we not gather! what sloes did we not pocket! what brambles
did we not eat! and what _hind_ or raspberries did we not bruise and
convert into _red wine_. And, then, what tree so tall as not to admit
our ascent! what thicket so dense as not to be penetrated! what eel so
lively as not to be decapitated and skinned! and what trout so cunning
as to escape the temptation of our nicely-prepared baits! At England and
Scotland, too--that most expressive game of former Border feuds--we were
most expert; and have seen many suns descend on our protracted contests
at shinty. But, alas! harvest arrived, and with it the vacation; the
oats ripened, and so did the hazel-nuts. The report was, that the
Barjarg Woods were most splendidly supplied with ripe and brown
_leamers_. We could not--we never tried to resist the temptation. But
the rapid river Nith lay betwixt us and the object of our travel. It had
rained, but was now fair; and the water, when we arrived at its banks,
did not seem even moved or swollen. Stephen and I hesitated; Richard was
a bold, manly lad, somewhat older. He plunged at once into the stream,
and bade us follow; so, indeed, we did. Ere we had gained one-third of
the way, upon the stream we observed bits of wood and various floating
substances in it. We became alarmed, and called aloud on Richard; but he
turned round, and laughed us to scorn. We would not stand this, but
pushed on, he still keeping in advance. The powerful current had now
reached his waist, and, even though he had wished to turn, he could not.
The stones were beginning to creep from beneath our feet. All at once, a
large piece of floating timber came down upon poor Richard's position,
and he was borne away by the united force of the obstructed wood and the
stream. He fell; the timber floated over him, and he again rose; but he
was in much deeper water, and manifestly apprehended danger. He screamed
aloud, and we rushed forward--his brother Stephen and I--to the rescue;
but we were all instantly hurled along into a deep and whirling pool.
Over the banks of this eddy there grew and hung a broom bush; more by
accident than management, I got a hold of it. Stephen was struggling
near me, and I caught him with the other hand. I struggled desperately,
and got myself and my companion into the face of a soft and clay brow. I
held like grim death, and at last surmounted the steep. Though
stupified, I saw that one was awanting, and I rushed--for Stephen was
insensible--along the brink of the pool. At the foot of it, and where
the water began to shallow, I saw poor Richard tumbling over without any
signs of life. In an instant I had a hold of his garment, and had
actually pulled him considerably to one side, when, my feet coming in
contact with a large stone, I fell backwards, lost my hold, and the body
of poor Richard was found, next day, a mile and a-half below, at the
bottom of Porter's Hole.
On the opposite side of this churchyard there is a flat flagstone, with
the following inscription--"Here lie the mortal remains of William
Herdman, weaver in Auldwa's of Gilchristland."
Poor Willie Herdman! What associations do not these two magic words
awaken! When Gibraltar stood nobly out, under the command of an Elliot,
against the combined strength of France and Spain, thou wast there to
send the hissing-hot cannon-balls into the hulls of the enemy's
floating-batteries. But, on returning to thy native Nottingham, to taste
of its pure and salubrious ales, thy house was desolate--father, mother,
and sister, all dead--and the place which knew them owned another
tenant. Thy heart sank within thee; and having been bred a weaver in thy
youth, thou didst take the road for Glasgow; but, at Brownhill, chance
brought thee acquainted with Archy Tait of Auldwa's, and with him didst
thou ply thy trade till the mournful end of thy days. But it was neither
as a soldier, nor as a weaver, that I remember thee with so much
interest. It was as the best bait-fisher in the south of Scotland--it
was as my first preceptor in that most delightful art. I see thee still,
before sunrise, ten miles amidst the mountains, and I hear the plash of
the large new-run sea-trout, as it "turns up its silver scaling to the
light" amidst the dark-brown flood. At all times, and almost in all
states of the weather and the water, thy skill was triumphant, and from
thee I derived that art which no man knows, unless instructed by me, to
this hour--the art of fishing _up_, and not _down_, a mountain stream,
with prepared bait. But the hour of thy destiny at last arrived, and it
was a mournful one. It was one of thy triumphs to kill a dish of trouts,
even in the midst of frost, and at New-year's Day. A wager was laid, and
a considerable sum of money was risked, on thy killing a dozen for a
New-year's-day feast. On the last day of the old year, as the time
approached, the weather had become boisterous, and snow-blasts, mixed
with hail, were coursing along the skirts of Queensberry. I was a stout
lad in the high class then, and, being in the constant habit of
accompanying thee on thy fishing expeditions, I made a point of not
being absent on this critical trial of thy skill. Accordingly, when the
last day of December, 179-, dawned, I was by thee aroused from my
slumbers, and, in spite of all maternal remonstrances, I agreed to
accompany thee to Caple. The day was dark and somewhat cloudy; but there
was only a sprinkling of snow on the lower grounds, though the higher
seemed to be much whiter. To fortify himself against the inclemency of
the weather, poor Willie had provided himself with a supply of what he
used to term "his comforter"--namely, some whisky in a bottle. We fished
for about two hours in the deeper and unfrozen pools of Caple, and with
amazing success. Willie had just killed his eleventh trout, when he
turned up the bottom of a pint bottle, quite empty. He was not
intoxicated, but confused. I had not enjoyed the advantage of "the
comforter," and was consequently much more collected, and aware of our
danger. It was betwixt twelve and one when the day suddenly darkened
down, and a terrible snow-drift came up the glen. Mitchelslacks was at
about a mile and a-half's distance. I strongly urged our retreat to that
hospitable mansion in the wilderness; but Willie wanted one trout of his
tale, and he persevered for about half-an-hour longer, when he was so
fortunate as to complete his number. But by this time the snow-drift and
wind were absolutely choking, and I could see that his eyes were
half-shut. He was manifestly in a state of approaching stupor or sleep.
I became exceedingly alarmed, when he sat, or rather fell, down suddenly
beneath a projecting rock, saying that he would rest and sleep for a
little, and then he would accompany me to Mitchelslacks, as I proposed.
I tried to pull him along; but he was incapable of motion. What was to
be done? Poor Willie, who had taught me to fish, and told me so many
stories about the wars, and about Nottingham, and England, and who was
really a kind-hearted, good-natured creature--poor Willie to perish thus
helpless in the drift! I sprang on with renewed strength; but when I
reached Mitchelslacks I fainted, and it was not till I recovered that
Willie's dangerous state was learned. Three shepherds, with Mr. Harkness
at their head, and a suitable accompaniment of dogs, sallied forth, and
in a short time reached the spot; but it was too late. There was still
heat in the interior, but no motion; the pulse had stopped, and the body
was sitting in a reclining posture, leaning against the stone. There
were no marks of previous suffering--all was calm and placid in the
marble countenance--the eyes shut, and the hands reposing on the
fish-basket, as if the last thing he had done was to count his fish! He
was dead!
POLWARTH ON THE GREEN.
Peradventure there are few of our readers who have not heard of
"Polwarth on the Green," and the "Polwarth Thorn." The song bearing the
former title is certainly founded upon one of the most popular
traditions on the Borders. Since the commencement of this publication,
we have been many times requested to write a tale upon the subject, and
not less than thrice, from different quarters, within the last seven
days; and as we are at all times anxious to meet the wishes of our
readers, we shall now endeavour to fulfil the request which has been
made to us.
There are none to whom the traditions of other days are not interesting.
They save from oblivion the memory, the deeds, and the manners, of our
fathers. No nation is so sunk in barbarity as to disregard them: the
civilised European and the Indian savage alike cherish them; and the
poets of every land have wed them with song. Yet, nowhere are traditions
more general or more interesting than upon the Borders. Every grey ruin
has its tale of wonder and of war. The solitary cairn on the hillside
speaks of one who died for religion, or for liberty, or belike for both.
The very schoolboy passes it with reverence, and can tell the history of
him whose memory it perpetuates. The hill on which it stands is a
monument of daring deeds, where the sword was raised against oppression,
and where heroes sleep. Every castle hath its legends, its tales of
terror and of blood, "of goblin, ghost, or fairy." The mountain glen,
too, hath its records of love and war. There history has let fall its
romantic fragments, and the hills enclose them. The forest trees whisper
of the past; and, beneath the shadow of their branches, the silent
spirit of other years seems to sleep. The ancient cottage, also, hath
its traditions, and recounts
"The short and simple annals of the poor."
Every family hath its legends, which record to posterity the actions of
their ancestors, when the sword was law, and even the payment of rent
upon the Borders was a thing which no man understood; but, as Sir Walter
Scott saith, "all that the landlord could gain from those residing upon
his estate was their personal service in battle, their assistance in
labouring the land retained in his natural possession, some petty
quit-rents of a nature resembling the feudal casualties, and perhaps a
share in the spoil which they acquired by rapine." Many of those
traditions are calculated to melt the maiden's heart, to fill age with
enthusiasm, and youth with love of country. But to our story.
In the year 1470, John Sinclair of Herdmanstone, in East Lothian, who
was also Lord of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, dying without male issue, the
estate of Kimmerghame descended to his daughter Marion, and that of
Polwarth to her sister Margaret. His heir-male was his brother, Sir
William Sinclair, to whom the estate of Herdmanstone fell. Sir William,
as the uncle of the co-heiresses, though not appointed as their guardian
by their father, for they were both well-nigh of woman's estate when he
died, craftily took upon himself that duty. He whispered to them that
their estates were not managed as they ought to be--that their bondmen
did not perform the duty required of them--that those they had set over
their grounds as stewards did not render them a faithful account of
their stewardship. He insinuated a thousand suspicions into their young
minds, until their affairs gradually fell into his hands, and he at
length succeeded in gaining the entire management of their estates; and
he now required only to have the disposal of their personal freedom. Men
of power in those days were not very scrupulous as to the means which
they employed to obtain their object; he who had a score of retainers
weighed the scales of life and death in his hands. Nevertheless, aware
of the rank which his nieces held in the estimation of his country, Sir
William knew that it would not be safe to venture upon making them
prisoners by open violence. He therefore courteously invited them to his
house at Herdmanstone, where he stated that the gayest and the proudest
company in broad Scotland would be present to delight them. Marion, who
was fond of amusements, was overjoyed at the invitation; but her sister
Margaret, who was of a graver disposition, said--
"Well, sister, I like not our uncle's kindness--something sinful seems
to laugh in his looks; the very movement of his lips bespeaks more than
it reveals; confide in _me_, dear sister, and distrust _him_. When I was
but a child, playing around our mother's knee, I have heard her say unto
my father, 'Ah, John! I like not your brother; there is a cunning in his
looks, in his very words; he cannot meet you with the straightforward
gaze of an honest man; and methinks he looks upon me as though he
distrusted and hated me; yea, I have often thought, as though he were
plotting evil against me.' So our mother was wont to say; and my father
would reply, 'Dear Elizabeth, think not so cruelly of one who is so near
and dear to me; trust me, that he loves you and yours.'--'It may be so,'
she would reply, 'but there is that in his manner which I cannot
overcome.' Then our father would remain silent for a time, and add,
'Well, there is a want of frankness in Sir William which becomes not a
brother.'"
"Lull your suspicions, my demure sister," the light-hearted Marion
replied; "a thousand times have I heard him say that no one but the
boldest baron in Scotland should wed his niece, Marion."
"And he said truly," replied Margaret; "for, if he have us once within
his power, not even the boldest knight in Scotland will be able to
receive our hands, unless he sue for it with gallant bowmen at his back,
and the unsheathed sword to enforce his suit."
"Oh, then, sister," subjoined Marion, "I suppose you have a knight at
hand who would delight in such handiwork; for is not Sir Patrick Hume of
Wedderburn reputed to be the most valorous knight upon the Borders, and
withal the humble worshipper of fair Margaret Sinclair of Polwarth?"
And as the maiden spoke, she laughed, and tapped her sister
good-naturedly upon the cheek. Margaret blushed, and playfully replied,
"Well, sister, is there no valorous knight at Wedderburn but Sir
Patrick? What think ye of George Hume?"
"No more of this," cried Marion; "let us accept our uncle's invitation,
and mingle with the gay company he has invited to meet us."
"If you will have it so, let it be so," replied Margaret; "but, trust
me, I fear that good will not come of it."
On the following day they set out upon their journey towards
Herdmanstone, accompanied by only two men-servants. The uncle received
them with a show of cordial friendship; but the guests whom they
expected to meet they saw not; and they had been but a few minutes
beneath his roof, when they found themselves prisoners, secured by
gratings, bolts, and bars. On discovering the situation into which they
had been entrapped, Marion wept aloud, and accused herself of being the
unwitting author of her sister's captivity.
"Fear not," said Margaret. "Our uncle is a stern man, he is a man of
blood; but there are as strong hands as his, that will be raised to
deliver the sisters of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, when their captivity
becomes known."
"But how will it be known?" asked Marion; "for who knows that we are
here?"
"Let us trust in him who is the orphan's father," replied her sister,
"and leave all to his good providence."
"Amen!" said the other; but she sobbed bitterly as she spoke.
On the second day of their imprisonment, their uncle entered the
apartment where they were confined.
"Weel, maidens," said he, sternly, "how like ye your abode at
Herdmanstone? I have observed the slightfu een with which baith o' you
have looked upon your uncle; and now that ye are in my power, ye shall
repent the airs o' disdain that ye hae taken upon ye. It becomes nae the
blood o' Polwarths to assume a superiority over the house o' Sinclair.
So choose ye--there are twa cousins, who are not very auld, but they're
growing; ye shall hae your choice to marry them, or the deepest dungeon
in Herdmanstone shall be your doom. Your destiny is placed in your own
hands--decide it as ye will; but remember that it is a Sinclair that
never broke his word that wags the finger o' fate over your heads. Eight
days--eight days, remember!" he repeated, and left them.
"Now you will despise me, Margaret," said Marion; "for my maiden
ambition has led us into this trouble. Yet will I rather be an inmate in
our uncle's dungeon than be the wife of the boy-husband he would assign
me. Sister, will you not upbraid me?"
"Upbraid you!" said the calm and gentle Margaret; "stern as is our
uncle, deadly as is his wrath, I fear him not. The other day you spoke
to me jeeringly of Sir Patrick Hume--in the same strain I answered you
respecting his brother George. Eight days will not pass until Sir
Patrick misses me from Polwarth; and, powerful as my uncle may be, bold
and desperate as he is, I know that one stone of Herdmanstone Castle
will not be left standing upon another till we are freed."
"You have a brave heart, sister," said Marion; "but it is small comfort
to me, who must look upon myself as the author of this disaster. And how
think ye that Sir Patrick or his brother George (if ye will speak of
him) are to hear of our confinement? Wot ye not that they know not where
we are; or, if they should know, they will not apprehend that evil could
befall us in the house of our relative?"
"I believe, Marion," answered Margaret, "that within the eight days
which our uncle has named, we shall either be at liberty, or have ceased
to live. It is our lives that he seeks, not that we should be the wives
of his sons. Rather than be so wed, I will die--so will you. But, if we
should die, our deaths would not be unavenged. He would neither enjoy
our estates, nor the triumph of his guilt. Ye have heard the names of
Patrick and George Hume of Wedderburn spoken of as sounds of terror upon
the Borders--their swords have avenged the injured, and released the
captive. Marion, they will avenge our wrongs! Dear sister, be not
afraid."
It was about daybreak on the fourth day after their imprisonment, that a
musician, who played upon the union or Northumbrian pipe of those days,
approached beneath the window of their apartment, and softly playing an
air, accompanied it with his voice, as follows:--
"My heart is divided between them,
I dinna ken which I wad hae;
Right willing my heart I wad gie them--
But how can I gie it to twae?
There's Meggy, a fairer or better
I'm certain there couldna weel be;
Dumfounder'd the first time I met her,
What was sweet Marion to me!