the evening, and I was stiff and weary, as well I might, after such a
long and toilsome walk, so it was no poor gratification to sit down and
be conscious of advancing in our journey without further labour. The
stars were beginning to appear, but the brightness of the west was not
yet gone;--the lake perfectly still, and when we first went into the
boat we rowed almost close to the shore under steep crags hung with
birches: it was like a new-discovered country of which we had not
dreamed, for in walking down the lake, owing to the road in that part
being carried at a considerable height on the hill-side, the rocks and
the indentings of the shore had been hidden from us. At this time, those
rocks and their images in the calm water composed one mass, the surfaces
of both equally distinct, except where the water trembled with the
motion of our boat. Having rowed a while under the bold steeps, we
launched out further when the shores were no longer abrupt. We hardly
spoke to each other as we moved along receding from the west, which
diffused a solemn animation over the lake. The sky was cloudless; and
everything seemed at rest except our solitary boat, and the
mountain-streams,--seldom heard, and but faintly. I think I have rarely
experienced a more elevated pleasure than during our short voyage of
this night. The good woman had long been looking out for us, and had
prepared everything for our refreshment; and as soon as we had finished
supper, or rather tea, we went to bed. William, I doubt not, rested
well, and, for my part, I slept as soundly on my chaff bed as ever I
have done in childhood after the long day's playing of a summer's
holiday.
_Tuesday, 13th September._--Again a fine morning. I strolled into the
green field in which the house stands while the woman was preparing
breakfast, and at my return found one of her neighbours sitting by the
fire, a feeble paralytic old woman. After having inquired concerning our
journey the day before, she said, "I have travelled far in my time," and
told me she had married an English soldier who had been stationed at the
Garrison; they had had many children, who were all dead or in foreign
countries; and she had returned to her native place, where now she had
lived several years, and was more comfortable than she could ever have
expected to be, being very kindly dealt with by all her neighbours.
Pointing to the ferryman and his wife, she said they were accustomed to
give her a day of their labour in digging peats, in common with others,
and in that manner she was provided with fuel, and, by like voluntary
contributions, with other necessaries. While this infirm old woman was
relating her story in a tremulous voice, I could not but think of the
changes of things, and the days of her youth, when the shrill fife,
sounding from the walls of the Garrison, made a merry noise through the
echoing hills. I asked myself, if she were to be carried again to the
deserted spot after her course of life, no doubt a troublesome one,
would the silence appear to her the silence of desolation or of peace?
After breakfast we took a final leave of our hostess, and, attended by
her husband, again set forward on foot. My limbs were a little stiff,
but the morning being uncommonly fine I did not fear to aim at the
accomplishment of a plan we had laid of returning to Callander by a
considerable circuit. We were to go over the mountains from Loch
Ketterine, a little below the ferry-house on the same side of the water,
descending to Loch Voil, a lake from which issues the stream that flows
through Strath Eyer into Loch Lubnaig. Our road, as is generally the
case in passing from one vale into another, was through a settling
between the hills, not far from a small stream. We had to climb
considerably, the mountain being much higher than it appears to be,
owing to its retreating in what looks like a gradual slope from the
lake, though we found it steep enough in the climbing. Our guide had
been born near Loch Voil, and he told us that at the head of the lake,
if we would look about for it, we should see the burying-place of a part
of his family, the MacGregors, a clan who had long possessed that
district, a circumstance which he related with no unworthy pride of
ancestry. We shook hands with him at parting, not without a hope of
again entering his hut in company with others whom we loved.
Continued to walk for some time along the top of the hill, having the
high mountains of Loch Voil before us, and Ben Lomond and the steeps of
Loch Ketterine behind. Came to several deserted mountain huts or shiels,
and rested for some time beside one of them, upon a hillock of its green
plot of monumental herbage. William here conceived the notion of writing
an ode upon the affecting subject of those relics of human society found
in that grand and solitary region. The spot of ground where we sate was
even beautiful, the grass being uncommonly verdant, and of a remarkably
soft and silky texture.
After this we rested no more till we came to the foot of the mountain,
where there was a cottage, at the door of which a woman invited me to
drink some whey: this I did, while William went to inquire respecting
the road at a new stone house a few steps further. He was told to cross
the brook, and proceed to the other side of the vale, and that no
further directions were necessary, for we should find ourselves at the
head of the lake, and on a plain road which would lead us downward. We
waded the river and crossed the vale, perhaps half a mile or more. The
mountains all round are very high; the vale pastoral and unenclosed, not
many dwellings, and but few trees; the mountains in general smooth near
the bottom. They are in large unbroken masses, combining with the vale
to give an impression of bold simplicity.
Near the head of the lake, at some distance from us, we discovered the
burial-place of the MacGregors, and did not view it without some
interest, with its ornamental balls on the four corners of the wall,
which, I daresay, have been often looked at with elevation of heart by
our honest friend of Loch Ketterine. The lake is divided right across by
a narrow slip of flat land, making a small lake at the head of the large
one. The whole may be about five miles long.
As we descended, the scene became more fertile, our way being pleasantly
varied--through coppices or open fields, and passing farm-houses,
though always with an intermixture of uncultivated ground. It was
harvest-time, and the fields were quietly--might I be allowed to say
pensively?--enlivened by small companies of reapers. It is not uncommon
in the more lonely parts of the Highlands to see a single person so
employed. The following poem was suggested to William by a beautiful
sentence in Thomas Wilkinson's _Tour in Scotland_:[25]
[Footnote 25: See _The Solitary Reaper_, in "Poetical Works," vol. ii.
p. 397, with note appended.--ED.]
Behold her single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass,
Reaping and singing by herself--
Stop here, or gently pass.
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain.
Oh! listen, for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian Sands;
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old unhappy far-off things,
And battles long ago;--
Or is it some more humble lay--
Familiar matter of to-day--
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd till I had my fill,
And as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.
Towards the foot of the lake, on the opposite side, which was more
barren than that on which we travelled, was a bare road up a steep hill,
which leads to Glen Finlas, formerly a royal forest. It is a wild and
rocky glen, as we had been told by a person who directed our notice to
its outlet at Loch Achray. The stream which passes through it falls into
that lake near the head. At the end of Loch Voil the vale is wide and
populous--large pastures with many cattle, large tracts of corn. We
walked downwards a little way, and then crossed over to the same road
along which we had travelled from Loch Erne to Callander, being once
again at the entrance of Strath Eyer. It might be about four or five
o'clock in the afternoon; we were ten miles from Callander, exceedingly
tired, and wished heartily for the poor horse and car. Walked up Strath
Eyer, and saw in clear air and sunshine what had been concealed from us
when we travelled before in the mist and rain. We found it less woody
and rich than it had appeared to be, but, with all deductions, a very
sweet valley.
Not far from Loch Lubnaig, though not in view of it, is a long village,
with two or three public-houses, and being in despair of reaching
Callander that night without over-fatigue we resolved to stop at the
most respectable-looking house, and, should it not prove wretched
indeed, to lodge there if there were beds for us: at any rate it was
necessary to take some refreshment. The woman of the house spoke with
gentleness and civility, and had a good countenance, which reconciled me
to stay, though I had been averse to the scheme, dreading the dirt usual
in Scotch public-houses by the way-side. She said she had beds for us,
and clean sheets, and we desired her to prepare them immediately. It was
a two-storied house, light built, though in other respects no better
than the huts, and--as all the slated cottages are--much more
uncomfortable in appearance, except that there was a chimney in the
kitchen. At such places it is fit that travellers should make up their
minds to wait at least an hour longer than the time necessary to prepare
whatever meal they may have ordered, which we, I may truly say, did with
most temperate philosophy. I went to talk with the mistress, who was
baking barley cakes, which she wrought out with her hands as thin as the
oaten bread we make in Cumberland. I asked her why she did not use a
rolling-pin, and if it would not be much more convenient, to which she
returned me no distinct answer, and seemed to give little attention to
the question: she did not know, or that was what they were used to, or
something of the sort. It was a tedious process, and I thought could
scarcely have been managed if the cakes had been as large as ours; but
they are considerably smaller, which is a great loss of time in the
baking.
This woman, whose common language was the Gaelic, talked with me a very
good English, asking many questions, yet without the least appearance of
an obtrusive or impertinent curiosity; and indeed I must say that I
never, in those women with whom I conversed, observed anything on which
I could put such a construction. They seemed to have a faith ready for
all; and as a child when you are telling him stories, asks for "more,
more," so they appeared to delight in being amused without effort of
their own minds. Among other questions she asked me the old one over
again, if I was married; and when I told her that I was not, she
appeared surprised, and, as if recollecting herself, said to me, with a
pious seriousness and perfect simplicity, "To be sure, there is a great
promise for virgins in Heaven"; and then she began to tell how long she
had been married, that she had had a large family and much sickness and
sorrow, having lost several of her children. We had clean sheets and
decent beds.
_Wednesday, September 14th._--Rose early, and departed before breakfast.
The morning was dry, but cold. Travelled as before, along the shores of
Loch Lubnaig, and along the pass of the roaring stream of Leny, and
reached Callander at a little past eight o'clock. After breakfast set
off towards Stirling, intending to sleep there; the distance eighteen
miles. We were now entering upon a populous and more cultivated country,
having left the mountains behind, therefore I shall have little to tell;
for what is most interesting in such a country is not to be seen in
passing through it as we did. Half way between Callander and Stirling is
the village of Doune, and a little further on we crossed a bridge over a
pleasant river, the Teith. Above the river stands a ruined castle of
considerable size, upon a woody bank. We wished to have had time to go
up to the ruin. Long before we reached the town of Stirling, saw the
Castle, single, on its stately and commanding eminence. The rock or
hill rises from a level plain; the print in Stoddart's book does indeed
give a good notion of its form. The surrounding plain appears to be of a
rich soil, well cultivated. The crops of ripe corn were abundant. We
found the town quite full; not a vacant room in the inn, it being the
time of the assizes: there was no lodging for us, and hardly even the
possibility of getting anything to eat in a bye-nook of the house.
Walked up to the Castle. The prospect from it is very extensive, and
must be exceedingly grand on a fine evening or morning, with the light
of the setting or rising sun on the distant mountains, but we saw it at
an unfavourable time of day, the mid-afternoon, and were not favoured by
light and shade. The Forth makes most intricate and curious turnings, so
that it is difficult to trace them, even when you are overlooking the
whole. It flows through a perfect level, and in one place cuts its way
in the form of a large figure of eight. Stirling is the largest town we
had seen in Scotland, except Glasgow. It is an old irregular place; the
streets towards the Castle on one side very steep. On the other, the
hill or rock rises from the fields. The architecture of a part of the
Castle is very fine, and the whole building in good repair: some parts
indeed, are modern. At Stirling we bought Burns's Poems in one volume,
for two shillings. Went on to Falkirk, ten or eleven miles. I do not
recollect anything remarkable after we were out of sight of Stirling
Castle, except the Carron Ironworks, seen at a distance;--the sky above
them was red with a fiery light. In passing through a turnpike gate we
were greeted by a Highland drover, who, with many others, was coming
from a fair at Falkirk, the road being covered all along with horsemen
and cattle. He spoke as if we had been well known to him, asking us how
we had fared on our journey. We were at a loss to conceive why he should
interest himself about us, till he said he had passed us on the Black
Mountain, near King's House. It was pleasant to observe the effect of
solitary places in making men friends, and to see so much kindness,
which had been produced in such a chance encounter, retained in a crowd.
No beds in the inns at Falkirk--every room taken up by the people come
to the fair. Lodged in a private house, a neat clean place--kind
treatment from the old man and his daughter.
_Thursday, September 15th._--Breakfasted at Linlithgow, a small town.
The house is yet shown from which the Regent Murray was shot. The
remains of a royal palace, where Queen Mary was born, are of
considerable extent; the banks of gardens and fish-ponds may yet be
distinctly traced, though the whole surface is transformed into smooth
pasturage where cattle graze. The castle stands upon a gentle eminence,
the prospect not particularly pleasing, though not otherwise; it is bare
and wide. The shell of a small ancient church is standing, into which
are crammed modern pews, galleries, and pulpit--very ugly, and
discordant with the exterior. Nothing very interesting till we came to
Edinburgh. Dined by the way at a small town or village upon a hill, the
back part of the houses on one side overlooking an extensive prospect
over flat corn fields. I mention this for the sake of a pleasant hour we
passed sitting on the bank, where we read some of Burns's poems in the
volume which we had bought at Stirling.
Arrived at Edinburgh a little before sunset. As we approached, the
Castle rock resembled that of Stirling--in the same manner appearing to
rise from a plain of cultivated ground, the Firth of Forth being on the
other side, and not visible. Drove to the White Hart in the Grassmarket,
an inn which had been mentioned to us, and which we conjectured would
better suit us than one in a more fashionable part of the town. It was
not noisy, and tolerably cheap. Drank tea, and walked up to the Castle,
which luckily was very near. Much of the daylight was gone, so that
except it had been a clear evening, which it was not, we could not have
seen the distant prospect.
_Friday, September 16th._--The sky the evening before, as you may
remember the ostler told us, had been "gay and dull," and this morning
it was downright dismal: very dark, and promising nothing but a wet day,
and before breakfast was over the rain began, though not heavily. We set
out upon our walk, and went through many streets to Holyrood House, and
thence to the hill called Arthur's Seat, a high hill, very rocky at the
top, and below covered with smooth turf, on which sheep were feeding. We
climbed up till we came to St. Anthony's Well and Chapel, as it is
called, but it is more like a hermitage than a chapel,--a small ruin,
which from its situation is exceedingly interesting, though in itself
not remarkable. We sate down on a stone not far from the chapel,
overlooking a pastoral hollow as wild and solitary as any in the heart
of the Highland mountains: there, instead of the roaring of torrents, we
listened to the noises of the city, which were blended in one loud
indistinct buzz,--a regular sound in the air, which in certain moods of
feeling, and at certain times, might have a more tranquillizing effect
upon the mind than those which we are accustomed to hear in such places.
The Castle rock looked exceedingly large through the misty air: a cloud
of black smoke overhung the city, which combined with the rain and mist
to conceal the shapes of the houses,--an obscurity which added much to
the grandeur of the sound that proceeded from it. It was impossible to
think of anything that was little or mean, the goings-on of trade, the
strife of men, or every-day city business:--the impression was one, and
it was visionary; like the conceptions of our childhood of Bagdad or
Balsora when we have been reading the Arabian Nights' Entertainments.
Though the rain was very heavy we remained upon the hill for some time,
then returned by the same road by which we had come, through green flat
fields, formerly the pleasure-grounds of Holyrood House, on the edge of
which stands the old roofless chapel, of venerable architecture. It is a
pity that it should be suffered to fall down, for the walls appear to be
yet entire. Very near to the chapel is Holyrood House, which we could
not but lament has nothing ancient in its appearance, being
sash-windowed and not an irregular pile. It is very like a building for
some national establishment,--a hospital for soldiers or sailors. You
have a description of it in Stoddart's Tour, therefore I need not tell
you what we saw there.
When we found ourselves once again in the streets of the city, we
lamented over the heavy rain, and indeed before leaving the hill, much
as we were indebted to the accident of the rain for the peculiar
grandeur and affecting wildness of those objects we saw, we could not
but regret that the Firth of Forth was entirely hidden from us, and all
distant objects, and we strained our eyes till they ached, vainly trying
to pierce through the thick mist. We walked industriously through the
streets, street after street, and, in spite of wet and dirt, were
exceedingly delighted. The old town, with its irregular houses, stage
above stage, seen as we saw it, in the obscurity of a rainy day, hardly
resembles the work of men, it is more like a piling up of rocks, and I
cannot attempt to describe what we saw so imperfectly, but must say
that, high as my expectations had been raised, the city of Edinburgh far
surpassed all expectation. Gladly would we have stayed another day, but
could not afford more time, and our notions of the weather of Scotland
were so dismal, notwithstanding we ourselves had been so much favoured,
that we had no hope of its mending. So at about six o'clock in the
evening we departed, intending to sleep at an inn in the village of
Roslin, about five miles from Edinburgh. The rain continued till we were
almost at Roslin; but then it was quite dark, so we did not see the
Castle that night.
_Saturday, September 17th._--The morning very fine. We rose early and
walked through the glen of Roslin, past Hawthornden, and considerably
further, to the house of Mr. Walter Scott at Lasswade. Roslin Castle
stands upon a woody bank above a stream, the North Esk, too large, I
think, to be called a brook, yet an inconsiderable river. We looked down
upon the ruin from higher ground. Near it stands the Chapel, a most
elegant building, a ruin, though the walls and roof are entire. I never
passed through a more delicious dell than the glen of Roslin, though the
water of the stream is dingy and muddy. The banks are rocky on each
side, and hung with pine wood. About a mile from the Castle, on the
contrary side of the water, upon the edge of a very steep bank, stands
Hawthornden, the house of Drummond the poet, whither Ben Jonson came on
foot from London to visit his friend. We did hear to whom the house at
present belongs, and some other particulars, but I have a very
indistinct recollection of what was told us, except that many old trees
had been lately cut down. After Hawthornden the glen widens, ceases to
be rocky, and spreads out into a rich vale, scattered over with
gentlemen's seats.
Arrived at Lasswade before Mr. and Mrs. Scott had risen, and waited some
time in a large sitting-room. Breakfasted with them, and stayed till two
o'clock, and Mr. Scott accompanied us back almost to Roslin, having
given us directions respecting our future journey, and promised to meet
us at Melrose two days after.[26]
[Footnote 26: See Lockhart's _Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter
Scott_, vol. i. pp. 402-7, for an account of this visit. Lockhart
says, "I have drawn up the account of this meeting from my
recollection, partly of Mr. W.'s conversation, partly from that of his
sister's charming 'Diary,' which he was so kind as to read to me on
the 16th May 1836."--ED.]
We ordered dinner on our return to the inn, and went to view the inside
of the Chapel of Roslin, which is kept locked up, and so preserved from
the injuries it might otherwise receive from idle boys; but as nothing
is done to keep it together, it must in the end fall. The architecture
within is exquisitely beautiful. The stone both of the roof and walls is
sculptured with leaves and flowers, so delicately wrought that I could
have admired them for hours, and the whole of their groundwork is
stained by time with the softest colours. Some of those leaves and
flowers were tinged perfectly green, and at one part the effect was most
exquisite: three or four leaves of a small fern, resembling that which
we call adder's tongue, grew round a cluster of them at the top of a
pillar, and the natural product and the artificial were so intermingled
that at first it was not easy to distinguish the living plant from the
other, they being of an equally determined green, though the fern was of
a deeper shade.
We set forward again after dinner. The afternoon was pleasant. Travelled
through large tracts of ripe corn, interspersed with larger tracts of
moorland--the houses at a considerable distance from each other, no
longer thatched huts, but farm-houses resembling those of the farming
counties in England, having many corn-stacks close to them. Dark when we
reached Peebles; found a comfortable old-fashioned public-house, had a
neat parlour, and drank tea.
_SIXTH WEEK_
_Sunday, September 18th._--The town of Peebles is on the banks of the
Tweed. After breakfast walked up the river to Neidpath Castle, about a
mile and a half from the town. The castle stands upon a green hill,
overlooking the Tweed, a strong square-towered edifice, neglected and
desolate, though not in ruin, the garden overgrown with grass, and the
high walls that fenced it broken down. The Tweed winds between green
steeps, upon which, and close to the river-side, large flocks of sheep
pasturing; higher still are the grey mountains; but I need not describe
the scene, for William has done it better than I could do in a sonnet
which he wrote the same day; the five last lines, at least, of his poem
will impart to you more of the feeling of the place than it would be
possible for me to do:[27]--
[Footnote 27: See in the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803," the
_Sonnet composed at ---- Castle_.--ED.]
Degenerate Douglas! thou unworthy Lord
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
And love of havoc (for with such disease
Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde,
A brotherhood of venerable trees,
Leaving an ancient Dome and Towers like these
Beggar'd and outraged! Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
The Traveller at this day will stop and gaze
On wrongs which Nature scarcely seems to heed;
For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
And the green silent pastures yet remain.
_I_ was spared any regret for the fallen woods when we were there, not
then knowing the history of them. The soft low mountains, the castle,
and the decayed pleasure-grounds, the scattered trees which have been
left in different parts, and the road carried in a very beautiful line
along the side of the hill, with the Tweed murmuring through the
unfenced green pastures spotted with sheep, together composed an
harmonious scene, and I wished for nothing that was not there. When we
were with Mr. Scott he spoke of cheerful days he had spent in that
castle not many years ago, when it was inhabited by Professor Ferguson
and his family, whom the Duke of Queensberry, its churlish owner, forced
to quit it. We discovered a very fine echo within a few yards of the
building.
The town of Peebles looks very pretty from the road in returning: it is
an old town, built of grey stone, the same as the castle. Well-dressed
people were going to church. Sent the car before, and walked ourselves,
and while going along the main street William was called aside in a
mysterious manner by a person who gravely examined him--whether he was
an Irishman or a foreigner, or what he was; I suppose our car was the
occasion of suspicion at a time when every one was talking of the
threatened invasion. We had a day's journey before us along the banks of
the Tweed, a name which has been sweet to my ears almost as far back as
I can remember anything. After the first mile or two our road was seldom
far from the river, which flowed in gentleness, though perhaps never
silent; the hills on either side high and sometimes stony, but excellent
pasturage for sheep. In some parts the vale was wholly of this pastoral
character, in others we saw extensive tracts of corn ground, even
spreading along whole hill-sides, and without visible fences, which is
dreary in a flat country; but there is no dreariness on the banks of the
Tweed,--the hills, whether smooth or stony, uncultivated or covered with
ripe corn, had the same pensive softness. Near the corn tracts were
large farm-houses, with many corn-stacks; the stacks and house and
out-houses together, I recollect, in one or two places upon the hills,
at a little distance, seemed almost as large as a small village or
hamlet. It was a clear autumnal day, without wind, and, being Sunday,
the business of the harvest was suspended, and all that we saw, and
felt, and heard, combined to excite one sensation of pensive and still
pleasure.
Passed by several old halls yet inhabited, and others in ruin; but I
have hardly a sufficiently distinct recollection of any of them to be
able to describe them, and I now at this distance of time regret that I
did not take notes. In one very sweet part of the vale a gate crossed
the road, which was opened by an old woman who lived in a cottage close
to it; I said to her, "You live in a very pretty place!" "Yes," she
replied, "the water of Tweed is a bonny water." The lines of the hills
are flowing and beautiful, the reaches of the vale long; in some places
appear the remains of a forest, in others you will see as lovely a
combination of forms as any traveller who goes in search of the
picturesque need desire, and yet perhaps without a single tree; or at
least if trees there are, they shall be very few, and he shall not care
whether they are there or not.
The road took us through one long village, but I do not recollect any
other; yet I think we never had a mile's length before us without a
house, though seldom several cottages together. The loneliness of the
scattered dwellings, the more stately edifices decaying or in ruin, or,
if inhabited, not in their pride and freshness, aided the general effect
of the gently varying scenes, which was that of tender pensiveness; no
bursting torrents when we were there, but the murmuring of the river was
heard distinctly, often blended with the bleating of sheep. In one place
we saw a shepherd lying in the midst of a flock upon a sunny knoll, with
his face towards the sky,--happy picture of shepherd life.
The transitions of this vale were all gentle except one, a scene of
which a gentleman's house was the centre, standing low in the vale, the
hills above it covered with gloomy fir plantations, and the appearance
of the house itself, though it could scarcely be seen, was gloomy. There
was an allegorical air--a person fond of Spenser will understand me--in
this uncheerful spot, single in such a country,
"The house was hearsed about with a black wood."
We have since heard that it was the residence of Lord Traquair, a Roman
Catholic nobleman, of a decayed family.
We left the Tweed when we were within about a mile and a half or two
miles of Clovenford, where we were to lodge. Turned up the side of a
hill, and went along sheep-grounds till we reached the spot--a single
stone house, without a tree near it or to be seen from it. On our
mentioning Mr. Scott's name the woman of the house showed us all
possible civility, but her slowness was really amusing. I should suppose
it is a house little frequented, for there is no appearance of an inn.
Mr. Scott, who she told me was a very clever gentleman, "goes there in
the fishing season"; but indeed Mr. Scott is respected everywhere: I
believe that by favour of his name one might be hospitably entertained
throughout all the borders of Scotland. We dined and drank tea--did not
walk out, for there was no temptation; a confined barren prospect from
the window.
At Clovenford, being so near to the Yarrow, we could not but think of
the possibility of going thither, but came to the conclusion of
reserving the pleasure for some future time, in consequence of which,
after our return, William wrote the poem which I shall here
transcribe:[28]--
[Footnote 28: See in "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803," _Yarrow
Unvisited_.--ED.]
From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravell'd,
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell'd.
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my winsome Marrow,
"Whate'er betide we'll turn aside
And see the Braes of Yarrow."
"Let Yarrow Folk frae Selkirk Town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow:--'tis their own,
Each Maiden to her dwelling.
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,
But we will downwards with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
"There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus.
There's pleasant Teviot Dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow,
Why throw away a needful day,
To go in search of Yarrow?
"What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere,
As worthy of your wonder."
Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn,
My true-love sigh'd for sorrow,
And look'd me in the face to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow.
"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's Holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path and open Strath
We'll wander Scotland thorough,
But though so near we will not turn
Into the Dale of Yarrow.
"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burnmill Meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow.
We will not see them, will not go,
To-day nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.
"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown,
It must, or we shall rue it,
We have a vision of our own,
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, 'winsome Marrow,'
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow.
"If care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy,
Should life be dull and spirits low,
'Twill sooth us in our sorrow
That earth hath something yet to show--
The bonny Holms of Yarrow."
The next day we were to meet Mr. Scott, and again join the Tweed. I wish
I could have given you a better idea of what we saw between Peebles and
this place. I have most distinct recollections of the effect of the
whole day's journey; but the objects are mostly melted together in my
memory, and though I should recognise them if we revisit the place, I
cannot call them out so as to represent them to you with distinctness.
William, in attempting in verse to describe this part of the Tweed, says
of it,
More pensive in sunshine
Than others in moonshine,
which perhaps may give you more power to conceive what it is than all I
have said.
_Monday, September 19th._--We rose early, and went to Melrose, six
miles, before breakfast. After ascending a hill, descended, and
overlooked a dell, on the opposite side of which was an old mansion,
surrounded with trees and steep gardens, a curious and pleasing, yet
melancholy spot; for the house and gardens were evidently going to
decay, and the whole of the small dell, except near the house, was
unenclosed and uncultivated, being a sheep-walk to the top of the hills.
Descended to Gala Water, a pretty stream, but much smaller than the
Tweed, into which the brook flows from the glen I have spoken of. Near
the Gala is a large modern house, the situation very pleasant, but the
old building which we had passed put to shame the fresh colouring and
meagre outline of the new one. Went through a part of the village of
Galashiels, pleasantly situated on the bank of the stream; a pretty
place it once has been, but a manufactory is established there; and a
townish bustle and ugly stone houses are fast taking place of the
brown-roofed thatched cottages, of which a great number yet remain,
partly overshadowed by trees. Left the Gala, and, after crossing the
open country, came again to the Tweed, and pursued our way as before
near the river, perhaps for a mile or two, till we arrived at Melrose.
The valley for this short space was not so pleasing as before, the hills
more broken, and though the cultivation was general, yet the scene was
not rich, while it had lost its pastoral simplicity. At Melrose the vale
opens out wide; but the hills are high all round--single distinct
risings. After breakfast we went out, intending to go to the Abbey, and
in the street met Mr. Scott, who gave us a cordial greeting, and
conducted us thither himself. He was here on his own ground, for he is
familiar with all that is known of the authentic history of Melrose and
the popular tales connected with it. He pointed out many pieces of
beautiful sculpture in obscure corners which would have escaped our
notice. The Abbey has been built of a pale red stone; that part which
was first erected of a very durable kind, the sculptured flowers and
leaves and other minute ornaments being as perfect in many places as
when first wrought. The ruin is of considerable extent, but
unfortunately it is almost surrounded by insignificant houses, so that
when you are close to it you see it entirely separated from many rural
objects, and even when viewed from a distance the situation does not
seem to be particularly happy, for the vale is broken and disturbed, and
the Abbey at a distance from the river, so that you do not look upon
them as companions of each other. And surely this is a national
barbarism: within these beautiful walls is the ugliest church that was
ever beheld--if it had been hewn out of the side of a hill it could not
have been more dismal; there was no neatness, nor even decency, and it
appeared to be so damp, and so completely excluded from fresh air, that
it must be dangerous to sit in it; the floor is unpaved, and very rough.
What a contrast to the beautiful and graceful order apparent in every
part of the ancient design and workmanship! Mr. Scott went with us into
the gardens and orchards of a Mr. Riddel, from which we had a very sweet
view of the Abbey through trees, the town being entirely excluded. Dined
with Mr. Scott at the inn; he was now travelling to the assizes at
Jedburgh in his character of Sheriff of Selkirk, and on that account, as
well as for his own sake, he was treated with great respect, a small
part of which was vouchsafed to us as his friends, though I could not
persuade the woman to show me the beds, or to make any sort of promise
till she was assured from the Sheriff himself that he had no objection
to sleep in the same room with William.
_Tuesday, September 20th._--Mr. Scott departed very early for Jedburgh,
and we soon followed, intending to go by Dryburgh to Kelso. It was a
fine morning. We went without breakfast, being told that there was a
public-house at Dryburgh. The road was very pleasant, seldom out of
sight of the Tweed for any length of time, though not often close to it.
The valley is not so pleasantly defined as between Peebles and
Clovenford, yet so soft and beautiful, and in many parts pastoral, but
that peculiar and pensive simplicity which I have spoken of before was
wanting, yet there was a fertility chequered with wildness which to many
travellers would be more than a compensation. The reaches of the vale
were shorter, the turnings more rapid, the banks often clothed with
wood. In one place was a lofty scar, at another a green promontory, a
small hill skirted by the river, the hill above irregular and green, and
scattered over with trees. We wished we could have brought the ruins of
Melrose to that spot, and mentioned this to Mr. Scott, who told us that
the monks had first fixed their abode there, and raised a temporary
building of wood. The monastery of Melrose was founded by a colony from
Rievaux Abbey in Yorkshire, which building it happens to resemble in the
colour of the stone, and I think partly in the style of architecture,
but is much smaller, that is, has been much smaller, for there is not at
Rievaux any one single part of the ruin so large as the remains of the
church at Melrose, though at Rievaux a far more extensive ruin remains.
It is also much grander, and the situation at present much more
beautiful, that ruin not having suffered like Melrose Abbey from the
encroachments of a town. The architecture at Melrose is, I believe,
superior in the exactness and taste of some of the minute ornamental
parts; indeed, it is impossible to conceive anything more delicate than
the workmanship, especially in the imitations of flowers.
We descended to Dryburgh after having gone a considerable way upon high
ground. A heavy rain when we reached the village, and there was no
public-house. A well-dressed, well-spoken woman courteously--shall I say
charitably?--invited us into her cottage, and permitted us to make
breakfast; she showed us into a neat parlour, furnished with prints, a
mahogany table, and other things which I was surprised to see, for her
husband was only a day-labourer, but she had been Lady Buchan's
waiting-maid, which accounted for these luxuries and for a noticeable
urbanity in her manners. All the cottages in this neighbourhood, if I am
not mistaken, were covered with red tiles, and had chimneys. After
breakfast we set out in the rain to the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which
are near Lord Buchan's house, and, like Bothwell Castle, appropriated to
the pleasure of the owner. We rang a bell at the gate, and, instead of a
porter, an old woman came to open it through a narrow side-alley cut in
a thick plantation of evergreens. On entering, saw the thatch of her hut
just above the trees, and it looked very pretty, but the poor creature
herself was a figure to frighten a child,--bowed almost double, having a
hooked nose and overhanging eyebrows, a complexion stained brown with
smoke, and a cap that might have been worn for months and never washed.
No doubt she had been cowering over her peat fire, for if she had
emitted smoke by her breath and through every pore, the odour could not
have been stronger. This ancient woman, by right of office, attended us
to show off the curiosities, and she had her tale as perfect, though it
was not quite so long a one, as the gentleman Swiss, whom I remember to
have seen at Blenheim with his slender wand and dainty white clothes.
The house of Lord Buchan and the Abbey stand upon a large flat
peninsula, a green holm almost covered with fruit-trees. The ruins of
Dryburgh are much less extensive than those of Melrose, and greatly
inferior both in the architecture and stone, which is much mouldered
away. Lord Buchan has trained pear-trees along the walls, which are
bordered with flowers and gravel walks, and he has made a pigeon-house,
and a fine room in the ruin, ornamented with a curiously-assorted
collection of busts of eminent men, in which lately a ball was given;
yet, deducting for all these improvements, which are certainly much less
offensive than you could imagine, it is a very sweet ruin, standing so
enclosed in wood, which the towers overtop, that you cannot know that it
is not in a state of natural desolation till you are close to it. The
opposite bank of the Tweed is steep and woody, but unfortunately many of
the trees are firs. The old woman followed us after the fashion of other
guides, but being slower of foot than a younger person, it was not
difficult to slip away from the scent of her poor smoke-dried body. She
was sedulous in pointing out the curiosities, which, I doubt not, she
had a firm belief were not to be surpassed in England or Scotland.
Having promised us a sight of the largest and oldest yew-tree ever seen,
she conducted us to it; it was a goodly tree, but a mere dwarf compared
with several of our own country--not to speak of the giant of Lorton. We
returned to the cottage, and waited some time in hopes that the rain
would abate, but it grew worse and worse, and we were obliged to give up
our journey, to Kelso, taking the direct road to Jedburgh.
We had to ford the Tweed, a wide river at the crossing-place. It would
have been impossible to drive the horse through, for he had not
forgotten the fright at Connel Ferry, so we hired a man to lead us.
After crossing the water, the road goes up the bank, and we had a
beautiful view of the ruins of the Abbey, peering above the trees of the
woody peninsula, which, in shape, resembles that formed by the Tees at
Lickburn, but is considerably smaller. Lord Buchan's house is a very
neat, modest building, and almost hidden by trees. It soon began to rain
heavily. Crossing the Teviot by a stone bridge--the vale in that part
very wide--there was a great deal of ripe corn, but a want of trees, and
no appearance of richness. Arrived at Jedburgh half an hour before the
Judges were expected out of Court to dinner.
We gave in our passport--the name of Mr. Scott, the Sheriff--and were
very civilly treated, but there was no vacant room in the house except
the Judge's sitting-room, and we wanted to have a fire, being
exceedingly wet and cold. I was conducted into that room, on condition
that I would give it up the moment the Judge came from Court.[29] After
I had put off my wet clothes I went up into a bedroom, and sate
shivering there, till the people of the inn had procured lodgings for us
in a private house.
[Footnote 29: Compare Lockhart's _Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter
Scott_, vol. i. p. 403.--ED.]
We were received with hearty welcome by a good woman, who, though above
seventy years old, moved about as briskly as if she was only seventeen.
Those parts of the house which we were to occupy were neat and clean;
she showed me every corner, and, before I had been ten minutes in the
house, opened her very drawers that I might see what a stock of linen
she had; then asked me how long we should stay, and said she wished we
were come for three months. She was a most remarkable person; the
alacrity with which she ran up-stairs when we rung the bell, and guessed
at, and strove to prevent, our wants was surprising; she had a quick
eye, and keen strong features, and a joyousness in her motions, like
what used to be in old Molly when she was particularly elated. I found
afterwards that she had been subject to fits of dejection and
ill-health: we then conjectured that her overflowing gaiety and strength
might in part be attributed to the same cause as her former dejection.
Her husband was deaf and infirm, and sate in a chair with scarcely the
power to move a limb--an affecting contrast! The old woman said they had
been a very hard-working pair; they had wrought like slaves at their
trade--her husband had been a currier; and she told me how they had
portioned off their daughters with money, and each a feather-bed, and
that in their old age they had laid out the little they could spare in
building and furnishing that house, and she added with pride that she
had lived in her youth in the family of Lady Egerton, who was no high
lady, and now was in the habit of coming to her house whenever she was
at Jedburgh, and a hundred other things; for when she once began with
Lady Egerton, she did not know how to stop, nor did I wish it, for she
was very entertaining. Mr. Scott sate with us an hour or two, and
repeated a part of the Lay of the Last Minstrel. When he was gone our
hostess came to see if we wanted anything, and to wish us good-night. On
all occasions her manners were governed by the same spirit: there was no
withdrawing one's attention from her. We were so much interested that
William, long afterwards, thought it worth while to express in verse the
sensations which she had excited, and which then remained as vividly in
his mind as at the moment when we lost sight of Jedburgh:[30]--
[Footnote 30: See in "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803," _The
Matron of Jedborough and her Husband_.--ED.]
Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers,
And call a train of laughing Hours;
And bid them dance, and bid them sing,
And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring!
Take to thy heart a new delight!
If not, make merry in despite
That one should breathe who scorns thy power.
--But dance! for under Jedborough Tower
A Matron dwells who, tho' she bears
Our mortal complement of years,
Lives in the light of youthful glee,
And she will dance and sing with thee.
Nay! start not at that Figure--there!
Him who is rooted to his Chair!
Look at him, look again; for He
Hath long been of thy Family.
With legs that move not, if they can,
And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,
He sits, and with a vacant eye;
A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!
Deaf, drooping, such is now his doom;
His world is in that single room--
Is this a place for mirthful cheer?
Can merry-making enter here?
The joyous Woman is the Mate
Of him in that forlorn estate;
He breathes a subterraneous damp;
But bright as Vesper shines her lamp,
He is as mute as Jedborough Tower,
She jocund as it was of yore
With all its bravery on, in times
When all alive with merry chimes
Upon a sun-bright morn of May
It roused the Vale to holiday.
I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
Is praise, heroic praise and true.
With admiration I behold
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
The picture of a life well spent;
This do I see, and something more,
A strength unthought of heretofore.
Delighted am I for thy sake,
And yet a higher joy partake:
Our human nature throws away
Its second twilight, and looks gay,
A Land of promise and of pride
Unfolding, wide as life is wide.
Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed
Within himself as seems, composed;
To fear of loss and hope of gain,
The strife of happiness and pain--
Utterly dead! yet in the guise
Of little Infants when their eyes
Begin to follow to and fro
The persons that before them go,
He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
Her buoyant spirits can prevail
Where common cheerfulness would fail.
She strikes upon him with the heat
Of July suns; he feels it sweet;
An animal delight, though dim!
'Tis all that now remains for him!
I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er,
And, looking, wondered more and more:
When suddenly I seem'd to espy
A trouble in her strong black eye,
A remnant of uneasy light,
A flash of something over-bright!
Not long this mystery did detain
My thoughts. She told in pensive strain
That she had borne a heavy yoke,
Been stricken by a twofold stroke;
Ill health of body, and had pined
Beneath worse ailments of the mind.
So be it!--but let praise ascend
To Him who is our Lord and Friend!
Who from disease and suffering
As bad almost as Life can bring,
Hath call'd for thee a second Spring;
Repaid thee for that sore distress
By no untimely joyousness;
Which makes of thine a blissful state;
And cheers thy melancholy Mate!
_Wednesday, September 21st._--The house where we lodged was airy, and
even cheerful, though one of a line of houses bordering on the
churchyard, which is the highest part of the town, overlooking a great
portion of it to the opposite hills. The kirk is, as at Melrose, within
the walls of a conventual church; but the ruin is much less beautiful,
and the church a very neat one. The churchyard was full of graves, and
exceedingly slovenly and dirty; one most indecent practice I observed:
several women brought their linen to the flat table-tombstones, and,
having spread it upon them, began to batter as hard as they could with a
wooden roller, a substitute for a mangle.
After Mr. Scott's business in the Courts was over, he walked with us up
the Jed--"sylvan Jed" it has been properly called by Thomson--for the
banks are yet very woody, though wood in large quantities has been
felled within a few years. There are some fine red scars near the river,
in one or two of which we saw the entrances to caves, said to have been
used as places of refuge in times of insecurity.
Walked up to Ferniehurst, an old hall, in a secluded situation, now
inhabited by farmers; the neighbouring ground had the wildness of a
forest, being irregularly scattered over with fine old trees. The wind
was tossing their branches, and sunshine dancing among the leaves, and I
happened to exclaim, "What a life there is in trees!" on which Mr. Scott
observed that the words reminded him of a young lady who had been born
and educated on an island of the Orcades, and came to spend a summer at
Kelso and in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. She used to say that in the
new world into which she was come nothing had disappointed her so much
as trees and woods; she complained that they were lifeless, silent, and,
compared with the grandeur of the ever-changing ocean, even insipid. At
first I was surprised, but the next moment I felt that the impression
was natural. Mr. Scott said that she was a very sensible young woman,
and had read much. She talked with endless rapture and feeling of the
power and greatness of the ocean; and with the same passionate
attachment returned to her native island without any probability of
quitting it again.[31]
[Footnote 31: Compare Lockhart's _Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter
Scott_, vol. i. p. 404.--ED.]
The valley of the Jed is very solitary immediately under Ferniehurst; we
walked down the river, wading almost up to the knees in fern, which in
many parts overspread the forest-ground. It made me think of our walks
at Alfoxden, and of _our own_ park--though at Ferniehurst is no park at
present--and the slim fawns that we used to startle from their
couching-places among the fern at the top of the hill. We were
accompanied on our walk by a young man from the Braes of Yarrow, an
acquaintance of Mr. Scott's,[32] who, having been much delighted with
some of William's poems which he had chanced to see in a newspaper, had
wished to be introduced to him; he lived in the most retired part of the
dale of Yarrow, where he had a farm: he was fond of reading, and
well-informed, but at first meeting as shy as any of our Grasmere lads,
and not less rustic in his appearance. He had been in the Highlands, and
gave me such an account of Loch Rannoch as made us regret that we had
not persevered in our journey thither, especially as he told us that the
bad road ended at a very little distance from the place where we had
turned back, and that we should have come into another good road,
continued all along the shore of the lake. He also mentioned that there
was a very fine view from the steeple at Dunkeld.
[Footnote 32: William Laidlaw.--ED.]
The town of Jedburgh, in returning along the road, as it is seen through
the gently winding narrow valley, looks exceedingly beautiful on its low
eminence, surmounted by the conventual tower, which is arched over, at
the summit, by light stone-work resembling a coronet; the effect at a
distance is very graceful. The hills all round are high, and rise
rapidly from the town, which though it stands considerably above the
river, yet, from every side except that on which we walked, appears to
stand in a bottom.
We had our dinner sent from the inn, and a bottle of wine, that we might
not disgrace the Sheriff, who supped with us in the evening,--stayed
late, and repeated some of his poem.
_Thursday, September 22nd._--After breakfast, the minister, Dr.
Somerville, called upon us with Mr. Scott, and we went to the manse, a
very pretty house, with pretty gardens, and in a beautiful situation,
though close to the town. Dr. Somerville and his family complained
bitterly of the devastation that had been made among the woods within
view from their windows, which looked up the Jed. He conducted us to the
church, which under his directions has been lately repaired, and is a
very neat place within. Dr. Somerville spoke of the dirt and other
indecencies in the churchyard, and said that he had taken great pains to
put a stop to them, but wholly in vain. The business of the assizes
closed this day, and we went into Court to hear the Judge pronounce his
charge, which was the most curious specimen of old woman's oratory and
newspaper-paragraph loyalty that was ever heard. When all was over they
returned to the inn in procession, as they had come, to the sound of a
trumpet, the Judge first, in his robes of red, the Sheriffs next, in
large cocked hats, and inferior officers following, a show not much
calculated to awe the beholders. After this we went to the inn. The
landlady and her sister inquired if we had been comfortable, and
lamented that they had not had it in their power to pay us more
attention. I began to talk with them, and found out that they were from
Cumberland: they knew Captain and Mrs. Wordsworth, who had frequently
been at Jedburgh, Mrs. Wordsworth's sister having married a gentleman of
that neighbourhood. They spoke of them with great pleasure. I returned
to our lodgings to take leave of the old woman, who told me that I had
behaved "very discreetly," and seemed exceedingly sorry that we were
leaving her so soon. She had been out to buy me some pears, saying that
I must take away some "Jeddered" pears. We learned afterwards that
Jedburgh is famous in Scotland for pears, which were first cultivated
there in the gardens of the monks.
Mr. Scott was very glad to part from the Judge and his retinue, to
travel with us in our car to Hawick; his servant drove his own gig. The
landlady, very kindly, had put up some sandwiches and cheese-cakes for
me, and all the family came out to see us depart. Passed the monastery
gardens, which are yet gardens, where there are many remarkably large
old pear-trees. We soon came into the vale of Teviot, which is open and
cultivated, and scattered over with hamlets, villages, and many
gentlemen's seats, yet, though there is no inconsiderable quantity of
wood, you can never, in the wide and cultivated parts of the Teviot, get
rid of the impression of barrenness, and the fir plantations, which in
this part are numerous, are for ever at war with simplicity. One
beautiful spot I recollect of a different character, which Mr. Scott
took us to see a few yards from the road. A stone bridge crossed the
water at a deep and still place, called Horne's Pool, from a
contemplative schoolmaster, who had lived not far from it, and was
accustomed to walk thither, and spend much of his leisure near the
river. The valley was here narrow and woody. Mr. Scott pointed out to us
Ruberslaw, Minto Crags, and every other remarkable object in or near the
vale of Teviot, and we scarcely passed a house for which he had not some
story. Seeing us look at one, which stood high on the hill on the
opposite side of the river, he told us that a gentleman lived there who,
while he was in India, had been struck with the fancy of making his
fortune by a new speculation, and so set about collecting the gods of
the country, with infinite pains and no little expense, expecting that
he might sell them for an enormous price. Accordingly, on his return
they were offered for sale, but no purchasers came. On the failure of
this scheme, a room was hired in London in which to exhibit them as a
show; but alas! nobody would come to see; and this curious assemblage of
monsters is now, probably, quietly lodged in the vale of Teviot. The
latter part of this gentleman's history is more affecting:--he had an
only daughter, whom he had accompanied into Spain two or three years ago
for the recovery of her health, and so for a time saved her from a
consumption, which now again threatened her, and he was about to leave
his pleasant residence, and attend her once more on the same errand,
afraid of the coming winter.
We passed through a village, whither Leyden, Scott's intimate friend,
the author of _Scenes of Infancy_,[33] was used to walk over several
miles of moorland country every day to school, a poor barefooted boy. He
is now in India, applying himself to the study of Oriental literature,
and, I doubt not, it is his dearest thought that he may come and end his
days upon the banks of Teviot, or some other of the Lowland streams--for
he is, like Mr. Scott, passionately attached to the district of the
Borders.
[Footnote 33: The full title was _Scenes of Infancy, descriptive of
Teviotdale_, published in 1803.--ED.]
Arrived at Hawick to dinner; the inn is a large old house with walls
above a yard thick, formerly a gentleman's house. Did not go out this
evening.
_Friday, September 23rd._--Before breakfast, walked with Mr. Scott along
a high road for about two miles, up a bare hill. Hawick is a small town.
From the top of the hill we had an extensive view over the moors of
Liddisdale, and saw the Cheviot Hills. We wished we could have gone with
Mr. Scott into some of the remote dales of this country, where in almost
every house he can find a home and a hearty welcome. But after breakfast
we were obliged to part with him, which we did with great regret: he
would gladly have gone with us to Langholm, eighteen miles further. Our
way was through the vale of Teviot, near the banks of the river.
Passed Branxholm Hall, one of the mansions belonging to the Duke of
Buccleuch, which we looked at with particular interest for the sake of
the Lay of the Last Minstrel. Only a very small part of the original
building remains: it is a large strong house, old, but not ancient in
its appearance--stands very near the river-side; the banks covered with
plantations.
A little further on, met the Edinburgh coach with several passengers,
the only stage-coach that had passed us in Scotland. Coleridge had come
home by that conveyance only a few days before. The quantity of arable
land gradually diminishes, and the plantations become fewer, till at
last the river flows open to the sun, mostly through unfenced and
untilled grounds, a soft pastoral district, both the hills and the
valley being scattered over with sheep: here and there was a single
farm-house, or cluster of houses, and near them a portion of land
covered with ripe corn.
Near the head of the vale of Teviot, where that stream is but a small
rivulet, we descended towards another valley, by another small rivulet.
Hereabouts Mr. Scott had directed us to look about for some old stumps
of trees, said to be the place where Johnny Armstrong was hanged; but
we could not find them out. The valley into which we were descending,
though, for aught I know, it is unnamed in song, was to us more
interesting than the Teviot itself. Not a spot of tilled ground was
there to break in upon its pastoral simplicity; the same soft yellow
green spread from the bed of the streamlet to the hill-tops on each
side, and sheep were feeding everywhere. It was more close and simple
than the upper end of the vale of Teviot, the valley being much
narrower, and the hills equally high and not broken into parts, but on
each side a long range. The grass, as we had first seen near
Crawfordjohn, had been mown in the different places of the open ground,
where it might chance to be best; but there was no part of the surface
that looked perfectly barren, as in those tracts.
We saw a single stone house a long way before us, which we conjectured
to be, as it proved, Moss Paul, the inn where we were to bait. 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. At Moss Paul we fed our
horse;--several travellers were drinking whisky. We neither ate nor
drank, for we had, with our usual foresight and frugality in travelling,
saved the cheese-cakes and sandwiches which had been given us by our
countrywoman at Jedburgh the day before. After Moss Paul, we ascended
considerably, then went down other reaches of the valley, much less
interesting, stony and barren. The country afterwards not peculiar, I
should think, for I scarcely remember it.
Arrived at Langholm at about five o'clock. The town, as we approached,
from a hill, looked very pretty, the houses being roofed with blue
slates, and standing close to the river Esk, here a large river, that
scattered its waters wide over a stony channel. The inn neat and
comfortable--exceedingly clean: I could hardly believe we were still in
Scotland.
After tea walked out; crossed a bridge, and saw, at a little distance up
the valley, Langholm House, a villa of the Duke of Buccleuch: it stands
upon a level between the river and a steep hill, which is planted with
wood. Walked a considerable way up the river, but could not go close to
it on account of the Duke's plantations, which are locked up. When they
ended, the vale became less cultivated; the view through the vale
towards the hills very pleasing, though bare and cold.
_Saturday, September 24th._--Rose very early and travelled about nine
miles to Longtown, before breakfast, along the banks of the Esk. About
half a mile from Langholm crossed a bridge. At this part of the vale,
which is narrow, the steeps are covered with old oaks and every variety
of trees. Our road for some time through the wood, then came to a more
open country, exceedingly rich and populous; the banks of the river
frequently rocky, and hung with wood; many gentlemen's houses. There was
the same rich variety while the river continued to flow through Scottish
grounds; but not long after we had passed through the last turnpike gate
in Scotland and the first in England--but a few yards asunder--the vale
widens, and its aspect was cold, and even dreary, though Sir James
Graham's plantations are very extensive. His house, a large building,
stands in this open part of the vale. Longtown was before us, and ere
long we saw the well-remembered guide-post, where the circuit of our six
weeks' travels had begun, and now was ended.
We did not look along the white line of the road to Solway Moss without
some melancholy emotion, though we had the fair prospect of the
Cumberland mountains full in view, with the certainty, barring
accidents, of reaching our own dear home the next day. Breakfasted at
the Graham's Arms. The weather had been very fine from the time of our
arrival at Jedburgh, and this was a very pleasant day. The sun "shone
fair on Carlisle's walls" when we first saw them from the top of the
opposite hill. Stopped to look at the place on the sand near the bridge
where Hatfield had been executed. Put up at the same inn as before, and
were recognised by the woman who had waited on us. Everybody spoke of
Hatfield as an injured man. After dinner went to a village six miles
further, where we slept.
_Sunday, September 25th, 1803._--A beautiful autumnal day. Breakfasted
at a public-house by the road-side; dined at Threlkeld; arrived at home
between eight and nine o'clock, where we found Mary in perfect health,
Joanna Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in the clothes-basket
by the fire.