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.



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.



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 armed 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 arched 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.



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.



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"—



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.



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.



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.



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!



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.



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.



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.



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'.

HUZZA! HUZZAH!! HUZZAH!!!



The monument on the top of Whita Hill was erected in memory of one of the famous four Knights of Langholm, the sons of Malcolm of Burn Foot, whose Christian names were James, Pulteney, John, and Charles, all of whom became distinguished men. Sir James was made a K.C.B, and a Colonel in the Royal Marines. He served on board the Canopus at the Battle of San Domingo, taking a prominent part in the American War of 1812. He died at Milnholm, near Langholm, at the age of eighty-two. Pulteney Malcolm rose to the rank of Admiral and served under Lord Nelson, but as his ship was refitting at Gibraltar he missed taking part in the Battle of Trafalgar, though he arrived just in time to capture the Spanish 120-gun ship El Kago. He became intimately acquainted with Napoleon Bonaparte, as he had the command of the British worships that guarded him during his captivity at St. Helena. Sir John Malcolm was a distinguished Indian statesman, and it was to him that the monument on Whita Hill had been erected. The monument, which was visible for many miles, was 100 feet high, and the hill itself 1,162 feet above sea-level. Sir Charles Malcolm, the youngest of the four brothers, after seeing much active service, rose to be Vice-Admiral of the Fleet.



If the great fair-day had been on when we reached Langholm we should not have been surprised at being unable to find lodgings, but as it was we could only attribute our failure to arriving at that town so late in the evening, nearly an hour after the authorised closing time of the inns. We found we could not stay very long in the distillery without a fire, for a sharp frost had now developed, and we began to feel the effect of the lower temperature; we therefore decided, after a short rest, to continue our walk on the Carlisle road. Turning over the bridge that crossed the rapidly running stream of the River Esk—the cause of the rush of water we heard in the distillery—we followed the river on its downward course for some miles. It was a splendid starlight, frosty night, but, as we were very tired and hungry, we could only proceed slowly—in fact scarcely quickly enough to maintain our circulation. Being also very sleepy, we had to do something desperate to keep ourselves awake, so we amused ourselves by knocking with our heavy oaken sticks at the doors or window-shutters of the houses we passed on our way. It was a mild revenge we took for the town's inhospitality, and we pictured to ourselves how the story of two highwaymen being about the roads during the midnight hours would be circulated along the countryside during the following day, but we could not get any one to come beyond the keyhole of the door or the panes of the shuttered windows. We were, however, becoming quite desperate, as we were now nearly famished, and, when we came to a small shop, the sounds from our sticks on the door quickly aroused the mistress, who asked us what we wanted. My brother entered into his usual explanation that we were pedestrian tourists on a walking expedition, and offered her a substantial sum for some bread or something to eat; but it was of no use, as the only answer we got was, "I ha' not a bit till th' baker coomes ith' morn'."

This reply, and the tone of voice in which it was spoken, for the woman "snaffled," was too much for us, and, tired as we were, we both roared with laughter; absurd though it may seem, it was astonishing how this little incident cheered us on our way.

It was a lovely country through which we were travelling, and our road, as well as the river alongside, was in many places overhung by the foliage of the fine trees, through which the brilliant lustre of the stars appeared overhead; in fact we heard afterwards that this length of road was said to include the finest landscapes along the whole of the stage-coach road between London and Edinburgh. The bridge by which we recrossed the river had been partially built with stones from the ruins of Gilnockie Tower, once the stronghold of the famous freebooter Johnnie Armstrong, of whom we had heard higher up the country.



Sir Walter Scott tells us that King James V resolved to take very serious measures against the Border Warriors, and under pretence of coming to hunt the deer in those desolate regions he assembled an army, and suddenly appeared at the Castle of Piers Cockburn of Henderland, near where we had been further north. He ordered that baron to be seized and executed in spite of the fact that he was preparing a great feast of welcome. Adam Scott of Tushielaw, known as the King of the Border, met with the same fate, but an event of greater importance was the fate of John Armstrong. This free-booting chief had risen to such consequence, that the whole neighbouring district of England paid him "black-mail," a sort of regular tribute in consideration of which he forbore to plunder them. He had a high idea of his own importance, and seems to have been unconscious of having merited any severe usage at the king's hands. On the contrary, he went to meet his sovereign at Carlingrigg Chapel, richly dressed, and having twenty-four gentlemen, his constant retinue, as well attired as himself. The king, incensed to see a freebooter so gentlemanly equipped, commanded him instantly to be led to execution, saying, "What wants this knave save a crown to be as magnificent as a king?" John Armstrong made great offers for his life, offering to maintain himself, with forty men, to serve the king at a moment's notice, at his own expense, engaging never to hurt or injure any Scottish subject, as indeed had never been his practice, and undertaking that there was not a man in England, of whatever degree, duke, earl, lord, or baron, but he would engage, within a short time, to present him to the king, dead or alive. But when the king would listen to none of his oilers, the robber chief said very proudly, "I am but a fool to ask grace at a graceless face; but had I guessed you would have used me thus, I would have kept the Border-side in spite of the King of England and you, both, for I well know that the King Henry would give the weight of my best horse in gold to know that I am sentenced to die this day."

John Armstrong was led to execution, with all his men, and hanged without mercy. The people of the inland countries were glad to get rid of him; but on the Borders he was both missed and mourned, as a brave warrior, and a stout man-of-arms against England.

But to return to Gilnockie Bridge! After crossing it we struggled on for another mile or two, and when about six miles from Langholm we reached another bridge where our road again crossed the river. Here we stopped in mute despair, leaning against the battlements, and listening to the water in the river as it rushed under the bridge. We must have been half asleep, when we were suddenly aroused by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching in the distance. Whoever could it be? I suggested one of the Border freebooters; but my brother, who could laugh when everybody else cried, said it sounded more like a free-clogger. We listened again, and sure enough it was the clattering of a heavy pair of clogs on the partly frozen surface of the road. We could not be mistaken, for we were too well accustomed to the sound of clogs in Lancashire; but who could be the wearer! We had not long to wait before a man appeared, as much surprised to see us as we were to see him. We told him of our long walk the day before, how we had been disappointed in not getting lodgings, and asked him how far we were away from an inn. He told us we were quite near one, but it was no use going there, as "they wouldn't get up for the Queen of England." He further told us he was going to the two o'clock "shift" at the colliery. "Colliery!" my brother ejaculated; "but surely there isn't a coal-pit in a pretty place like this?" He assured us that there was, and, seeing we were both shivering with cold, kindly invited us to go with him and he would put us near to a good fire that was burning there. "How far is it?" we asked anxiously. "Oh, only about half a mile," said the collier. So we went with him, and walked what seemed to be the longest half-mile we ever walked in all our lives, as we followed him along a fearfully rough road, partly on the tramlines of the Canonbie Collieries belonging to the Duke of Buccleuch, where two or three hundred men were employed.

We each handed him a silver coin as he landed us in front of a large open fire which was blazing furiously near the mouth of the pit, and, bidding us "good morning," he placed a lighted lamp in front of his cap and disappeared down the shaft to the regions below. He was rather late owing to his having slackened his pace to our own, which was naturally slower than his, since walking along colliery sidings at night was difficult for strangers. We had taken of our boots to warm and ease our feet, when a man emerged from the darkness and asked us to put them on again, saying we should be more comfortable in the engine-house. If we stayed there we should be sure to catch a cold, as a result of being roasted on one side and frozen on the other. He kindly volunteered to accompany us there, so we thankfully accepted his invitation. We had some difficulty in following him owing to the darkness and obstructions in the way, but we reached the engine-room in safety, round the inside of which was a wooden seat, or bench, and acting upon his instructions we lay down on this to sleep, with a promise that he would waken us when he went off duty at six o'clock in the morning. We found it more comfortable here than on the windy pit bank, for there was an even and sleepy temperature. We were soon embosomed in the arms of nature's great refresher, notwithstanding the occasional working of the winding engines, sleeping as soundly on those wooden benches as ever we did on the best feather-bed we patronised on our journey.

(Distance walked thirty-nine miles.)

Thursday, October 12th.

We were roused at six o'clock a.m. by the engine-driver, who had taken good care of us while we slept, and as we had had nothing to eat since our lunch at Hawick the day before, except the fruit purchased from the toll-keeper there, which we had consumed long before reaching Langholm, we were frightfully hungry. The engine-man told us there was a shop close by the colliery gate kept by a young man, where, if he happened to be in, we should be able to get some refreshments. He accompanied us to the place, and, after knocking loudly at the shop door, we were delighted to see the head of the shopkeeper appear through the window above. He was evidently well known to the engineer, who told him what we wanted, and he promised to "be down directly."

It seemed a long time to us before the shop door was opened, and every minute appeared more like five than one; but we were soon comfortably seated in the shop, in the midst of all sorts of good things fit to eat. We should have liked to begin to eat them immediately, but the fire had to be lit and the kettle boiled, so we assisted with these operations while the young man cut into a fresh loaf of bread, broke open a pot of plum jam, opened a tin of biscuits, and, with the addition of a large slice of cheese and four fresh eggs, we had a really good breakfast, which we thoroughly enjoyed. He said it was a wonder we found him there, for it was very seldom he slept at the shop. His mother lived at a farm about a mile and a half away, where he nearly always slept; that night, however, he had been sleeping with his dog, which was to run in a race that day, and he spent the night with it lest it should be tampered with. He called the dog downstairs, and, though we knew very little about dogs, we could see it was a very fine-looking animal. Our friend said he would not take L50 for it, a price we thought exorbitant for any dog. When we had finished our enormous breakfast, we assisted the shopkeeper to clear the table, and as it was now his turn, we helped him to get his own breakfast ready, waiting upon him as he had waited upon us, while we conversed chiefly about colliers and dogs and our approaching visit to Gretna Green, which, as neither of us was married, was naturally our next great object of interest.



After our long walk the previous day, with very little sleep at the end of it, and the heavy breakfast we had just eaten, we felt uncommonly lazy and disinclined to walk very far that day. So, after wishing our friend good luck at the races, we bade him good-bye, and idly retraced our steps along the colliery road until we reached the bridge where we had met the collier so early in the morning. We had now time to admire the scenery, and regretted having passed through that beautiful part of the country during our weary tramp in the dark, and that we had missed so much of it, including the Border Towers on the River Esk.

Riddel Water, with its fine scenery, was on our left as we came from the colliery, where it formed the boundary between Scotland and England, emptying itself into the River Esk about two miles from Canonbie Bridge, which we now crossed, and soon arrived at the "Cross Keys Inn," of which we had heard but failed to reach the previous night. The landlord of the inn, who was standing at the door, was formerly the driver of the Royal Mail Stagecoach "Engineer" which ran daily between Hawick and Carlisle on the Edinburgh to London main road. A good-looking and healthy man of over fifty years of age, his real name was Elder, but he was popularly known as Mr. Sandy or Sandy Elder. The coach, the last stage-coach that ever ran on that road, was drawn in ordinary weather by three horses, which were changed every seven or eight miles, the "Cross Keys" at Canonbie being one of the stopping-places.



Mr. Elder had many tales to tell of stage-coach days; one adventure, however, seemed more prominent in his thoughts than the others. It happened many years ago, when on one cold day the passengers had, with the solitary exception of one woman, who was sitting on the back seat of the coach, gone into the "Cross Keys Inn" for refreshments while the horses were being changed. The fresh set of horses had been put in, and the stablemen had gone to the hotel to say all was ready, when, without a minute's warning, the fresh horses started off at full gallop along the turnpike road towards Carlisle. Great was the consternation at the inn, and Sandy immediately saddled a horse and rode after them at full speed. Meantime the woman, who Mr. Sandy said must have been as brave a woman as ever lived, crawled over the luggage on the top of the coach and on to the footboard in front. Kneeling down while holding on with one hand, she stretched the other to the horses' backs and secured the reins, which had slipped down and were urging the horses forward. By this time the runaway horses had nearly covered the two miles between the inn and the tollgates, which were standing open, as the mail coach was expected, whose progress nothing must delay. Fortunately the keeper of the first gate was on the look-out, and he was horrified when he saw the horses coming at their usual great speed without Sandy the driver; he immediately closed the gate, and, with the aid of the brave woman, who had recovered the reins, the horses were brought to a dead stop at the gate, Mr. Sandy arriving a few minutes afterwards. The last run of this coach was in 1862, about nine years before our visit, and there was rather a pathetic scene on that occasion. We afterwards obtained from one of Mr. Elder's ten children a cutting from an old newspaper she had carefully preserved, a copy of which is as follows:

Mr. Elder, the Landlord of the "Cross Keys Hotel," was the last of the Border Royal Mail Coach Drivers and was familiarly known as "Sandy," and for ten years was known as the driver of the coach between Hawick and Carlisle. When the railway started and gave the death-blow to his calling, he left the seat of the stage coach, and invested his savings in the cosy hostelry of the road-side type immortalised by Scott in his "Young Lochinvar." He told of the time when he did duty on the stage coach for Dukes, Earls, and Lords, and aided run-a-way couples to reach the "blacksmith" at Gretna Green. He told of the days when he manipulated the ribbons from the box of the famous coach "Engineer" when he dashed along with foaming horses as if the fate of a nation depended upon his reaching his stage at a given time. He could remember Mosspaul Inn at the zenith of its fame under the reigning sovereign Mr. Gownlock—whose tact and management made his Hotel famous. He had frequently to carry large sums of money from the Border banks and although these were the days of footpads and highwaymen, and coaches were "held up" in other parts, Sandy's Coach was never molested, although he had been blocked with his four-in-hand in the snow. He gave a graphic description of the running of the last mail coach from Hawick to Merrie Carlisle in 1862. Willie Crozier the noted driver was mounted on the box, and the horses were all decked out for the occasion. Jemmie Ferguson the old strapper, whose occupation like that of Othello's was all gone, saw it start with a heavy heart, and crowds turned out to bid it good-bye. When the valleys rang with the cheery notes of the well-blown horn, and the rumbling sound of the wheels and the clattering hoofs of the horses echoed along the way, rich and poor everywhere came to view the end of a system which had so long kept them in touch with civilisation. The "Engineer" guards and drivers with scarlet coats, white hats, and overflowing boots, and all the coaching paraphernalia so minutely described by Dickens, then passed away, and the solitary remnant of these good old times was "Sandy" Elder the old Landlord of the "Cross Keys" on Canonbie Lea.

Soon after leaving the "Cross Keys" we came to a wood where we saw a "Warning to Trespassers" headed "Dangerous," followed by the words "Beware of fox-traps and spears in these plantations." This, we supposed, was intended for the colliers, for in some districts they were noted as expert poachers. Soon afterwards we reached what was called the Scotch Dyke, the name given to a mound of earth, or "dyke," as it was called locally, some four miles long and erected in the year 1552 between the rivers Esk and Sark to mark the boundary between England and Scotland. We expected to find a range of hills or some substantial monument or noble ruin to mark the boundary between the two countries, and were rather disappointed to find only an ordinary dry dyke and a plantation, while a solitary milestone informed us that it was eighty-one and a half miles to Edinburgh. We were now between the two tollbars, one in Scotland and the other in England, with a space of only about fifty yards between them, and as we crossed the centre we gave three tremendous cheers which brought out the whole population of the two tollhouses to see what was the matter. We felt very silly, and wondered why we had done so, since we had spent five weeks in Scotland and had nothing but praise both for the inhabitants and the scenery. It was exactly 9.50 a.m. when we crossed the boundary, and my brother on reflection recovered his self-respect and said he was sure we could have got absolution from Sir Walter Scott for making all that noise, for had he not written:

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd.



As the morning was beautifully fine, we soon forsook the highway and walked along the grassy banks of the Esk, a charming river whose waters appeared at this point as if they were running up hill. We were very idle, and stayed to wash our feet in its crystal waters, dressing them with common soap, which we had always found very beneficial as a salve. We sauntered past Kirkandrew's Tower; across the river was the mansion of Netherby, the home of the Graham family, with its beautiful surroundings, immortalised by Sir Walter Scott in his "Young Lochinvar," who came out of the West, and—

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he spran! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

We were far more inclined to think and talk than to walk, and as we sat on the peaceful banks of the river we thought what a blessing it was that those Border wars were banished for ever, for they appeared to have been practically continuous from the time of the Romans down to the end of the sixteenth century, when the two countries were united under one king, and we thought of that verse so often quoted:

The Nations in the present day Preserve the good old plan, That all shall take who have the power And all shall keep who can.

We were not far from the narrowest point of the kingdom from east to west, or from one sea to the other, where the Roman Emperor, Hadrian, built his boundary wall; but since that time, if we may credit the words of another poet who described the warriors and their origin, other nationalities have waged war on the Borders—

From the worst scoundrel race that ever lived A horrid crowd of rambling thieves and drones, Who ransacked Kingdoms and dispeopled towns, The Pict, the painted Briton, treacherous Scot By hunger, theft, and rapine, hither brought Norwegian Pirates—buccaneering Danes, Whose red-haired offspring everywhere remains; Who, joined with Norman French, compound the breed, From whence you time-born Bordermen proceed.

How long we should have loitered on the bank of the river if the pangs of hunger had not again made themselves felt we could not say, but we resolved at last to walk to Longtown for some refreshments, and arrived there by noon, determined to make amends for our shortcomings after lunch, for, incredible though it seemed, we had only walked six miles! But we landed in a little cosy temperance house, one of those places where comfort prevailed to a much greater extent than in many more brilliant establishments. It was kept by one Forster, a gentleman of distinction, possessing a remarkable temperament and following numerous avocations. He informed us he was the parish clerk, and that the Lord Bishop was holding a Confirmation Service in the church at 3 p.m. We had intended only to stay for lunch and then resume our journey, but the mention of a much less important person than the Lord Bishop would have made us stay until tea-time, and travel on afterwards, so we decided to remain for the service. Punctually at three o'clock, escorted by the son of our landlord, we entered the Arthuret Church, the Parish Church of Longtown, about half a mile away from the town. It was built in 1609 and dedicated to St. Michael, but had recently been restored and a handsome stained-glass window placed at the east end in memory of the late Sir James Graham, whose burial-place we observed marked by a plain stone slab as we entered the churchyard. In consequence of a domestic bereavement the organist was absent, and as he had forgotten to leave the key the harmonium was useless. Our friend the parish clerk, however, was quite equal to the occasion, for as the Psalm commencing "All people that on earth do dwell" was given out, he stepped out into the aisle and led off with the good old tune the "Old Hundredth," so admirably adapted for congregational use, and afterwards followed with the hymn beginning "Before Jehovah's awful throne," completing the choral part of the service to the tune of "Duke Street"; we often wondered where that street was, and who the duke was that it was named after. Our admiration of the parish clerk increased when we found he could start the singing of Psalms and on the correct note in the presence of a Lord Bishop, and we contemplated what might have been the result had he started the singing in a higher or a lower key. We rejoiced that the responsibility rested upon him and not on ourselves. The Candidates for Confirmation were now requested to stand while the remainder of the congregation remained seated. The Bishop, Dr. Goodwin, delivered a homely, solemn, and impressive address. His lordship did not take any text, but spoke extempore, and we were well pleased with his address, so appropriate was it to the occasion; the language was easy and suited to the capacities of those for whom the service was specially held. As sympathisers with the temperance movement we thoroughly coincided with the Bishop's observations when he affectionately warned his hearers against evil habits, amongst which he catalogued that of indulgence in intoxicating drinks, and warned the young men not to frequent public-houses, however much they might be ridiculed or thought mean for not doing so. The candidates came from three parishes, the girls dressed very plainly and as usual outnumbering the boys. The general congregation was numerically small, and we were surprised that there was no collection! Service over, we returned to our lodgings for tea, intending to resume our walk immediately afterwards. We were so comfortable, however, and the experiences of the previous day and night so fresh in our minds, and bodies, that we decided to rest our still weary limbs here for the night, even though we had that day only walked six miles, the shortest walk in all our journey.



Our host, Mr. Forster, was moreover a very entertaining and remarkable man. He had been parish clerk for many years, a Freemason for upwards of thirty years, letter-carrier or postman for fourteen years, and recently he and his wife had joined the Good Templars! He had many interesting stories of the runaway marriages at Gretna Green, a piece of Borderland neither in Scotland nor England, and he claimed to have suggested the Act of Parliament brought in by Lord Brougham to abolish these so-called "Scotch" marriages by a clause which required twenty-one days' residence before the marriage could be solemnised, so that although the Act was called Lord Brougham's Act, he said it was really his. Its effects were clearly demonstrated in a letter he had written, which appeared in the Registrar-General's Report, of which he showed us a copy, stating that while in the year 1856, the year of the passing of Lord Brougham's Act, there were 757 marriages celebrated in the district of Gretna Green, thirty-nine entered as taking place in one day, November 8th, in the following year there were only thirty and in the next forty-one, showing conclusively that the Act had been effectual. We could have listened longer to our host's stories, but we had to rise early next morning to make up for our loss of mileage, and retired early to make up for our loss of sleep on the previous night.

(Distance walked six miles.)

Friday, October 13th.

We left Longtown at 7.30 a.m. by the long and wide thoroughfare which gives rise to its name, and followed the Carlisle road until we turned to the right for Gretna Green. Our road lay between Solway Moss and the River Esk, to both of which some historic events were attached. Solway Moss is about seven miles in circumference, and is covered with grass and rushes, but it shakes under the least pressure, and will swallow up nearly anything. In 1776, after heavy rains, it burst, and, as in Ireland, streams of black peaty mud began to creep over the plain and to overwhelm the houses. It was the scene of a battle fought on November 24th, 1542, when the English Army under Sir Thomas Wharton defeated a Scottish Army of 10,000 men, who were either killed, drowned, or taken prisoners. One of the unfortunates was unearthed in later times by peat-diggers, a man on his horse, who had sunk in the bog. The skeletons were well preserved, and the different parts of the armour easily recognisable. The disastrous result of this battle so affected James V, King of Scotland, that he is said to have died of a broken heart. Personally, we thought he deserved a greater punishment for the murder of Johnnie Armstrong and his followers twelve years before this event, for Armstrong was just the man who could and would have protected the Borders.

The River Esk was associated with Prince Charlie, who, with his soldiers, had to cross it when retreating before the army of the Duke of Cumberland. It was a difficult operation to carry out, as the usually shallow ford had been converted by the melting snow into a swift-flowing current four feet deep. The cavalry were drawn up in two lines across the stream, one to break the current and the other to prevent any of the foot-soldiers being washed away as they crossed the river between the two lines of cavalry. Lower down the river still were Prince Charlie and his officers, who were better mounted than the others. The foot-soldiers walked arm-in-arm, with their heads barely above the water, making the space between the cavalry lines to look as if it were set with paving-stones. One poor soldier lost his hold on his comrade and was washed down the river, and would certainly have been drowned had not the Prince seized him by the hair, and, shouting in Gaelic for help, held on until both of them were rescued. After being hunted in the Highland glens for months with a ransom of L30,000 placed on his head—not a Celt betraying his whereabouts—by the help of Flora Macdonald Prince Charlie escaped to Brittany, and finally died at Rome in the arms of the Master of Nairn in 1788. In 1794 the Beds of Esk, a large sandbank where the tide meets the stream, presented an unusual spectacle, and a striking tribute to the dangerous character of the river especially when in flood. Collected together on the beach were a varied assortment of animals and human beings, consisting of no less than 9 black cattle, 3 horses, 1,040 sheep, 45 dogs, 180 hares, many smaller animals, and 3 human beings, all of whom had been cut off by the rapidly advancing tide.

Many other events have happened in this neighbourhood, one of the most sensational perhaps being the death of King Edward I, "The Hammer of the Scots," also nicknamed "Longshanks," from the length of his lower limbs, who died in 1307 on these marshes, requesting his effeminate son, the Prince of Wales, as he bade him farewell, not to bury his body until the Scots were utterly subdued, but this wish was prevented by the defeat at the Battle of Bannockburn.

We passed by some large peat-fields, and, crossing the River Sark, were once more in Scotland, notwithstanding the fact that we had so recently given three cheers as we passed out of it. We traversed the length of Springfield, a stone-built village of whitewashed, one-storied cottages, in which we could see handloom weavers at work, nearly fifty of them being employed in that industry. Formerly, we were told, the villagers carried on an illicit commerce in whisky and salt, on which there were heavy duties in England, but none on whisky in Scotland. The position here being so close to the borders, it was a very favourable one for smuggling both these articles into England, and we heard various exciting stories of the means they devised for eluding the vigilance of the excise officers. As we passed through the neighbourhood at a quick rate, the villagers turned out to have a look at us, evidently thinking something important was going on.

We saw many workers in the fields, who called out to us hinting about the nature of our journey, as we travelled towards Gretna Green. Some of the women went so far as to ask us if we wanted any company. The most conspicuous objects in the village were the church and the remarkably high gravestones standing like sentinels in the churchyard. Bonnie Prince Charlie arrived here on the afternoon of his birthday in 1745, stabling his horse in the church, while the vicar fled from what he described in the church book as "the Rebels." A small cottage—said to be the oldest in Gretna—is shown in which Prince Charlie slept. The village green appeared to us as if it had been fenced in and made into a garden, and a lady pointed out an ancient-looking building, which she said was the hall where the original "Blacksmith" who married the runaway couples resided, but which was now occupied by a gentleman from Edinburgh. She explained the ceremony as being a very simple one, and performed expeditiously: often in the road, almost in sight of the pursuers of the runaway pair. All sorts and conditions of men and women were united there, some of them from far-off lands, black people amongst the rest, and she added with a sigh, "There's been many an unhappy job here," which we quite believed. There were other people beside the gentleman at the hall who made great profit by marrying people, both at Springfield and Gretna, and a list of operators, dated from the year 1720, included a soldier, shoemaker, weaver, poacher, innkeeper, toll-keeper, fisherman, pedlar, and other tradesmen. But the only blacksmith who acted in that capacity was a man named Joe Paisley, who died in 1811 aged seventy-nine years. His motto was, "Strike while the iron's hot," and he boasted that he could weld the parties together as firmly as he could one piece of iron to another.



Joe was a man of prodigious strength; he could bend a strong iron poker over his arm, and had frequently straightened an ordinary horse-shoe in its cold state with his hands. He could also squeeze the blood from the finger ends of any one who incurred his anger. He was an habitual drunkard, his greatest boast being that he had once been "teetotal" for a whole forenoon. When he died he was an overgrown mass of superfluous fat, weighing at least twenty-five stone. He was said to have earned quite a thousand pounds per year by his encroachments into the province of the cleric, and when on his deathbed he heard three carriages arrive, he consented to marry the three wealthy couples they contained, and found himself two or three hundred pounds richer than before. He also boasted that the marriage business had been in his family for quite one hundred years, and that his uncle, the old soldier Gordon, used to marry couples in the full uniform of his regiment, the British Grenadiers. He gave a form of certificate that the persons had declared themselves to be single, that they were married by the form of the Kirk of Scotland, and agreeably to that of the Church of England.



One of the most celebrated elopements to Gretna was that of the Earl of Westmorland and Miss Child, the daughter of the great London banker. The earl had asked for the hand of Sarah, and had been refused, the banker remarking, "Your blood is good enough, but my money is better," so the two young people made it up to elope and get married at Gretna Green. The earl made arrangements beforehand at the different stages where they had to change horses, but the banker, finding that his daughter had gone, pursued them in hot haste. All went well with the runaway couple until they arrived at Shap, in Westmorland, where they became aware they were being pursued. Here the earl hired all the available horses, so as to delay the irate banker's progress. The banker's "money was good," however, and the runaways were overtaken between Penrith and Carlisle. Hero the earl's "blood was good," for, taking deliberate aim at the little star of white on the forehead of the banker's leading horse, he fired successfully, and so delayed the pursuit that the fugitives arrived at Gretna first; and when the bride's father drove up, purple with rage and almost choking from sheer exasperation, he found them safely locked in what was called the bridal chamber! The affair created a great sensation in London, where the parties were well known, heavy bets being made as to which party would win the race. At the close of the market it stood at two to one on the earl and the girl.

In those days "postboys" were employed to drive the runaways from the hotels at Carlisle to Gretna, one of the most noted of whom was Jock Ainslie, on the staff of the "Bush Inn" at Carlisle. On one occasion he was commissioned to drive a runaway couple, who had just arrived by the coach from London, to Gretna, but when they got as far as Longtown they insisted they were tired and must stay for dinner before going forward, so they sent Jock back. He returned to Carlisle rather reluctantly, advising the runaways to lose no time. But when he got back to the "Bush Inn" he saw the mother of the lady whom he had left at Longtown drive up to the hotel door accompanied by a Bow Street officer. While they were changing horses, Jock went to the stable, saddled a horse, rode off to Longtown, and told his patrons what he had seen. They immediately hurried into a chaise, but had not gone far before they heard the carriage wheels of their pursuers. Jock Ainslie was quite equal to the occasion, and drove the chaise behind a thick bush, whence the pair had the satisfaction of seeing "Mamma" hurry past at full speed in pursuit. While she was continuing her search on the Annan Road, Jock quietly drove into Springfield and had his patrons "hitched up" without further delay, and doubtless was well rewarded for his services.